There isn’t much traffic along this deserted stretch. Two miles to the east, the road dead-ends at the county dump, which is chained off except on Saturday mornings. The asphalt is pitted and narrow, with a centerline that’s been scoured by tires and the elements. I walk the narrow shoulder, my eyes skimming the grassy bar ditch, the fence, the soybean field, and the macadam on my left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Anything that seems out of place. Signs of a struggle. Skid marks. None of those things is indicative of a crime. But sometimes building a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. Alone, the pieces mean nothing. But when you arrange them in a meaningful way, a picture emerges.

Several minutes pass with no luck. I’m ever aware of the fading light, birdsong being replaced by a chorus of crickets in the woods. Near the bridge, I find a beer can and the ragged remnants of a paper towel. There’s a plastic Baggie that looks as if it’s been ripped to shreds by some animal. Twenty yards past the bridge, I notice horse hoof marks in the gravel. There are more in the grass, along with a pile of horse manure. I know now that this is where Mandy Reiglesberger rides.

I’m about to turn back, when I notice a single skid mark from a short, hard stop. It’s not unusual to see rubber marks on any roadway. People brake for animals. Teenagers, armed with new driver’s licenses, perform peel-outs to flaunt their horse power and show off for their friends.

These particular skid marks are fresh. My heart jigs when I spot a thin brown cigarette lying in the gravel. It’s smoked halfway down and it’s been run over at least once. Pulling a glove from a compartment on my belt, I slip it over my right hand. I’m an instant away from picking it up when I discern the scent of cloves. And I have proof—at least in my own mind—that at some point Sadie was here.

I glance over my shoulder, see the sheriff wading through knee-high grass fifty yards back. “Rasmussen! I think I found something! Bring the camera!”

Nodding, he starts toward his vehicle.

I return my attention to the skid mark. Cursing the swiftly falling darkness, I follow the direction of the skid to a disturbance in the gravel and a place where the grass has been flattened by a tire. It’s as if someone made a U-turn in the middle of the road. There’s no identifiable tread. Five feet from the skid mark, I find the one thing I didn’t want to find: a dark, irregularly shaped stain. I know immediately it’s blood.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, staving off a crushing sense of helplessness.

“Looks like blood.”

I turn at the sound of Rasmussen’s voice.