“Hang on, Dr. Beck. One second.” Samantha’s voice increased in volume, but then muffled as if the phone had been lowered from her cheek. “Hey!” Samantha called, clearly addressing someone else. “Careful!”

Ilse heard the sound of gravel, and tires against the road.

“No—no!” Sam’s voice grew suddenly louder.

“Samantha?” Ilse said, sharply. “Samantha!”

Ilse heard a sudden scream. The sound of a slamming car door, hurried footsteps, and another strangled yell. And then the line went dead.

Ilse stood in her lonely lake house, staring out at the gray waters, her eyes unblinking, fixed on the mist. She swallowed, listening desperately, hoping beyond hope for the line to connect again. But all she could hear was silence.

CHAPTER TEN

Ilse’s silence didn’t last long, and action soon followed.

The first sound was the steady thump of rapid footfalls against floorboards. Then came the sound of jangling keys where they were snatched from the dish by the door. Last came the sound of the locks on the front door. Double-, then triple-checked.

Finally, Ilse raced out to the Boat, ignoring the sense of the night surrounding her. Ignoring the oppressive, cloying weight of darkness on her shoulders, the mist over the lake curling toward the house in wisps like the fingers of a ghost.

She flung herself into the front seat of the old Avalon, breathing heavily. One hand jammed the keys into the ignition. But then she paused, staring at the house.

Had she locked?

A small, niggling itch in the back of her mind. The compulsion. Had she locked the door? What if it wasn’t locked. Was it locked? Had she locked? Was it locked? Had she locked? What if the door—

Ilse cursed, got out of her car again, sprinted to the front door, checked, and checked again to make sure. Locked.

She felt the inevitable surge of relief. Dopamine centers rewarding her for giving in to the compulsion. Then she raced back to her car, put it in gear, and tore out of the driveway.

Dubuque Road. That’s what Samantha had said. She’d gone for a walk on the old biker’s trail next to the mountain.

Ilse knew where that was. She sped up the road, her eyes fixed on the path ahead curving and curling through the trees beneath low-hanging boughs and branches, through the swirling mist and past the gray waters.

She should have listened to her client. Listened to her instincts. But instincts were tricky, untrustworthy. Instincts were costly. Facts. History. Repetition. These things could be relied on.

In this case, though, she’d been distracted.

By her own thoughts. Her own history.

A little postcard with two words: Hilda Mueller.

Ilse ground her teeth, pulling her phone from her pocket, her eyes still glued to the road. She only spared the faintest glance to find the three numbers.

9-1-1.

***

Agent Sawyer could feel the boredom pressing in. He circled the old trails by the logger lanes and old trucking roads for the tenth time in the last hour. No sign of idling vehicles. No shouts. No instances of hitchhikers or joggers ignoring the curfew. He’d spotted a couple of kids throwing bottles at a tree, but one quick whir of the siren in his unmarked sedan had sent them scramming.