Reed stayed hidden, waiting, and when they returned after having sex, Tate dropped Tracy off at her car—no lingering kiss goodbye, just a wave and a smile and Tate was gone. When she backed out of her parking spot, the nail punctured the tire, creating a slow leak. Tracy lived out in the country, on roads that had few if any travelers at three in the morning. She would be in the middle of nowhere when the tire finally gave up the last of its air.

Reed followed her out of town, a roll of duct tape, a few zip ties, a pistol, and his deer rifle in the truck beside him. He came upon Tracy and her flat tire, offered to help her before she had a chance to call someone on her cell phone. It had been almost too easy.

Two hours later—with Tracy’s body now floating in the Tioga Pit—Reed banged on his friend’s door, waking Tate from a deep sleep.

“We’re going hunting, goddammit,” Reed said.

“Jesus, Reed. What time is it?”

“Get your camo and let’s go. If we hurry, we can be out there before sunup.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t tell me she wore you out?”

Tate grinned at the inside joke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then get your ass in gear. I’ll be in the truck.”

Reed took a picture of Tate once they got into the woods. The picture would have a date and time signature, metadata to prove that they had been hunting. He would use the gas receipt to show that they had gone out to the woods long before Tracy Progaski got off work. On top of all that, shooting the four-point buck had been sheer luck.

When they got back to town, news had already spread about Tracy’s body being found in the Tioga Mining Pit, and rumor had it that whoever put her there had done terrible things to her. Tate became a ball of mush as grief and panic fought for the upper hand. The dumbass wanted to go to the cops and confess to the affair.

“You were the last person to see her alive,” Reed had told him, “except for the killer. They’ll never believe you didn’t do it.” After a great deal of hand-wringing, they worked out the details of their alibi, one that Reed had planned out weeks before. This had been his true genius. When the sheriff came to question Tate—following up on the rumored affair—Tate said that he was hunting deer with Reed.

Tate walked away believing that Reed had lied to save his ass, when in truth, Tate had been the one to lie, giving Reed the alibi that he needed. That twist still made Reed smile.

That’s why Reed had placed that picture on the table—the one with them posing with the deer. He wanted Tate to remember his debt.

But the picture had been moved. Someone had been in his house.

Reed looked around as if he might see some clue to explain the moved picture—and he did. If Tate Bolger had entered his house under the lawful authority of a search warrant, he was required to leave a copy of the warrant behind along with an inventory of items taken. No such documents had been left. That meant that it hadn’t been Bolger in his house.