When I unlocked my SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat, that feeling was quickly replaced with a flash of alarm. Through the windshield, in the dark, a man’s pale face stared back at me. Heart thumping, I got out and reached for the paper that was pinned down by a wiper. It was the article about Brett, the same front-page story from the St. Albans Messenger I’d seen in my parents’ kitchen, Brett’s smiling mug centered on the page. Now, a clipping of the article was here. In Alexandria Bay. Affixed to the front of my car.

I held it like a stick of dynamite as I slid back into the SUV and hit the locks on the doors. My hands shook as I flipped the newspaper over to see the message I knew would be there, scratched on the back of Brett’s face in the same black ink that was used on the poster. Now, there was a second line for me to ponder.

Wanna play?

Go home.

Cold November darkness pressed in on me while I parsed the message in the context of two cases, one in Swanton and the other in A-Bay, and all at once I understood what Bram was playing at, where I fit into his scheme. This was a trade. Show me yours; I’ll show you mine. One secret in exchange for another.

Nobody was going to find this lost boy.

Not until I could unravel the mystery of a murdered man.

FIFTEEN

The landscape was a blur of black and white, and through the window I’d cracked to help keep me awake, I smelled wood smoke and the clean, ozone scent that marked the threat of snow. I thought about Bram all the way to Vermont—because I did go back to Swanton, of course I did. It was days until my evaluation, the event that would determine my future with the New York State Police, and possibly the most important meeting of my life. But like the hat, the note on my windshield was a warning I couldn’t ignore.

There was no ambiguity to this message. Go home, or the next name on Bram’s list will be Trey. Weighted down by this warning, I’d tucked away the newspaper clipping, pocketed my apprehension, and texted Tim and Mac to let them know I was headed to my parents and would be in touch. I knew my shifty egress would baffle Tim, but there was no time to explain that. Actually, I’d be violating my suspension by investigating not one case but two.

As I drove, I went over everything I knew about Brett’s death so far. After remaining hidden for two decades, his body was recovered for one reason alone: the police in Swanton had received an anonymous tip. The more I mulled it over, the more plausible it seemed that Bram was the one who alerted the police to the whereabouts of his father’s remains. This would mean Bram knew his dad was dead, though, and something about that didn’t prove out. Twenty years ago, my cousin and I were as close as two kids could be. If he knew, why hadn’t he told me?