I put a hand on his arm, and he reached his left hand over his chest to cover mine. He only kept it there for a moment, and neither of us said a word, but the unspoken message sunk in deep. We shared a bond after that night. But I wondered if this would break it.

Marco would always be loyal to Max. I was loyal to him too, but Marco and Max shared a deep-seated connection that seemed to transcend man-made laws.

Was that why Marco had gone into law enforcement? To protect Max?

I wouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that Max had fired me. As drunk as he’d been, Marco might be right: he might not remember firing me. But I would.

A few miles past the state park, Marco turned left on a narrow road that didn’t even have a street sign.

Trees edged up to the sides of the road, and its gravel shoulder couldn’t be wider than about six inches. We were out in the middle of nowhere, but then again, everywhere out here felt like the middle of nowhere.

After we’d driven about a half mile and only passed three houses, I asked, “How’d you know how to get here without an address?”

“Oh, Melody Hightower’s been on my radar for a while now. I didn’t have her phone number, though, so it seemed like a good excuse to get it from Angie.”

I was about to ask why he was aware of her, but he’d just pulled up to a rusted mobile home nestled in a clearing in the trees. A chicken coop sat next to the house, surrounded by thin wire, and over a dozen chickens squawked at us as we got out of the truck. The entire yard was a giant mud bath.

Why hadn’t I thought to bring my snow boots? When I opened the door and stepped down, my foot sank a good inch. Leaning into the hood of the Explorer, I made my way to the front of the vehicle. Marco was having trouble finding purchase with his crutches as he tried to get to the front porch.

I was about to call him back, worried he’d fall and hurt his leg even more, when the front door opened. A woman wearing a pink fuzzy robe and slippers appeared in the opening, pointing a shotgun in our direction.

“What are you doing on my land?” she called out in a scratchy voice that sounded like it should have belonged to someone who’d smoked for thirty years. Her short blonde hair was sticking up every which way, and she looked about as far from the collected, polished Greta as a person could get.

“Melody,” Marco called out, lifting his hands up to the side of his head. “It’s me. Marco Roland.”

She frowned and squinted at him. I got the impression she needed glasses.

“What are you doin’ here, Marco?” She sounded leery, and perhaps with just cause—if she knew his name, she likely also knew he was a deputy sheriff, and she had the look of a woman who liked to skirt the law.

No wonder Marco knew where she lived.

“I’m here to ask you about Greta. Put your gun away.”

She seemed to consider his request, but it didn’t stop her from walking out onto the porch and resting the barrel of the gun on her shoulder. A medium-sized golden dog slipped out of the door and stood by her side, the hair on its back rump standing on end. It released a low growl.

“Easy, Critter,” she murmured.

Critter was a forty- to fifty-pound mutt that looked like a Frankenstein that had been given the worst attributes of several breeds—an underbite, short golden hair, and a four-inch-long tail with a tuft of hair on the end. Its head looked disproportionately small, and its back legs seemed longer than the front.

“Where’s your uniform?” Melody asked. “And who’s she?”

“I’m not here on official business,” he said, taking a step closer. His crutch slid and he struggled to maintain his balance. “And this here’s Carly. She’s Max’s new waitress, fillin’ in for Lula while she’s gone.”

She looked down her nose at me. Literally. But her gaze seemed unfocused. Was she high? “Greta said Lula came back.”

“She did, but she’s gone again,” Marco said. “We’re tryin’ to find her.”

“What’s that got to do with Greta?”

“We’re not sure,” Marco said. “Can we come inside and talk?”

Melody’s face scrunched as she considered his request. Then she said, “No. Right here suits me just fine.”

It suited me too. I wasn’t sure I could make it the rest of the way to the porch without falling on my face, and Marco wouldn’t fare much better. Then there was the fact that I just plain didn’t trust her. There was no telling what she’d do to us inside.

Marco seemed to take her answer in stride. “I heard that Greta never came home last night. Is that unusual?”

“Not when she has a man,” Melody said, resting her hand on the porch railing. The dog sniffed at her slipper, and she gave him a kick.

I grimaced as the dog let out a yelp and skittered a couple of feet behind her.

Marco ignored the dog and asked, “Does Greta have a man right now?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea where she could be?” I asked.

She turned her hardened gaze on me. “Who are you again?”

“Carly. Carly Moore.” I considered moving closer to offer my hand for a shake, but I didn’t think falling on my butt would make a good impression. Besides, she didn’t seem the mannerly type.

“Well, Carly Moore, I’m not sure why it’s any of your business where my sister is.”

“Carly’s helpin’ me out,” Marco said, shooting me a look that said, Let me handle this. When he turned back to Melody, he said, “Has Greta felt threatened?”

That got Melody’s attention. “How do you mean?”

“Has she said anything about someone watchin’ her?” Marco asked. “Or someone warnin’ her to be quiet or threatening to hurt her?”

“Nope.”

“Was Greta excited about Lula bein’ back?” I asked.

Marco shot me a dirty look again.

“She ain’t got many friends,” Melody said. “Anyone smart moves on from this godforsaken place.”

“Why hasn’t Greta moved on?” I asked.

Melody was silent for a moment. “She stayed to help me. I got me a pack of kids and my man ran off. She helps bring in money.”

As if on cue, a little boy’s dirty face appeared between two curtains in the window.

“So she was happy to have her friend back?” I asked.

“Lula told her she was stickin’ around for a while, but Greta was worried her ex would run her off again.”

“Her ex?” I asked trying not to sound too excited at the prospect of getting a new piece of information. “Do you know who that is?”

She shook her head. “Shoot, Greta doesn’t know him from Adam. She only knows he’s some married bigwig. But Lula stopped seeing him a while back, and then someone came around the café last week, asking about Lula.”

“Wait,” I said, “if she didn’t know who Lula was seeing, then how did she know it was Lula’s ex?”

“Because it weren’t Lula’s ex,” Melody said as though I was too stupid to understand. “It was someone askin’ on her ex’s behalf.”

Why hadn’t Greta shared that information? “Did she know who the messenger was?”