A response was on her tongue, but she said nothing. Booth seemed like a decent man. Well meaning. He’d told them before that he hadn’t seen Molly Clarke the night of the storm. He’d boarded up both places, the inn and diner, well before she could have made it to town from Evan’s school. Said he was in his apartment, in the back, all night. Reading with a lantern. Having some tea. Listening to the radio until the storm had passed. And then trying to get to sleep with the wind still roaring and the worry that the plywood wouldn’t hold.

“Well, I’m happy to help any way I can.”

He winked at her then, and Nic smiled in response.

“I need to rest if you don’t mind,” she said.

Booth waved toward the stairs.

“Of course.”

* * *

The room was the same. Old. Frilly, as though that’s what guests at a quaint Connecticut inn would expect. Grandma décor. And Booth kept the heat running—she remembered this all too well. The crackling radiator, the hot, dry air. It was stifling.

She tossed her phone on the nightstand, her bag on the small chair in the corner by the window. She pulled the shades and drew the curtains. It was nearly six, dusk, gray skies.

She ran water in the scalloped sink, splashed her face.

Back to the bed. She changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, pulled up the covers and climbed beneath them. The sheets were stiff, but cool. She lay her head on the pillow.

It offered little comfort. The mattress had hardened unevenly over time. The pillow turned soft. Blood rushed into her aching head, making it pound harder, right into her eardrums. It wanted a drink.

She reached for her phone on the night stand. There was a text from her brother.

WTF? Hastings?

She started to text back, but the phone rang in her hand.

“Finally!” her father said when she picked up. “What’s going on there? What’s happening?”

Nic winced. Everything felt worse now, lying down. She got up and walked to the window, opening it a crack to let in the cool air. The grounds behind the inn were nothing but bare, scattered trees with stubborn patches of dead leaves clinging to the branches.

“Nicole!” her father was in a panic.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m at the inn. I got a room.”

He let out a moan.

“It’s not like last time.”

“I don’t like any of this. I should come home.”

It occurred to her then—how he would have insisted on coming if he thought there was any real danger. From Edith Moore or someone in this town. Or the town itself. He still believed that his wife had walked away on her own, even after seeing the handwriting analysis.