Chapters (78)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Also by Owen Laukkanen
“So where is she?”
Jess shrugged. “Who knows?” Then she stopped. Felt, suddenly, the hopelessness of the whole situation. She’d already accepted that Harwood was going to put Lucy down. And in accepting it, she’d resigned herself to the notion that her own story was going to meet its end soon enough. She couldn’t survive without Lucy, not alone. Not for very much longer, anyway.
But even if the dog wasn’t dead yet, so what? What was this criminal proposing to do, attack an entire detachment of deputies to save her? The whole idea was reckless, and stupid, and destined to fail. Lucy was as good as dead, and Jess figured she was well on her way to joining her. “Shit,” she said, wiping her eyes, turning away. “I think you’d better go.”
Burke was looking at her. “You sure about that?” he said. “I’d be glad to—”
“Just go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Burke waited a beat. Then she heard him stand, shuffle over to the door. “You think on where that dog could be,” he said as he laced up his boots. “We put our heads together, maybe we can spring her loose.”
Eight
Eight
The motel owner called out to Mason as he walked through the empty parking lot to his room. Night had fully fallen, and the rain remained, constant, making the gritty black pavement between Mason’s feet feel slick and oily and dappled with reflected yellow light.
“Did you make it all the way to Jess’s place?” the older man asked when Mason had detoured over to where he waited by the lobby.
“I did,” Mason said.
“How’s she doing?”
Mason lifted a hand to his stomach where Jess Winslow had hit him with her shotgun. He laughed a little bit. “She’s heavily armed,” he said. “And she kicked my ass.”
The man looked him over. “Good,” he said. “You get what you want?”
“Maybe.” Mason glanced down the long row of doors, then back toward the warmth of the lobby. “You got time to talk for a little bit?”
The motel owner’s name was Henry Moss—Hank, he said, to his friends. He led Mason into the lobby, switched on the coffeemaker in the corner, and set himself up behind the front desk.
“So,” he said, “what is it you want to know, Mr. Burke?”
Plenty. “That deputy, Harwood. What’s his story?”
“Kirby?” Moss laughed. “That’s a subject that’s ripe for examination. More or less the town’s prodigal son, hell of a quarterback back in his varsity days. Went off to the U. of Washington on some kind of scholarship, supposed to have a shot at the pros.”
“Guess that didn’t work out,” Mason said.