When I pulled into the parking space at the back, my suite was dark. I felt a pricking at the base of my neck. Ambush? I edged into the room, flipped on a light. No one was there, but Bernie’s backpack was on the foldout bed.

I removed my smartphone from the Faraday pack, fingers thick with fear.

papa’s plane made an emergency landing in denver. he won’t get here until ten, Bernie had texted. cady wants to go out to a farm near a missile silo, and i think that is where august and emerald are, so i am going with her.

I called Bernie. “Are you with Cady? Are you already at the silo? Don’t go in there—it’s dangerous.”

“You are only saying that because you have been too busy finding dead women to explore the only logical place where August could be.”

“Bernie—it’s not the only logical place. There are places in Lawrence that are much more likely—”

“Vic, I know you. I know you argue only to get your own way. I am with Cady. We can look after each other without a big sister on top of us.”

She cut the connection. I called back but got voice mail. I tried Cady, but she didn’t answer either.

Fury and fear washed through me. My body was so tired I could barely move, let alone think, but I needed to do both.

I got up and staggered into the bathroom, stuck my head under the shower to bring on a semblance of consciousness, put on a dry, clean sweater and pulled on my boots. My night-vision binoculars were in my Mustang at the library lot. So was my gun. They’d have to stay there.

I looked around for Peppy. It took me a minute to remember I’d left her at Nell Albritten’s. My trip to North Lawrence, the film screening with Ed and Lou—those seemed to have taken place back in the Jurassic. Jake, my angry lover; Lotty, Mr. Contreras, Sal—all my Chicago friends felt even more remote than that.

I tried Cady and Bernie again before getting into the car but still just got their voice mail. My only hope of reaching them before Bram Roswell or the sheriff showed up lay in surprise. I tucked my phone back into its cage and took off. I circled the side streets until I was sure I was clean and then headed east, slowing at traffic lights but going through on the red.

Once I was clear of town, I pushed the accelerator up to seventy, bouncing in the ruts, pebbles dinging the sides of the car. East Fifteenth Street to the open country, south to Doris McKinnon’s farmhouse, where I tucked the Prius inside her barn.

The direct route to the silo was across fields, but I wasn’t about to attempt that at night, even with a full moon.