Her mind was pulling her in so many directions. She had to focus.

She texted her friend and fellow agent Laurena to call her. Not sixty seconds later, Odessa’s phone rang. She answered, saying, “Hi, you’re the best.”

Laurena was a second-year agent, but five years older than Odessa, having clerked for a US circuit court judge before applying to the FBI. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Odessa spent a few moments allaying her fears. Laurena’s concern brought tears to Odessa’s eyes. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything, Dessa. I’m not good at cooking, though.”

“I wouldn’t be calling you if I needed a meal cooked.”

“And I don’t clean much, either.”

“I want to see crime scene photos from the Peters home.”

A long pause. “Why would you want to see that?”

“Not the grisly stuff. But—I want it all. Not for the bodies.”

“For what then? Now I’m worried.”

Odessa said, “I can’t get it out of my head. I want to see what was there—what was in the house. Like, the basement, the garage—everything.”

“I don’t know. This seems both unhealthy and unethical.”

“You can put it in Dropbox for me. Copy them in and send me the link separately. I’ll look and I promise I won’t download. No link between us.”

“There’s a link between us if the Bureau needs to look at it.”

Odessa said, “They won’t. Please, Laur.”

Silence except for a tapping sound, Laurena’s pencil against her desk. “I’d rather cook you a meal.”

“Thanks, Laur,” said Odessa, quickly.

“But I didn’t say yes—”

“You’re the best.” And she hung up.

Chapter

Obediah had been expelled from the town supervisor much too prematurely. There had been so much more to do. Despite the always pleasurable frenzy of ejection, the experience ended unsatisfactorily.

It passed from the Little Brook Town Hall Annex, eager to locate another suitable vehicle. She was a woman in her fifties, carrying a yoga mat, climbing into the driver’s seat of a tan sport utility vehicle. Obediah took the woman, and the automobile, for a fast ride north to Route 495, an east–west interstate. It pushed woman and machine to their limits, achieving speeds of ninety miles per hour, using her manicured hands to weave in and out of traffic on screeching tires.

It was looking for the right place, the right moment. Like a peregrine falcon timing a dive for an unsuspecting dove or a distracted wader.

It swung right, veering hard into the rear left wheel of a small sports car, sending it pinwheeling across two lanes and off the unrailed side of the highway, coming apart upon impact with trees. A box truck was struck and spun all the way around, suffering a head-on collision with a delivery van, both of which were subsequently rammed by a Mayflower moving truck.