A quick stop at a convenience store at the edge of town yielded a few breakfast basics. Fifteen minutes and a few turns later, he navigated a narrow opening in the pines and stopped in front of a black wrought iron gate marked by the number twenty-seven in fancy gold script. The driveway disappeared into the woods. Budding spring foliage obscured the view of the house Reed Kimball, the man who had saved his sister, used to live in. Reed had put his house up for sale and moved to Philadelphia to be with Jayne, keeping her far away from the Maine woods that had nearly killed her.

Ignoring the stone call box next to his window, Danny leaned across the seat and grabbed the gate’s remote control from the glove compartment. He pressed the button. The black iron barrier swung away from him. The drive curved through the forest and opened up into a small clearing. The cedar and glass home blended with the wilderness around it. Danny sighed. He was city born and bred, but Iraq had dulled his enthusiasm for urban living. Now he didn’t feel he truly belonged anywhere. Though he’d attached a truckload of discomfort to the small town of Huntsville, he’d been looking forward to the seclusion and solitude.

A red Nissan was parked out front. Danny parked next to the sedan. Reed’s house was supposed to be empty. Considering all that had happened when Danny had been here last, his instincts snapped to full alert.

He went back to the glove box for the Leatherman multi-tool he kept in case of an emergency. Like a Swiss Army knife on steroids, the Leatherman was everything from pliers to a knife, and most importantly, it was a whole lot easier to explain than the switchblade Danny had carried in his misspent youth. Sure, he’d cleaned up his act, but eight years in the army and two tours in Iraq hadn’t exactly mellowed him out. He got out of the car and stared at the house. A chill swept over him. The spring thaw had left Maine damp and a whole lot colder than mid-April back home.

The front door was wide-open. A lockbox dangled from the door handle.

The hair on his nape rose. He unfolded the knife blade and stepped over the threshold. Stale air, filled with the slight taint of mold and mildew, rushed at him. His running shoes were silent on the wood floor. In spite of the cold, clammy sweat broke out on his back. “Hello?”

“In here.”