Max had never been to the Itasca County sheriff’s office, and just stepping through the door brought on a sense of loss. There was a time when a sheriff’s office—any sheriff’s office—had the effect of calming Max’s heart rate. He was at home among badges and uniforms. Radio chatter was the background music of his life. But now he saw the divide, a wall beyond which lay his old world, guarded by a receptionist sitting behind bulletproof glass.

“Can I help you?”

Max cleared his throat and then thought that it made him sound nervous—which maybe he was. He hadn’t prepared himself for the conversation ahead, and after three and a half years in the woods, a tendril of self-doubt inched up his spine. “Is Sheriff Bolger in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t,” Max said, stroking his beard, a habit that started about the time it grew long enough to touch his chest. “If he has a moment, I’d like to talk to him about the disappearance of Sandy… um…” Lyle had never mentioned whether she went by his last name or that of her ex-husband. “I’d like to talk to him about Lyle Voight’s daughter.”

The receptionist narrowed her gaze. “Your name?”

“Max Rupert.”

She pointed toward an empty meeting room adjacent to the reception area. “Have a seat in there and I’ll have a deputy come talk to you.”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to talk to Sheriff Bolger.”

That seemed to aggravate the receptionist, and she gave an audible huff.

“If that takes an appointment,” Max said, “I’ll make one, but I’d like to talk to the sheriff.”

Maybe it was the hassle of setting up an appointment, or maybe he had impressed her by wearing his best white shirt, but the receptionist rolled her eyes, picked up the phone, and punched a button.

“Sheriff, do you have time to meet with a walk-in?”

She paused.

“Says his name is Max Rupert. Something about Sandy Voight.” She looked at Max as she listened to Bolger’s instructions. Then she nodded, hung up the phone, and said, “Go have a seat—he’ll be with you in a minute.”

Max walked into a small room about the size of a jail cell, four off-white walls surrounding a table with four chairs, a room designed for this exact purpose: meeting with people without bringing them into the guts of the operation.

Max didn’t expect Sheriff Bolger to drop everything, but after nearly an hour—or what seemed like an hour because he no longer wore a watch—Max’s mood had turned foul. As a cop, he had often let murder suspects stew in the tiny interrogation room back in Minneapolis. It unnerved them. Silence could loosen a rusty tongue, but it pissed Max off.

When Bolger finally showed up, he offered no apology. He struck Max as the aging high school star, a sizable gut diminishing his broad shoulders and solid arms. He shut the door and said, “What can I do for you, Mr….”