“Huh.”

“Yeah. We’ll figure it out, though.”

“I don’t doubt you will. Gotta say, this is an unusual situation for us.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You should try to get this thing resolved fast.”

“Thank you,” I said, “for acknowledging this is a serious case and not a goddamn game of Clue. Don’t worry, Mac, I’m all over it.”

“Because it can’t be good for you to be out there. Fact, it might be pretty bad.”

Ugh. In all of Jefferson County, McIntyre was the only person besides Carson who knew what happened in New York. It isn’t like I could hide the details from her. They were all right there in my file. No matter how much physical distance I put between myself and the city, no matter how much time has passed since those days that changed my life, I’ll never be able to keep it entirely to myself.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled onto my story—funny to call it a story, as if it’s something comforting to share at bedtime—online. A lawyer working on behalf of my former department got the press to omit my name from all public reports, but even seeing the words undisclosed female officer felt like an invasion. When I mentioned the old article to Carson, he made me read it to him out loud, as if I were a kid and he were the teacher checking I got the intonation right. He said I had to own it, which I thought was odd advice considering we just ran away.

Unless someone knew what to look for, they couldn’t easily connect me with the case. I don’t know why I chose to tell McIntyre the extra bits that weren’t in my file, or even in news stories like that one. That was stuff no one could get anywhere else, the behind-the-scenes footage hardest of all to share. I guess I felt a kinship with her. Maureen McIntyre’s a sheriff, but I had also come to consider her a friend.

Shivering in that shed, I wondered if I shouldn’t have been so quick to open up. “It’s not a problem,” I said firmly, my ears uncomfortably hot. “This isn’t the same thing. Not even close.”

“I know it’s not. But it is a missing persons case, and it’s your first since you started working again. I heard there’s blood on the scene. Cause of injury?”

“We think he was stabbed.” At least I do.

“Stabbed.” Coming from her, the word oozed meaning. “With the troopers held up and this weather”—as if on cue, a sheet of rain assaulted the shed window—“the reality is you’re going to be there on your own for a while. So I’m wondering if it might make sense to have a private chat with Tim.”

If it was me, well . . . I would tell him. That’s what McIntyre meant, and it disappointed me. After I opened up and asked her to keep my truth to herself, she’d made this same recommendation. She respected my decision, meaning she hadn’t gone to Tim herself, but she didn’t agree with it—and so I hadn’t hurried to unpack my boxes in A-Bay. My abilities . . . those McIntyre trusted. It was my judgment she questioned. And in my line of work, judgment counts for a lot.