Drugs and street life had coarsened Sonia’s skin. She had some old bruises on her arms, but I didn’t think they were track marks, more like the residue of blows. Someone at St. Rafe’s or someone on the street?

I picked up one of her flaccid hands between my own and knelt to talk to her. “It’s V.I. Warshawski, Sonia. You called me this morning, to say you’d seen Emerald Ferring. You saw her on Matt Chastain’s grave, you said. Matt Chastain.”

She might have twitched when I repeated his name, but it was probably wishful thinking on my part.

“If you wake up—when you wake up—you call and tell me where he’s buried. I want to see Matt’s grave, okay?”

I held her hand a bit longer, massaging it lightly. Her fingers were rough, the nails cracked. An obscure impulse made me brush the curls away from her forehead.

The nurse gave me an approving nod as I left. “You’re the officer the police should send when they need to question a patient. You have a good touch.”

I smiled in embarrassment. “I’ll talk to Sergeant Everard about that.”

The sky and land were so dark as I drove out of town that I lost all sense of direction. Pinpricks of light shone from farmhouse windows, but once I left the main highway, I was alone—whatever farmers do in the fall must take place indoors.

Away from the highway, I found myself on gravel roads that didn’t have streetlamps. I drove slowly, headlights up, staying in the center, trying to avoid the ditches on either side, trying not to hit the foxes and other animals who claimed the night for their own.

At one point someone showed up on my tail, a dark SUV, maybe a Buick Enclave. I thought I’d seen it as I got on the highway, but the traffic was heavy enough that I couldn’t be sure. Here on the county roads, we were alone. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Peppy, sensing my unease, stood, growling softly.

At the junction between East 1900 and North 2800 Roads, the SUV turned south, where a sign pointed to the Kanwaka Missile Silo. I went north, my shoulder muscles relaxing, my breathing easing back to normal.

After following North 2800 Road for a quarter of a mile, I came to a turnoff with a mailbox labeled McKinnon. My map app had been accurate, always a relief.

The drive ended in a turning circle about a hundred yards from the road. I pulled up behind an elderly Subaru and looked at the house. It was a square building, two stories and an attic. No lights showed.