As she drove south down I-81, Macy mentally replayed her ten minutes of regional research. In the last couple of decades, the Shenandoah Valley’s population had ballooned thanks to a growing university, its proximity to Washington, DC, and a thriving tourism trade peddling vineyards, Civil War battlefields, and railroad museums. Filling in the economic gaps were warehouse distribution centers, chain hotels, and strip malls.

The voice of Macy’s GPS cut through AC/DC’s Back in Black blasting from her playlist and instructed her to take the upcoming exit toward Deep Run. As she rolled onto Route 250, a sign for her go-to fast-food eatery gave her an excuse to stretch her legs before driving the remaining ten miles to the crime scene.

After parking, she gingerly rose up out of the car. Her leg bitched and moaned. Stretches weren’t optional any more. She grabbed her ankle and pulled until the bunched muscles in her thigh released. After a quick walk around the lot, she made a beeline for the restaurant bathroom.

She glanced into the mirror as she washed her hands. Even after five months, she still didn’t recognize the woman with the short hair and thin face.

Nevada was in for a rude awakening.

She wiped her face with a paper towel. “Macy Crow, you’re aboveground and headed in the right direction. That’s what counts.”

At the counter, she ordered a supersize bucket of fries and a large soda. It wasn’t that she loved the food—okay, maybe she did love the fries—but the chain restaurant’s predictability and sameness were comforting after so many life changes.

A few fries later, she was in her car and backing out of her space when her phone rang. Nevada’s number appeared. She cleared her throat and sat a little taller.

“Agent Macy Crow,” she said.

“Ramsey tells me you’re on your way. Where are you?”

He was direct and rarely charming, and she always knew where she stood with him. “Fifteen minutes from the barn.”

“I’m here now.”

“See you soon,” she said.

Their transition back into a working relationship looked like it was going to be effortless. Whatever they’d had personally was over and done. No hard feelings.

En route on the interstate, she ate her fries and drained her soda. There were no guarantees on when the next meal would be.

The last few miles took her down smaller roads until she spotted the driveway marked by stacked stones. Gravel crunched under her tires as she passed a freshly cleared field. Over the rise of a hill, she saw the old barn, encircled by yellow crime scene tape.

When she had been researching the area, slogans such as “Best Quality of Life” and “Raise Your Family in Deep Run” had popped up on her computer screen. As she had read about the area, she had kept glancing toward the open case file filled with images of Tobi Turner’s scattered bones. Recent pictures had captured the barn surrounded by dozens of state and local law enforcement vehicles crammed side by side in the grassy field.

Now as Macy parked, she noted that all the vehicles were gone expect for a lone black SUV. She grabbed her Glock from the glove compartment, holstered it, and stepped out of her car. Her worn hiking boots sloshed in the damp, muddy soil. She tugged on an FBI windbreaker and draped her credentials around her neck. As a stiff breeze blew a lingering chill and autumn scents, she checked her pockets for latex gloves, sunglasses, a small pocketknife, and a pendant light.

Edginess and excitement fused as she strode toward the stretch of yellow tape and searched for Nevada. She ducked under the tape and stepped inside the barn.

Sunlight leaked through the thick rafters, shining down onto the beams, haylofts, and wide-planked floors worn smooth from generations’ worth of wear.

During her convalescence, renovation shows had filled so many lost hours. Now she didn’t feel they had been so wasted as she studied the barn. A couple of hundred years old, the structure had been constructed of hand-hewed logs and likely had been used for horses or mules. Mumbling to herself, she said, “Now if I could just use what I learned from watching endless 1980s rock band television documentaries, I’ll be all set.”

A generator started up and spotlights clicked on inside the barn, illuminating the dark corners. Nevada was close.

The light drew her attention to the right corner, which was roped off with red crime scene tape. The forensic tech had designated this area as very sensitive because most of the bones and the backpack had fallen here. Inside the tape, the techs had shifted the dirt as they had searched for the last bits of Tobi Turner.

