Ben stormed toward the back of the parking lot, while Dr. Palmer walked the short distance to his black Mercedes and climbed in. I tossed my cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the dirt before hurrying to my car.

I followed Dr. Palmer’s Mercedes away from town. Orange streetlights shimmered in the murky air. He headed uphill, turning right and crossing the bridge.

I knew where he was going before we arrived.

The old mill warehouse looked more dilapidated than ever, the ancient rotting wood bowed and bending. The crumbling brick smokestack was barely visible in the murky light.

I left my car parked around a bend in the road and headed into the swirling snow. To my left, the winter forest stretched into the mountains; to my right, a narrow strip of brambles and evergreen trees snaked and snarled toward the river and the churning waterfall in the distance. A cruel wind bit at my face. The fall leaves, beaten by heavy rains, were now covered in snow.

I swept my flashlight over Dr. Palmer’s car, catching sight of my reflection in the window. Faded black circles rimmed both my eyes, thanks to Gabe cracking the cartilage of my nose. My skin hung loose and gray on my frame, my cheekbones sharp, lips cracked and bloody.

The car was empty. Fear prickled in my mouth, bitter as a dandelion green. Where had he gone? Why was he here, and why had he been arguing with Ben?

I stepped lightly, keeping my footsteps quiet as I moved to the rear of the warehouse. I knelt, pretending to tie my shoe, and scanned the narrow snow-flecked lawn that sloped from the warehouse to the river. The dark space behind me was a fist against my back.

I slipped soundlessly inside, my senses on high alert. Water dripped rhythmically down the corrugated walls and from the steel beams, a melancholic melody that left dark puddles on the floor.

The crime scene tape had been cleared away. The only signs anybody had ever been here were the cardboard on the windows, a handful of two-by-fours leaning against the wall, and the bloodstain on the floor.

I skirted the inside perimeter of the warehouse, peering behind rusted factory equipment. But there was nobody here. Finally I dropped to my knees next to the dark stain. I pressed my fingers to it and closed my eyes for just a moment.

Nate had once told me that modern crime techs never used chalk to outline a body because it would contaminate the crime scene. Instead, they took pictures, along with measurements to fixed reference points. But I didn’t need a picture. All the images from that night were burned forever into my mind.