He pushes aside a rack of coats—she had more coats than a woman in Austin might expect to, given her travel to cold climes such as China, Russia, and the Baltic states. And behind them, hidden simply by their bulk, are a couple of jewelry boxes. He opens one. Snakes of silver bracelets intertwine. He digs through them. Maybe she hid it in a safe-deposit box. He opens the second jewelry box. Rings, here, bracelets. A string bracelet, the kind children make in school. He recognizes the weave of colors—Grant made this for Danielle in art class, for helping his parents find him in Russia. A child’s THANK YOU, carefully written in red and purple crayon. His breath catches.

And beneath it, a flash drive.

This. Here.

He pockets the flash drive—then hears what sounds like the slow crawl of tires on pavement. Her closet is near the front of the house. What if the police are arriving? He tucks the flash drive deep into his shoe, under his foot. Unlikely to be patted down there. He puts everything back where he found it. He tries to remember if the closet light was already on. He uses his shirt to wipe the light switch, the jewelry boxes. He heads out of the master bedroom and is halfway across the den when something heavy slams into the back of his head.

Kyle staggers. Strong hands grab him and put a cloth bag over his head; he can’t see.

Then he feels the weight of a gun barrel pressed against his neck. He freezes.

“You’re not going to give me trouble, are you?” a voice says. Low, hissing, harsh.

And then blow after blow to his head, shielded only by the cloth bag. He feels blood on his face, a hard cut on his ear, a hammering blow beneath his eye. Dazed, he feels himself draggged across the den, the gun pressed against his head, out the patio door, across the yard. The gun. This person is going to shoot him. Kill him. He climbs to his feet, but he’s rushed along and then he’s standing in the cool of the creek.

His brain is spinning, his ears ringing with the blows. The barrel of the gun is a burning constant against his throat. “Please!” Kyle says, crouching into the water, cringing. He feels a hand groping his pockets, the top of his socks. It finds nothing. He freezes. But the fingers don’t dig into his shoe.

“Why are you here?” the voice says again, a harsh forced whisper.

“I just wanted something of hers. Something to remember her by. Please.” He can feel his own blood on his face. He’s never been hit like this in his life.

Four hard punches, brutal and unyielding, smash into his face. The cloth bag protects him, but not much. He falls into the creek, stunned, the bag still over his face.