His eyebrows flicked up. “Oh? Where?”

“An abandoned shack on an old farm. It’s possible, if it’s the same attacker, that he took her there. Somehow, he found her again, after all these years…” Ilse paused, swallowing, and for a moment, her expression flickered with something else… Fear? Guilt?

Sawyer stared, for the first time wondering if perhaps double-checking Dr. Beck’s own alibi might be worth a shot. She was hiding something. Everyone did. But whatever she was hiding hung heavy on her, like wet tissue. He could see it in her posture, in her eyes, in the way she spoke. The eagerness she had to help. Most people helped out of a sense of obligation. Or penance. Or absolution.

Guilty people helped just as often as compassionate ones. And the two were rarely exclusive.

Sawyer watched her for a moment. Then said, “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

She blinked, staring. For a moment, her features froze. And then her eyes flashed with anger. Her jaw set in a defiant way. He watched her hands, though. Expressions were easy for practiced liars. Features could be arranged. But hands?

Hands weren’t for feeling, or expressing.

Hands were for action.

And Ilse’s remained flat, glued to her thighs. They didn’t bunch, they didn’t posture for violence. If anything, she froze—straight fear.

He watched her a second longer, watched the anger sparking in her eyes, her hands flat to her thighs. Not a violent woman, then. But a secretive one. A liar? Maybe. Probably.

A trustworthy liar?

Maybe. Probably.

“No,” she was saying, her voice like iron. “I didn’t have anything to do with this!”

“You look angry and guilty,” he said, completely unaffected by the flash of passion in her tone. “You’re helping too much. More than normal. Makes me suspect you.”

She crossed her arms. “You accused me of kidnapping my own client. Of course I’m angry.”

“See, there too. Didn’t address the guilt part. Didn’t address the helping too much part. Like I said, I suspect you. Don’t know of what. Least not yet.”

“More instincts?” she said. “Do you feel it in your gut? How’s that worked so far?” She waved a hand toward the sealed interrogation room door. “Can’t help but notice, Tom, you don’t have too many cops lining up to give you a hand here. Some of them seemed to treat you like you have the plague. Work trouble, hmm? Get into with some of the locals?” She paused, frowned, but then shook her head. “Or maybe a boss? Did you do something to piss off someone at the FBI? Is that why you’ve been isolated up and out of the way here?”

Sawyer blinked in surprise. Instead of reacting in anger at the fishing, he nodded, mildly impressed. “Not bad,” he said. “All right. Maybe I believe you. Say again; what are we looking for?”

Ilse gave a little shake of her head as if to reorient herself, but then, clearly and crisply, she said, “An old abandoned shack on an old farm. And…” She paused, one hand reaching out for a moment as if miming opening a door. Her eyes flickered and then she nodded quickly. “An old weather vane in the shape of a rooster. Bent and rusted, she said.”