I choke out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “I think I know who the killer is.”

“I’m listening.”

“Nathan Detrick.”

The silence that follows is so profound that for a second I think I lost the connection. Then he sighs. “You came to this stunning conclusion how, exactly?”

Quickly, I tell him about the murders in Fairbanks that occurred while Detrick worked there as a hunting guide. That he actually “found” one of the bodies. I tell him about the murders in Kentucky and Indiana and their proximity to Dayton where Detrick was a cop. I tell him Detrick owns a blue snowmobile. I lay out the timeline. “I know it’s circumstantial, but you have to admit, if you put it all together, it’s compelling.”

“Kate, goddamnit.”

I close my eyes. “John, listen to me. I think Detrick framed Hershberger. I think he’s going to murder him to shut him up.” Quickly, I explain what happened at the station.

“Detrick’s a fucking cop. A husband with three teenaged girls. He coaches the football team.”

“I know who he is! And I know how this sounds!” I snap. “Look, he’s in the middle of a messy divorce. Maybe that was the trigger for this escalation.”

“Kate . . .”

“I don’t like this any more than you do. But I can’t ignore what I’ve found.”

He sighs, and I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The kind of feeling when I know someone whose opinion I value is about to say something I don’t want to hear. Because that person is John, it hurts. And it scares me because without him, I’m on my own.

“It fits,” I say, trying to sound calm. “He lived in every city where the murders occurred. The signatures are almost exact. He actually ‘found’ one of the bodies. We both know these kinds of killers have been known to get involved with the police investigation. He’s a cop so he knows how to cover his ass. He worked at the slaughterhouse as a teenager. He shaves his head, John. Did you ever wonder why the lab never found a single hair at any of the crime scenes? I’ll bet he shaves all of his body hair.”

“That sounds paranoid as hell.”

“Then help me disprove it.”

“Does Detrick know you suspect him?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way.” His curse burns through the line. “Give me a few hours to get there.”

The drive from Columbus to Painters Mill would normally take a couple of hours. But with the storm dumping snow at about an inch an hour, I know it could be morning before he arrives. “Okay.”

“I want you to go home. Get your facts in order. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let Detrick know you’re looking at him. And do me a favor, will you?”

“Depends.”

“Watch your back.”

He disconnects without saying good-bye.

The doubt I heard in his voice weighs on me. Being formerly Amish and a woman, I’ve had to work hard to earn the reputation I have. Credibility is important to me. I hate it that both of those things have come into question.