Not only did he have to find that fucking Zoe and deal with her sister, but he also had to fix the window on his van before anyone started asking questions. He hadn’t been completely honest with Myra. The truth was, he was worried about Zoe. That little twit had tricked him. He’d spent a good part of the day searching for Zoe. Of course, he’d taken the dog, who had followed Zoe’s trail to the river. But from that point on, his hound could find nothing other than a couple of squirrels and a nasty raccoon that had bared its teeth, dark eyes glaring from the lower branches of a tupelo tree.

He and the dog had walked more than two miles downstream, searching the banks on this side, but the truth was that bitch might have floated to the next town. If that happened, it was all over. She’d seen him. Could ID him to the damned cops. And then it wouldn’t be long before they’d find him.

“Son of a bitch.”

Or she could be dead. Drowned. Killed by an alligator or snake or a damned bear. Anything is possible.

He told himself that her demise would be a good thing; she wouldn’t be able to identify him. But that would leave him with the mess of the other one. Should he kill her? Assume the older twin was already dead and end the younger one’s life? It would disrupt his routine. Not good. Even now, just thinking about the order being upset caused his chest to tighten and his scalp to itch with anxiety. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

He knew it.

And so did Myra.

She was just pissed, that was all, and she’d get over it. Maybe. If he could rectify the situation and find that damned Zoe. He’d made a big mistake the night before. He should have taken the time to release the dog, put Red on the scent right away, but he’d been running blind, fueled by pain, adrenaline, and outrage. And he hadn’t had his night-vision goggles with him. Another mistake.

That was what happened when you allowed things to spin out of control.

That was why there needed to be order and precision.

As he rounded a final corner, the right front tire hit a pothole. The entire van shimmied, agitating him further.

There are others. You have to finish this business and go after the others. You cannot be distracted.

He was sweating profusely now, and as the beams of his headlights played over the peeling paint of the small cabin, he tried to calm himself. He slowed and guided the van to the far side of the structure. Though the cabin was settled deep in these woods and it was highly unlikely that anyone would spot his vehicle, he took every precaution.