I’d never wanted her to be hurt. This entire thing had begun because of my desire to help her through her trauma and keep her safe.

Although maybe it was a sign. If Martin Carstairs’s idiot brother could get to Darby, I sure as shit could.

But what did the cops mean they had proof Darby hadn’t committed the murders? The girl’s prints and DNA were on the murder weapon. Martin Carstairs’s blood was on Darby’s shirt, and her footprints were at both murder scenes…

I groaned and leaned my head back against the headrest, bumping it once, twice, three times. The boots. The cops would have had Darby’s boots in evidence when Adele was killed.

So, my footprints had muddied the water. Except the brand was not uncommon.

I huffed. I certainly wouldn’t call that “proof” exactly but, along with Darby presumably having an alibi for Adele’s death, it would probably have the cops looking to see if someone else was involved. Darby could be working with a partner. The thought made me smile. The idea of sharing who I really was with someone who might understand was tempting…

But Darby was still kidding herself she hadn’t been destroyed last year. That she had a chance at a normal life. I could well imagine what had happened to her. People didn’t just move on from that level of damage. It permanently affected them, ruined them.

Darby was delusional to think she could simply go back to living her life. That wasn’t how things worked.

I held onto my temper, careful not to press my foot too hard on the accelerator. I’d tried to help her. Tried to tell her I understood. Tried to be her friend.

Would that lead them to me?

I pressed my lips together and conceded it might. Eventually, it might.

To be safe, I had to assume that the FBI had linked these crimes to others I’d committed over the years. It would never be all of them—I didn’t even remember all of them—but I could almost sense the Feds drawing closer.

I sneered. As if that would help them. My fear of the Feds had faded over time. I mean, I didn’t taunt them with a red flag or anything, but I’d have to screw up dramatically for one of these people to actually catch me.

I glanced up at the traffic lights which bounced overhead in the wind. The weather was still a full-on blizzard. The wind howling eerily and the temperature dangerously low. Flights were cancelled. The main highways out of the city were closed in places due to drifting snow and whiteout conditions. Meanwhile, in the city, life went on more-or-less as normal, and I was effectively trapped in Fairbanks until the storm blew itself out.

I yawned while stopped at a red light, exhausted after only a few hours’ sleep. I needed caffeine to keep me going. Maybe a nap. I signaled left and froze as I sat waiting to cross traffic as soon as the left turn arrow turned green. In front of me, turning right into the same popular drive-thru, was FBI Supervisory Special Agent Eban Winters, and sitting beside him, wearing a jaunty hat with a furry bobble, was Darby.