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Chapters (50)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TITLE PAGE
  3. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  4. DEDICATION
  5. CONTENTS
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

But his relief was short-lived. Where was she now? Alena had obviously been taken away by force, but not enough force to draw blood— Trygg would have detected it. That meant she was alive and relatively unharmed when she was taken—but Nick knew that was no guarantee of continued health and well-being. Alena wasn’t a kidnapping victim; no one intended to exchange her for ransom. She had been taken for the same reason that her father had been killed—because of her ability to find the dead. Whoever took her wanted her dead, and they were probably just looking for a better place to dump the body.

Nick sat down and looked at the dog. “You saw the guy who took her, didn’t you? I wish you could tell me who it was. You keep staring down this road—does that mean they left together? A fat lot of good that does me; I need to know where they are now.”

Cui bono? he thought—a Latin phrase that means “Who stands to gain?” Who else would want Alena dead? Who had something to gain from her death—or something to lose if she kept on living?

He thought about Agnes again, and he thought about the scrapbook.

He jumped up from the ground and ran into the trailer. He searched the countertops and end tables until he found the keys to Alena’s truck. As he was about to leave, he noticed a small peg rack on the wall beside the door. Four wooden pegs projected from it, each one holding a brightly colored bandanna printed in a distinct pattern. Nick stopped and looked at them—then swept up all four and ran for the truck.

37

37

Victoria Braden sat at her office desk with the door securely locked. It was very late, and she had an exhausting agenda the next day, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the stack of photocopies that lay on her desk.

She’d been over them at least a dozen times and there was nothing new to find in their contents, but still she kept reading them again—like a man staring at an X-ray that revealed a malignant tumor. She shuddered at the realization of what these pieces of paper implied; she trembled at the thought of what would happen if it ever became public knowledge. The photocopies from the first scrapbook—the one that revealed her true background and identified the old librarian as her biological mother—she could survive that revelation. But this—this would mean the end of everything she had worked for: the election; the presidency; the White House—everything.