Reyes tried to talk her down, off this ledge.

“Listen—there’s a reason she doesn’t want to come clean about why she was here, but it doesn’t have to be something like that. People lie for all kinds of reasons.”

Reyes placed his hands squarely on her shoulders. “This is about the money. Nothing else. Edith Moore saw your mother and now she wants to play her lottery ticket. Look, we have new leads now—not just the truck, but the taillight and the reason Edith Moore lied.”

“And you’ll follow them?”

Reyes shrugged. “I’ll do my best. The chief, well, I may have some convincing to do there.”

“Then I should stay,” Nic said. “Maybe the second I leave is the second the search for Molly Clarke dies a second death.”

Another shrug. Then, “That’s up to you.”

Nic had planned on staying a day at most, just long enough to meet Edith Moore. But Reyes was right. Now there were new leads.

She turned back to the inn and the diner next to it. Something caught her eye in the side-view mirror.

“You should get going,” she said. “You probably have work to do.”

She reached for the door.

Reyes stopped her long enough to hand her his card.

“I’ll follow up on the taillight. If you think of anything, call me.”

Nic studied the card as the question formed in her head. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but she needed to know.

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. Do you really want to know what I think?”

“Of course.”

“I think she’s somewhere safe trying to get through whatever it is she needs to get through. I’ve seen it before. The stats support it. Her story supports it. The evidence supports it. But I also think we can find her. And I will help you any way I can.”

Reyes looked at her in a way that reached right into those hollow spaces and filled them up, just a little. A little dose of intoxication.

She waited for him to drive off, taking a few steps toward the diner. When he was gone, she turned and looked across the street.

At the bar.

And the bartender who was opening the door.

Chapter Nine

Day two

Alice watches me from the window as I walk down the driveway. The packed dirt is dry in places from the morning sun, but also littered with potholes that overflow with water from the storm. I scuffle more than walk because the boots slip down when I lift each foot. I make tracks in the dirt. I get stuck in the mud. I move quickly in spite of everything.

The driveway is no longer than a third of a mile. I counted the seconds as we drove it last night, the odometer just under thirty miles per hour. I pray I’m right.