I took my laptop from the safe under my bed. I’m not a big believer in locking up valuables simply because they’re valuable. To be honest, I’m not much of a believer in valuables at all. The only reason I have a safe is for securing the two items I wouldn’t want a wandering guest to find: my handgun and my customized laptop.

Computer booted, I started typing a list of search terms: Helter Skelter New York Dean Moretti. Halfway through “Moretti” I stopped. My Internet connection was supposed to be secure. Jack had recommended someone to me, and I’d paid dearly to ensure no one could trace my signal or follow my virtual footsteps. Twice-yearly updates kept me ahead of the latest security-busting technology, or so I’d been told. But was it enough?

The Helter Skelter affair was an FBI case. The Feds knew a lot more about technology than any local police department. If anyone ever tracked the Moretti killing to me, I didn’t want my computer records showing that I’d taken an undue interest in the Helter Skelter case. Yes, I’m sure that at that very moment, thousands of people were researching the same thing, but I had to be more careful.

I’d need to wait and get my information from Jack.

I spent the rest of the day in agony. I love being the host/ guide at a wilderness lodge, but that day nothing would have pleased me more than if my guests had all packed up and left, so I could hop in my truck, barrel down to Peterborough and find every newspaper, magazine and online source that so much as mentioned the Helter Skelter case.

I could ask. Hell, I was surrounded by cops. Half of them probably knew every detail of the case, even if it was unfolding across the border. Yet I couldn’t take the chance.

It’d been a clean hit. I hadn’t left a single clue behind. Or had I? If the cops thought the Moretti hit was the work of the Helter Skelter killer, they’d have their best and brightest working the scene with every tool at their disposal. I was good, but was I good enough to stymie the best crime investigators in America?

Rappelling helped clear my mind. Ten years ago, if someone told me I’d be ricocheting down cliffs or jumping from airplanes or rocketing along rapids, I’d have told them they’d mistaken me for someone else. Nadia Stafford did not take chances. Ever. She was the girl who did as she was told and always looked both ways—twice—before crossing the road.