“It makes as much sense as anything else I’ve been able to come up with,” Eli said, thoroughly discouraged. He’d thought of all those possibilities himself, but he still had to wonder where Jane Doe’s coat or jacket was—among other questions.

It was January in Montana, and thus it was bitterly cold. Nobody went around coatless in weather like that, not even young women too foolish—or too desperate—to realize that clandestine meetings in isolated places could go south in a heartbeat.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, when neither Sam nor the Doc offered further comment. They wanted to get on with their grisly work, hurry home for a holiday dinner.

Once again, Eli’s stomach rolled.

“I’ll be in touch the moment we have anything solid,” Alec told him, not unkindly. “The specimens are tagged and ready to go to the lab in Kalispell tomorrow—Sam will drive them up there himself.” A brief silence fell. “Oh, and Russ Schafer called about twenty minutes ago, said he’d be in Marisol’s office tomorrow to have a swab taken.”

Eli nodded again, and left.

He’d accomplished nothing by this visit—wondered, in fact, what in the hell he’d expected to accomplish.

He was irritated with himself, spinning his metaphorical wheels.

And Eli Garrett hated wasting time.

He climbed into his SUV and radioed Melba.

“Have you spoken to Shallie?” he asked without preamble the instant she answered.

“Yes,” Melba replied, sounding as discouraged as Eli felt. “The last Shallie heard, Bethanne was in rehab, on her third or fourth go-round. She did time for drug-and alcohol-related crimes—was married at least once—Shallie doesn’t think there were any children, but there are some pretty big gaps in Bethanne’s history, so who knows?”

“Nothing on social media?”

“I’ve scoured all the major sites, and the answer is basically no.”

“‘Basically’ no?”

“Bethanne was pretty active online, back in the Myspace days, but she’s nowhere on the Book of Faces. Same with Twitter and Instagram and all the other virtual hangouts.”

“Helpful,” Eli said.

“Don’t kill the messenger,” Melba answered lightly.

Eli chuckled, but it was a grim sound, lacking even a trace of humor. “Sorry.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Dan says you’re planning to run against me,” Eli said, wishing in the moment that she would run for sheriff, come the next election year—and win.

Melba didn’t miss a beat. “Dan Summers is full of sheep-dip. If you haven’t figured that out, Sheriff, maybe I should give you a run for your money.”

“Today, I would hand you this job on the fabled silver platter.”

“Fortunately for me, you can’t,” came the crisp reply.

Eli laughed again. Still no amusement. “Damn it,” he half growled.