Amarok pinched the bridge of his nose. He was struggling to keep his head clear, to remember the answers he’d already been given and connect them into a cohesive whole. “Good, because Dr. Talbot is supposed to marry me this summer and I’m still counting on that happening. You hear what I’m saying?”

Dax flicked a mosquito off his arm. “I didn’t know you had a personal tie to her, but, either way, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to you. And if I were going to accuse someone of stealing my car who didn’t, I wouldn’t pick a man who looks like a gladiator. That dude could probably tear me apart with his bare hands.”

“If I find out you know this guy, that you could’ve led me right to him but didn’t, it won’t take a gladiator,” Amarok said.

Dax’s jaw dropped. “You threatening me?”

“That’s my plan A.” Amarok was too exhausted to be diplomatic.

“What kind of cop are you?” he asked, rallying.

“The kind who cares about only one thing—and that’s getting my fiancée back.” Amarok handed him his card. “Call me if you change your mind about what you had to say, or if you remember anything else.”

Amarok started his truck as soon as he climbed in. He was afraid if he didn’t keep pushing himself, if he sat there for even a few seconds, he’d succumb to the bone-deep weariness that was slowly dragging him down.

Makita made a questioning sound, not quite a growl or a bark.

“I’m all right,” he muttered.

Anchorage, AK—Wednesday, 10:30 p.m. AKDT

Emmett couldn’t stand being at the abandoned ranch knowing he had a pregnant woman in the cooler—one who thought she was going to be turned over to a serial killer, no less. He kept walking down the dim corridor to tell her what Terry said—that she was wrong about Bishop—but he never actually opened the slot in the door to do it. He was afraid she’d quickly convince him of the opposite. And he didn’t need that, didn’t need her getting into his head. He’d already decided what he was going to do—he was going to see this through. He couldn’t blow it. Now that Terry had lost his job, the shit was really going to hit the fan with Bridget.

To escape his troubled conscience, he went out to check on the dogs. He had to do something besides think.

The henhouse where he was keeping them was one of several long, rectangular buildings made of corrugated metal and filled with stacked wire cages. A damaged and rusty conveyor belt ran along each row to feed the birds that had once been inside, and the chicken shit dropped down and piled up underneath.

This type of henhouse reminded him of prison. It didn’t look like any kind of life, even for a chicken. And it stunk worse than the defunct processing plant.

The dogs were penned in one corner. When he’d cut the slot in the door of the cooler so he could provide Dr. Talbot with food and added a toilet and bed, he’d also scooped the chicken shit to one side and fenced off an area for the dogs in which he spread a ton of bagged mulch around so they wouldn’t get filthy.