Sawyer sighed, then passed Lopez, slapping the recovered and cracked cell phone into the man’s chest. The detective frowned at the handling of the evidence, but before he could protest, Sawyer passed by, stepping with one long leg over the concrete barrier and approaching where the two police officers were talking to the strange new arrival.

The woman glanced past the police as Sawyer drew near. She took in his baseball cap, his flannel shirt, and the frown on his face.

“Hello,” she said, quickly, redirecting her words toward him. “I’m Dr. Ilse Beck. I’m the one who made the call.”

Sawyer glanced back over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the woman. He just waited, allowing the silence to prompt further information.

“I… She was on the phone with me at the time,” Ilse said, hesitantly, her eyes searching, gauging, adjusting. She had an intelligent, analytical gaze. “Is—did you find her?” At this, her voice cracked a bit, and some of the calm facade faded to reveal a mixture of fear and… was that guilt?

Sawyer frowned. “How’d you know the victim?”

“So she is a victim?” Ilse asked.

“Found her phone. Found blood,” Sawyer said, shrugging once.

One of the officers eyed him for a moment. Likely not impressed by Sawyer’s decision to share information with a layperson. Then again, if this woman was the last person to speak with the victim, she might prove useful.

“Blood?” Ilse said. She pressed a hand to her lips, holding it there for a moment, her eyes widened in horror. She let out a strangled little sigh that turned into a sob. Sawyer felt a flesh of sympathy, but swallowed it back. Commiseration would only distract now. A life was on the line. Besides, he was a good judge of character, and unless he was completely wrong, Ilse was a tough nut to crack.

She glanced off for a moment, staring up the mountain road, then returned her attention to Agent Sawyer.

“I… I think I know who might have done this,” she said, her voice hoarse.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ilse could feel the gaze of the baseball cap–wearing cop fixated on her. He hadn’t introduced himself yet, but she could tell he was in charge, simply by the way he moved, the way he held himself. He had an air of authority, but also one of distance from the other police gathered.

Not a cop, then? A federal, maybe?

She shook her head, nibbling on her lower lip and feeling a swirl of guilt and anxiety flush through her system.

Samantha had been taken. Her phone discarded, blood on the trail.

Ilse bit her lip hard, feeling a jolt of pain. She could feel her own anxiety rising, swirling, she wanted to scream, to yell. But for the moment, she kept her posture calm, docile. She kept her eyes fixed on the tall, silver-haired man in the flannel shirt.

“What relation did you have with the victim?” the man said, speaking in a slow, even-paced way. He had an air of unhurried competence about him. No panic, no rush, just confidence born of competence.