“Get to town,” Chief Hunt is saying to Sam. “Find out her name, where she was from, anything you can about who she was and what she was doing here, including where she was staying. Start with the hotels, and if they don’t know her, work your way through the rental agencies. Or on second thought, start there, at the agencies. If she came here looking for a quiet getaway, she’ll be in one of the cabins.”

Start with the hotels. The thought slices through my mind, but I somehow force myself not to say it out loud. Whatever that woman came to Lake Crosby looking for, it wasn’t quiet. I think of the way she looked at me yesterday, her strange reaction when I introduced myself as a Keller. A flash of surprise, and her gaze went immediately to Paul. “Keller,” she’d murmured, and something about the way she looked at him put me on edge. She knew the name, knew its significance in this town. I’m certain of it.

I whirl around, and Paul is staring at me silently, urgently, from a few feet away. I meet his gaze, and everything goes still. My entire body changes in that moment of understanding. At his message, sharp and sparkling.

Stop talking.

“Call me as soon as you’ve got an address,” Chief Hunt is saying, “but do not go inside. Until we know otherwise, we’ll be treating her last known location as a potential crime scene. Now scoot. Micah, I’ll be waiting for your paperwork.” He turns and lumbers back up the hill.

Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe Paul is just embarrassed at his reaction, at this sudden swell of post-traumatic stress he tries so hard to stuff down. Maybe I’m reading more into this.

No. No, that’s not right. Paul looked her straight in the eye, and he talked to her. Even if she only asked him for directions or a restaurant recommendation, he would remember. Her face is too pretty not to be noticed, and Paul notices everything.

So why did he just lie?

By now Micah is dressed. He clomps down the ramp in his boots, pointing to the techs. “Seal the bag and take her up to Harris Regional. I’ll call the medical examiner, let her know you’re on the way. Don’t forget the tarp. She’s gonna want that, too.”

The creak of the body bag’s zipper is like a knife, cutting through the cold and crawling all over my skin. The tech pulls it snug, then slips a plastic tag through the pull and draws it tight, essentially padlocking the bag until the next person to touch her clips the tag. Chain of custody, Sam told me it’s called, during one of our gas station talks.