The homicide unit had two-person cubicles in which teams of detectives sat back to back. Niki walked to the one they used to share and took her seat at her same old desk. Max put his hand on his old chair but didn’t sit. He was an intruder, an imposter. Worse, an actual murderer creeping around the sanctuary of those who hunted men like him. A wave of self-loathing hit him so hard that it nearly buckled his knees. This was why he belonged in the woods.

Now he was spreading his infection to Niki, corrupting her, asking her to skirt the law, a weakness that was becoming a habit with him. He had been such a Boy Scout, living by a code that included keeping his relationship with Niki professional. She was his partner and nothing more.

Yet how many times had he sat in that chair and let his mind get lost in the scent of her perfume? Returning to their cubicle, he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. Coffee in the mornings, lunches at Ida’s, a beer after work, and always those eyes that looked up at him with such respect. And the jokes, her wit, her smile—he couldn’t deny that he looked forward to each day that he worked with her. But those were behind them. He’d ended them.

Max picked up a framed photo of a man with a wife and two children, sitting on the corner of his old desk. “Is this your new partner?”

Niki turned in her chair. “That’s Matty.”

He was younger than Max, with dark hair and features, and he smiled like a man who was downright giddy to have his wife and kids around him.

“Handsome guy,” Max said.

“I’m sure his wife thinks so.”

“Is he smart?”

“He’s no Niki Vang, but who is?”

“You’ll get no disagreement from me.”

Niki smiled and received her compliment. “He’s dogged,” she said. “And he loves research. Ask him to find someone’s employment history or family tree, and he’s as happy as a puppy with a bone.”

“How about in the field?”

“He’s getting there. He’s no Max Rupert… but who is?” She smiled again. “Where’s that phone number?”

Max handed her the piece of paper, and Niki unfolded it.

“Just in case they ask, the boy’s name is…?”

“Reed Harris Jr.,” Max said. “But he goes by Pip.”

“How old?”

“Six.”

“Is there a missing-person report?”

“His grandfather Lyle Voight reported him missing in Itasca County. The sheriff up there isn’t acting on it, but there’s a report.”

“Okay. I’ll do the ping. It’ll take a few minutes to hear back.”

As Niki made her call, Max stepped away from the cubicle to update Lyle, who was staying at Max’s cabin. “Lyle, we’re starting the ping.”

Lyle sounded like he had been sleeping, his consonants blurring together as he spoke. “Yeah. Good. Um… will they give me an address, or just coordinates, or…?”

“We’ll get GPS coordinates here. I’ll plug them in and get the address for you. It’ll likely be out in the woods, isolated, so I want you to sit tight until I get back. We can drive out together. I don’t want them seeing your headlights and getting spooked.”