Tessa Leoni had brought them to one of the few half-forested, half-fielded, all-in-the-middle-of-nowhere places left in Massachusetts. Given Sunday night’s fresh snowfall, the fields were a flat white expanse of sheer nothingness—no footprints, no tire tracks, no drag marks, interspersed with dark patches of skeletal trees and shaggy bushes.

They were lucky they’d been able to drive in, and D.D. still wasn’t sure they’d be able to get back out. Snowshoes would be a good idea. A vacation even better.

“Dogs are gonna tire faster,” Bobby was saying, “trudging through fresh snowfall. So the team wants to start with the smallest search area possible. Which means having Tessa get us as close to the target as possible.”

“Maybe she can point us in the right direction,” D.D. muttered.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Tessa’s shackled and trying to walk through four inches of powder. Woman’s not running away any time soon.”

“She doesn’t have a jacket.”

“I’m sure someone has a spare.”

“She’s playing us,” D.D. said abruptly.

“I know.”

“Notice how she answered none of our questions.”

“I noticed.”

“While doing her best to milk us for information.”

“Yep.”

“Did you hear what she did to the male inmate who attacked the CO? She didn’t just take him out. She drove a shank into his thigh and twisted it. Twice. That’s a little beyond professional training. That’s personal satisfaction.”

“She seems … edgy,” Bobby agreed. “I’m thinking life hasn’t gone too well for her the past few days.”

“And yet here we are,” D.D. said, “dancing to the beat of her different drummer. I don’t like it.”

Bobby thought about it. “Maybe you should stay in the car,” he said at last. “Just to be safe …”

D.D. fisted her hands to keep from hitting him. Then she sighed and rubbed her forehead. She hadn’t slept last night, hadn’t eaten this morning. Meaning she’d been tired and cranky even before receiving the news that Tessa Leoni was willing to take them to her daughter’s body.

D.D. didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be trudging through snow. She didn’t want to come to a faint mound and brush it back to find the frozen features of a six-year-old girl. Would it look like Sophie was sleeping? Wrapped up in her pink winter coat, clutching her favorite doll?

Or would there be bullet holes, red droplets giving testimony to a last moment filled with violence?

D.D. was a professional who didn’t feel professional anymore. She wanted to crawl into the backseat and wrap her hands around Tessa Leoni’s throat. She wanted to squeeze and shake and scream, How could you do such a thing! To the little girl who loved you!

D.D. probably should stay behind. Which meant, of course, that she wouldn’t.