A black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows drove up to them. The driver got out and handed the vehicle off to Roland. Ellie thought it was odd that no one had accompanied them during the flight, and she didn’t see transport of any kind nearby as they drove onto the main road. She suspected Roland had sent an advance team to scope out the church.

The bright sunshine of Ventura County was gone; here in Sierra County, the sky was overcast, and the weather was different, chilly and windy. But there were no fires, and the air smelled fresh and clean, a welcome relief from the past forty-eight hours. It had a transformative effect, too. The physical and mental exhaustion from yesterday’s events that had turned her blood to sludge—all of it had been blown aside.

But that wasn’t the reason why she was sitting up straight in her seat, feeling wide-eyed and alert. A part of her kept wondering if Sebastian had been playing her. What if he had told her an elaborate lie to shut her up and get her to bring his daughter to her so he could say goodbye? She had tried. By the time she had driven Grace to him, Sebastian was already gone. But what if there was no blood farm here? And if there was, why was it all the way up here?

Downieville felt like a small rural town in Vermont—deep green valleys and hills of pines and oaks so tall, they obscured the mountains and kept out sunlight; the kind of quaint, small homes made of weather-blasted wood you’d find in New England. The only thing missing was snow. They passed through a tiny downtown area of homey mom-and-pop stores, an old theater, and a gas station, and in the blink of an eye it was gone, and they were once again driving down an isolated stretch of road, surrounded by trees.

Twenty minutes later, after not passing a single house or car, Roland turned left and made his way down a paved road that led deep into a pastoral valley that looked like it belonged in another century—the Old West, where everyone carried guns and rode horses. Maybe she thought that way because of the church. It was small and rectangular and painted white, including the roof—more of a house than a church if it weren’t for the spire holding a small plain black cross. She could see a mountain range and part of a river, but she didn’t see a single vehicle except theirs, and there were no people here, no homes, nothing but the church.

Roland killed the engine, and pocketed his keys as he got out. He jogged toward the church’s rustic barn door, and by the time Ellie shut the car door he had already slipped inside. On her way, she saw a bronze plaque set in stone informing people about the history of the town’s first Catholic church. She saw 1862 and FIRE and REBUILT (1876) before she opened the door.