I’d wanted to be the one to tell her. I knew the murders would frighten Sarah. But I haven’t had time to pay her a visit. “I’ll talk to her.”

“She is afraid he will harm us. She is afraid for her unborn child.” He grimaces. “For you.”

I’d known she would worry about me. Sixteen years ago, she watched me come very close to unraveling. “You know I’m fine,” I say.

Jacob nods. “She wants you to tell your English police what happened.”

I nearly drive into the ditch. “No.”

“They do not need to know all of it. Just that Lapp could be alive and killing.”

“No, Jacob. We don’t tell anyone.”

“She is frightened, Katie.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

He looks out the window, then back at me. “I do not believe Daniel is alive. But if he is . . .” Shrugging, he lets the words trail. “Maybe Sarah is right.”

“I’ll handle this,” I snap.

“How can you when you do not know where he is?”

“Hopefully, in a few hours we’ll know exactly where he is.”

Half an hour later I stop on a desolate stretch of road where railroad tracks bisect the snow-covered asphalt. Fifty yards to my left, the massive grain elevator juts from the earth like some primordial rock formation. I see triple concrete silos. A water tower tilts at a precarious angle. The original wooden structure flanks the rear and is slowly being devoured by the encroachment of the skeletal forest beyond. Front and center, the corrugated steel main building stands three stories tall, impossibly narrow at the top. The lack of proportion gives it the gangly appearance of some ugly waterfowl.

The Wilbur Seed Company elevator and silos were built in 1926, but fell to ruin in the early seventies when the new railroad came through Painters Mill. A few years later a more modern grain elevator was built on the west side of town and the Wilbur Seed Company closed its doors. The old structure is a landmark, an eyesore of historical significance, a favorite place for people to dump trash, and an attractive spot for teenagers to drink beer and make out. It is also the perfect place to hide a body . . .

For a moment, the only sound comes from the hum of the engine and the hiss of the heater. I glance at my brother to find him staring out the passenger window. I should thank him for agreeing to do this, but something inside me won’t allow it. After a lot of years of blaming myself, I finally realized I wasn’t the only one who did something wrong that day. My parents’ refusal to report the crime—my siblings’ tacit assent—tainted me for life, drove me in directions I never would have imagined. As far as I’m concerned, Jacob owes me.

Jamming the Explorer into four-wheel drive, I turn in to the entrance, using the telephone poles to guide me toward the rear.