Macy elbowed aside anger and shifted her attention to the lost girl and her killer. Photos of Tobi’s backpack had shown that it had contained simple jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, but the fabric remnants and glittering blue cowboy boots found with the body suggested she had changed after she had left her parents’ house. Macy suspected Tobi had lied about the study session and had diverted to a party. The killer could have recognized her desire for excitement and used it against her.

A thousand miles away, three Texas graves marked by red rocks told a similar story. Young girls in search of something more had crossed paths with a pure evil who had held them captive and forced each to bear a child for him. Her birth mother had borne Macy and her identical twin sister, Faith. A second girl had borne another sister, and the third a brother. Those graves embodied endless misery and would devastate her if she allowed herself to dwell on them.

“You made it.” Nevada’s deep voice snapped her back and conjured sweet memories that had no place here.

Macy faced him and saw his shocked expression when he got his first good look at her. He quickly masked the reaction, and his expression became unreadable. Determined to prove the HNR didn’t matter, she extended her hand. “Good to see you, Nevada.”

In his early forties, Nevada was conspicuously tall. Flint-gray eyes hinted at several lifetimes’ worth of hard living. He wore jeans, a dark sweater, a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a SHERIFF ball cap. Never seeming comfortable in a jacket and tie, Nevada 2.0 looked at home.

“Macy.” Nevada restrained his powerful grip as he shook her hand.

Irritated he was already treating her like damaged goods, she quipped, “What happened to you, Nevada? Your grip’s a little soft.”

He released her hand. “You look . . .”

“Like I was hit by a fucking truck?”

A frown furrowed the lines around his eyes and mouth. “I called the hospital several times, but you never returned my calls.”

“Thanks for the effort. Truly. But my focus was dialed into my recovery.”

He was caught in a bad spot. They’d slept together a couple of times, liked each other, and split on good terms. Beyond a vague promise to see each other one day, nothing had bound them. What was he supposed to have done after the accident? Drop everything and race to her hospital bed?

“I wanted to help,” he said.

When a silence settled between them, she chose to fill it. “There wasn’t much you could’ve done. It was on me.”

During rehab, she’d needed to be around people who weren’t mourning the old her. God knows she had done enough of that herself. And Nevada seeing her so broken would have been her undoing.

“Did you get my gift?” he asked.

She smiled. He’d sent her a vintage copy of a Twisted Sister album. “‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ became my anthem.”

The quip didn’t chase away the intensity in his gaze. “I thought it would make a nice addition to your LP collection.”

“It has a proud spot.” Right now, she needed to believe whatever was between them was water under the bridge. Her focus remained on getting her life back. “Tell me about the bones. Where are they now?”

“They’re in Roanoke at the Regional Forensic Center. Tobi Turner’s father wants his daughter’s remains released, so we’ll want to view them tomorrow.”

He wasn’t dwelling on the past, but moving forward, and for that she was grateful.

“Understood. What about the girl’s mother?” Macy asked.

“She died of early onset Alzheimer’s four years ago.”

She hoped the disease had erased the woman’s worst memories. “Can you give me a recap of what happened here?”

He pointed to the splintered wood of the partially dismantled shaft and recounted the grim discovery. Medical examiners had officially confirmed Tobi Turner’s identification with dental records.

“Where’s the backpack now?” Macy asked.

“Also with the state’s forensic lab in Roanoke. We can see it when we view the remains.”

The medical examiner’s office and forensic lab were both housed in a newly renovated facility. Good. It maximized her time.

“Has the medical examiner determined the cause of death?” Macy asked.

“He has not issued the final report yet. But if I had to guess, I’d say strangulation.”

“Based on?”

“The interviews done with the rape victims.”

“I want to read those,” Macy said.

“They aren’t very detailed.”

She tapped her finger against her thigh. “And time of death can’t be determined.”

“Correct.”

“The killer’s semen was found on Tobi Turner’s backpack.”

“Yes.”