Sometimes, when he’s untouchable, when I can’t reach him, I wonder if she’s the one he wants to be with. I wonder if he’s still in love with her. I wonder if I’m with him because she isn’t, if I’m competing with a dead woman.

The sound of my cell phone drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. I fumble for it on the night table, flip it open, put it to my ear. “Burk-holder,” I rasp.

Even before I hear Tomasetti’s voice, I know it’s bad. When a cop is awakened in the middle of the night, it’s never good news.

“We’ve got a body,” he says without preamble.

I sit bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding. The room is pitch-black, and for an instant, I can’t remember where I am. Then the case rushes into my brain, the missing Amish teens, the blood on the road, and I’m out of bed and reaching for my clothes.

“Is it Annie?” I ask as I jam my legs into my slacks.

“I don’t know.”

“Give me five minutes.”

CHAPTER 10

The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock tell me it’s 3:53 A.M. when I go through the door. Tomasetti has already pulled the Tahoe up to the gravel area outside my cabin and is leaning against the passenger side’s front fender, talking on his cell phone. The night is humid and still, and I smell rain in the air.

He cuts his call short as I climb in. A moment later, he’s behind the wheel and we’re idling across the parking lot. “Hell of a way to start the day,” he growls.

“Tell me what you know,” I say.

“Not much. There’s no positive ID yet. But apparently, the victim is a young female.”

I think of a young life cut short, the parents who will be notified in the coming hours, the family that will be shattered by the news. I feel the familiar rise of outrage in my chest.

The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He’s in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.

“Where’s the body?” I ask.

“In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her.”

I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. “Anyone on-scene?”

“Goddard’s en route.” He tosses me a grim look. “We’re closer.”

“Coroner?”

“There’s a team from Youngstown on the way.”

I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He’s not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn’t any different.