This could be a lucky break—or a wild goose chase.

And it might not matter, since the woman’s death had been ruled natural.

But something about her death had piqued Grace’s interest, so a follow-up on the license plate and a call to the county’s forensic pathologist for details were warranted.

“I appreciate you taking the time to report this, Reverend Carson. Concerned citizens like you make our job easier.”

“I hope the information is helpful. I hate to see crime in our fair community. The charm and security of small-town living are why my wife and I relocated here from the city twenty years ago.”

“We’ll do our best to keep it safe for you. Thank you again for passing on this tip.”

Nate ended the call and swiveled toward his computer. With only a partial license plate, MULES wouldn’t help him. The Missouri Uniform Law Enforcement System portal required the complete alphanumeric sequence. However, the Missouri Information Analysis Center was often a godsend in situations like this. Not only would the center cross-reference the number and letters he had with a variety of databases, they’d manually try to match those results with whatever other information was provided.

In this case, there wasn’t anything else to match to other than a dark sedan. But it ought to be fairly simple to cull through the results and single out the vehicles located in this vicinity, come up with a name or two he could—and would—contact and question. While the presence of that car at Mavis Templeton’s house on the night in question could be innocent, it was too coincidental for his tastes.

Nate initiated the search in the MIAC, entering all the information he had. In twenty-four to seventy-two hours, he should have names to go with the letters and digits the minister had provided.

In the meantime, he’d touch base with the police chief in Larktree on the vandalism situation and give Grace Reilly a call to find out what had raised a red flag in the Mavis Templeton case.

Because this new tip suggested that whatever she was concerned about had a greater probability of being valid than she’d assumed on Saturday.

Call me.

Stomach twisting, Dave read the text displayed on the burner phone that had shown up three long years ago, left at his office in a box with his name on it, a note inside with a chilling message and an instruction to answer it in privacy when it rang the next afternoon.

That had been the beginning of his descent into a second hell.

One from which there appeared to be no escape.

He weighed the cell in his hand as he tried to psych himself up for the meeting scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. Insurance and investments weren’t top of mind this Monday afternoon. He’d reschedule if he could—but his clients were already on the road, the thirty-mile trip to his office prompted by a stellar recommendation from a former neighbor.