“Okay.” Emma sips from her to-go cup. “God, this coffee is awful. So we get there, stay on the perimeter—”

“Let’s try a different approach.” Bell opens a packet of peanut butter cups with his teeth while he drives. “We still have FBI credentials, that should get us most of the way in.”

“And then… what? You think Cooper will have his hands so full he won’t realize we’re there?”

“I think we should just, y’know. Front up to him.” Bell’s expression has an obstinate cast.

Emma shakes her head. “And folks say I’m game.”

“Cooper wants this killer caught. He wants Gutmunsson to stop writing to him. And he’s got enough smarts to work his advantages. One of those advantages is us, Lewis.”

Emma swallows another mouthful of burnt coffee. “So… how pissed do you think Cooper will be?”

“On a scale of one to ten, with one being mild frowning and ten being Mount St. Helens—”

“Right.”

Bell has settled back to drive the last twenty-five or so miles. “Man. Check out that sunset.”

Emma looks to the left, where a gap between the trees reveals the hump of Mount Weather. The sun is gone, leaving only a thin line of brilliant orange against the black horizon. The sky has turned a shade of cobalt that reminds her of homesickness.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she says quietly. “This is a worse idea for you than it is for me. You actually want a career in law enforcement. Cooper has the clout to screw that up.”

“Cooper has clout, yeah. But if we can help, we should help. It’s the right thing to do.” Bell’s face is a composition of blue planes and sharp shadows by the lights from the dashboard. He shrugs. “I’m not scared.”

Your dad would be proud of you right now. It’s on the tip of her tongue to say it, but she holds back. She has a feeling he already knows.

They cross the Shenandoah in the half dark. Soon enough, Bell’s navigating the turn onto East Main Street, past a sign for Berryville Farm Supply.

“Okay, here we go,” Bell says. “Which way now?”

Emma sees the flash of a white van with a roof-mounted aerial. “There. Follow the media.”

The van turns past the rail line in the middle of town, so they turn, too, onto Lord Fairfax Highway, heading southwest. A state trooper tears past, turns left after Chip’s Auto Sales, and Bell follows doggedly. Half a mile farther on, an area on the left is swarmed with police cars, state troopers, floodlights.

Emma touches Bell’s forearm. “Don’t get too close.”

Bell noses the Diplomat onto the road shoulder behind a bunch of vehicles parked near a hurricane fence, kills the engine. He and Emma unbuckle, watch the people converging up ahead.

Emma drags her ID lanyard back over her head. “You ready?”

“Almost.” Bell buttons his collar, slings his tie around his neck. His eyes are intent on the scene through the windshield. “I hope this works.”