Bryce Whitmer’s place wasn’t much of a farm anymore. When Jess was growing up, Bryce and Dale’s dad had tried keeping horses on the property, a couple of dairy cows and a handful of chickens, but there was less money in farming in Deception Cove than there was in fishing. Soon as the old man died, the horses disappeared, the cows were sold, and the chickens were cooked and eaten, and Bryce, who was the eldest, set about filling the land he’d inherited with every manner of junked vehicle imaginable.

Now Bryce ran something of an impromptu pick-a-part: for a ten-dollar fee, Bryce would call off his dogs for you, let you wander around the piles of rusted hulks, dig under the hoods, and when you found what you were looking for, Bryce would assess a value, and you could pay it or you could leave.

Most people just paid, having come that far, and anyway, Bryce was a big, broad guy, six feet five, and he kept two foul-tempered mutts roaming loose among the cars, rumor being those dogs had tasted human flesh now and again, and that they’d liked it well enough to want to try some more.

People didn’t mess with Bryce Whitmer. Even his little brother steered mostly clear, and Dale was supposed to be the law. So Jess didn’t exactly feel comfortable sneaking around the side of Bryce’s property like she and Burke were doing, but if she were Kirby Harwood, she’d have stashed Lucy here, so she’d decided she didn’t really have a choice.

She’d hidden the truck off the highway, down a dirt-track road that led up into the hills beyond the Whitmer property line. She’d unpacked the Remington, shoved a handful of spare shells into her jacket pocket, double-checked the shotgun to make sure it was loaded.

“I don’t have a gun for you,” she told Burke. “I’m hoping we can do this thing without needing mine, either.”

Burke just nodded. “That would be just fine with me,” he said. “I never shot a gun in my life anyway.”

“Well, this is hardly the best time to be learning.” She gave him a flashlight instead, closed the Chevy’s door, quiet as she could. Through the trees she could see the lights of the Whitmer place, a run-down old two-story house she’d never seen the inside of, but she’d known girls who had, back in high school, and they hadn’t come back with five-star reviews. Jess could only imagine what the place looked like these days.

A fence ran up the roadside, into the forest, chain link and barbed wire, security lights. Jess gestured up the dirt road.

“I’m thinking we try and find a way in around back,” she said. “Unless you want to knock on the front door.”

Burke was studying the fence. “Rather not. You remember the wire cutters?”