The day had rolled in with a light fog on the lake, the grass wet with dew. The air was crisp with the coming winter, fall colors dancing off the water as the sun rose up behind him. Max had been watching an eagle in one of the trees at the water’s edge, the brilliant white plumage on its head and tail marking the bird as at least five years old. It seemed to be enjoying the last throes of autumn as it stared down at the lake in search of a meal. Max tried again to conjure the face of that child, but distractions cut through: Jenni, Mikhail, the rabbit. He gave up, took a sip of coffee, and tried to refocus on the eagle.

As a homicide detective, Max had grown used to his brain zipping from thought to thought, connecting dots faster than the flap of a hummingbird’s wings. Like a child sent to the corner to think about what he had done, Max had expected the stillness of the woods to guide him to Nirvana or Perdition or wherever the hell he was supposed to go now, but instead of bringing clarity, the absence of stimuli had made him restless. He wanted to be like the eagle, her world reduced to the simple task of catching her next meal. Max was fairly certain that she had never felt sick at the death of a rabbit or awoken from a dream shaken by the eyes of a child staring up from a watery depth.

It was the eagle who heard the pickup truck first, turning her head toward the county highway beyond the trees. She took flight before Max heard the hum of the truck’s engine as it weaved its way down the trail toward his cabin, the crunch of its tires muffled by pine needles, wet leaves, and grass.

The truck rolled to a stop next to the cabin, Lyle Voight behind the wheel. At first the intrusion struck Max as damned offensive. No one had come down that trail in years. Who did Lyle think he was? They’d chatted on occasion—that was it—and here he was rolling in like he owned the place.

But the detective in Max took a closer look at the older man. Lyle stayed in the truck for a good minute or two, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his head tipped forward. True, Max didn’t know Lyle all that well, but he’d guess the old sheriff wouldn’t drop by uninvited unless he had a good reason. Max felt ashamed for his initial reaction.

In time, Lyle stepped out, making his way toward the sliding glass door of the cabin. Max held up his cup of coffee and called out, “Hey, Lyle.” Lyle didn’t wave, but nodded grimly, turning to walk Max’s way.

Lyle was fit for a man in his sixties, if not particularly big, and Max had little doubt that Lyle could outlast him in a log-splitting contest. But Lyle’s slow gait, the way his head dipped down on his shoulders, told Max that Lyle was carrying somber news.