Keeping stride with him, Wilder flashed a smile. “She was mad I brought banana nut muffins. Said I should know by now she’s allergic to bananas.”

“You do know she’s allergic to bananas.”

“I also know she’s hilarious when she’s mad. And I figured the madder she is at me, the less headspace she has to worry over Maggie.”

Neil opened his truck door. “You two have a weird friendship, you know that?”

“Not sure Lil would call it a friendship. But listen . . . before you leave, we need to talk.”

“I’m not blind, Wild. I know something’s off with Indi’s fiancé, too. But she’s smart. We don’t have to interfere—”

Wilder shook his head. “Not that.”

Neil glanced to his friend, took in his rumpled clothing, his mussed hair. Wilder might not have spent the night at the hospital, but he must not have slept any more than the rest of them. “What is it?”

“Whoever was riffling through your treehouse last night—some friend you are, by the way. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about that place earlier and—”

“Wild.”

“It wasn’t Micah Porter.”

Neil closed his truck door. “Just because he denied it to the cops—”

“He denied it to me, too. I went to the jail first thing this morning. He swears it wasn’t him. Went by the treehouse, too, took a look at those prints. They don’t match up with Micah’s shoes or that other guy’s.”

“They could’ve changed shoes.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think the kid’s telling the truth. Lil told me about the footprints in the yard last week. An unknown car on your property. And now the treehouse.” Wilder rubbed his chin. “I’ve got another gut feeling, man. A strong one. It’s all connected—it has to be. It has something to do with Diana, her accident.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Neil’s keys jangled as he waved his hand. “The accident was twenty-eight years ago. All the weird stuff at the farm . . . it’s probably just Tate Carter’s kid, and as for the treehouse—”

An image slipped in then—of Maggie staring at the treehouse last night, her eyes going wide, a panic he didn’t understand taking over her expression. The pinch in her voice . . . “I remember.”

“What makes you think any of this has to do with the accident?”

Wilder let out a puff of air. “Like I said, it’s a gut feeling. And I know the last time I had one, it was about Sydney and that didn’t pan out but—”

Neil was the one to shake his head now. “No, I think your feeling was right then. Maybe not the facts of it. Not your theory about her identity. But she was supposed to come here.” He could hear the conviction in his own voice. Realized, right in that moment, that even if she left tomorrow, even if he never saw her again—please, God, don’t let it be like that—he meant what he’d said.