Sara exhaled. Her hands were shaking now. She let them. Then she steadied them against the desk.
“All right,” she said quietly, to the room, to the journals, to the absence that watched her. “We’ll start here.”
She positioned Lauren’s early journal to her left. The latter one to her right. Her own, opened near the back, between them.
The clock ticked.
Sara lowered the pen.
And began.
16
The Gradys — Before Dawn
The four-wheeler rattled up the narrow trail the Gradys had ridden for years, Tom steering through the ruts with his Carhartt collar turned against the wind. Marlene rode behind him, her arms around his middle.
When the trail leveled, the cabin appeared through the mist, squat and familiar against a ridge of stone. Tom cut the engine, and the sudden hush settled heavy over them. Their boots sank into the thin crust of snow as they unloaded the four-wheeler.
They’d spent the weekend combing these ridges with the rest of Jackson County, calling Sara Parker’s name until Burke told them to stand down. The S.B.I. needed the scene.
The cabin week had been on the calendar for months—Marlene’s break before winter. After Burke’s call, they came up anyway. No sense waiting at home.
Inside, the air was dark and cold. Tom crouched at the hearth and built a fire from the stacked kindling. The match flared, and light crawled across therough-cut stones. The smell of smoke and sap crept into the room.
Marlene knelt at the footlocker, lifted out the folded sheets and the old flannel quilt, and spread them over the narrow bed.
“Feels good to be back,” she said, smoothing a corner as the fire took hold.
He added a larger log, straightened, and brushed his hands together.
“Oughta stay warm once it’s going.”
She held out a muffin wrapped in wax paper and a thermos of coffee.
“Don’t forget these.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” He kissed her, the brief warmth of it standing out against the cold. “Be back before noon.”
She nodded.
“Go on before the snow catches you.”
He took his rifle and stepped outside, the door easing shut behind him. Marlene added another log and settled into the rocker. The first flakes began to fall—slow and silent—brushing the window as she opened her book and let the fire’s glow fill the small room.
Tom followed the trail east from the cabin, boots finding the frozen ruts by memory. The forest wasn’t asleep yet. Laurel and rhododendron still held their leaves, dark and glossy against the frost. Ferns curled low beside rocks that jutted out of the ground like old bones. Above them, the ridge lifted into a tangle of evergreens.
His breath came out white. A jay called once and went quiet. The world was still except for the rhythm of his steps and the faint creak of the rifle strap over his shoulder. It was a long walk to the stand, farther than most would make before daylight, but he liked the solitude. He’d built the stand years ago, tucked deep where the deer trails crossed the ridge.
When he reached it, the first rim of sun touched the far slope. Snowflakes drifted through the trees, catching the light. Tomclimbed the ladder, careful on the frosted rungs, and settled onto the narrow seat. He unscrewed the thermos, poured a bit of coffee into the lid, and let the steam warm his lips.
The woods looked the same as always.
That’s when he saw it.
Beside the platform, wedged into the crook where two branches met, was a small bundle wrapped in clear plastic. It didn’t belong there. He reached out, and drew it free. Inside was a leather-bound notebook, the cover dry despite the damp air. He peeled back the plastic.
The first page was marked in neat handwriting:
