I reach the buggy and peek inside. A crocheted afghan is draped across the seat. An empty bottle of water lies on its side on the floor. There’s no sign of Abigail. I walk to the gelding and set my hand against its rump, then slide my fingers beneath the harness leather. The place where the leather presses against the horse’s coat is wet with sweat, telling me it hasn’t been standing idle long. Oddly, one of the leather driving reins is missing. I look around, but it’s not on the ground.

I nearly call out for Abigail, but a small voice warns me that stealth may make for a safer approach. I don’t know what her state of mind is. I don’t know if she’s armed. In fact, I don’t know if she’s the one who’s been taking shots at me. Concentrating on keeping my feet silent against the ground, I go to the front of the barn. The sliding door is closed, but I don’t need it to enter; several pieces of siding have fallen away, leaving plenty of room for me to slip through.

Giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, I thumb the keep strap from my holster. I don’t believe Abigail intends to harm me; more than likely she’s come out here to end her own life. But I know the lengths to which a desperate individual will go to get the job done.

Light slashes in through hundreds of gaps in the siding, illuminating dust motes and flying insects. Ahead, a large flatbed hay wagon sits front and center. Above it, a set of massive grappling hooks holds several hundred pounds of loose hay that smells relatively fresh. I can just make out the pulley-and-cable system that runs the length of the roof at the ridge board. Vaguely, I wonder if the Kaufmans lease this part of the property or allow one of their neighbors to store hay.

I step over fallen boards and other debris. A shovel handle. A broken cinder block. A leather strap that was once part of a harness rigging. Mounds of loose hay. Cobwebs droop from every surface like silver moss. Rodentlike squeaks from the rafters overhead tell me there’s a healthy population of bats. It’s not until I’ve walked a dozen or so steps that I notice the smell. A strong, unmistakable stench I recognize from my youth. Hogs. I’d approached the scene upwind, so I didn’t notice until now. Naomi had said no one used this barn and no one had been back here for years. I wonder who owns the hogs, who’s taking care of them.

Straight ahead, a large hay door looks out over the pasture beyond. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the pen below.