Wyatt’s Ford glided along Interstate 91, northbound on an endless ocean of green.

Beautiful, but I wish I wasn’t seeing it for such a terrible reason.

Since departing New York, he’d been driving for a little more than four hours, following the path taken by Kevin Tatum and Sam Moore. It was a lonely ride. Reaching into the bag of potato chips on the console next to a bottle of ginger ale, he glanced at the passenger seat.

He thought of his wife, Lisa, and son, Danny. For a fleeting, bittersweet moment, he saw them, their smiles, heard them laughing. Then they vanished.

He swallowed, looked away, then looked back.

The passenger seat was now Molly’s seat.

He’d considered bringing her along, but yesterday evening he decided it best to leave her with Jane Dobson, his neighborhood dog sitter. Molly loved going to Jane’s. Molly was good with that.

The passenger seat was occupied by his tablet and Barzi’s books. Wyatt intended to go through the books later, to gain whatever insights he could for the story.

Interstate 91 cut through spectacular scenery. While the sweeping, rolling hills were a never-ending vista of green, he imagined them ablaze with brilliant red, orange, and gold during the fall when the leaves turn.

Looking to the gentle mountains, the low hills, the farmland, and the boundless forests occasionally pierced by a church steeple, he knew that what he was seeing was what Sam Moore had seen during her fateful journey.

It gave him pause.

Later, he passed St. Johnsbury, continuing north along the Passumpsic river valley until he entered the region known as the Northeast Kingdom. He traveled through the Miller’s Run river valley before eventually coming to the exit for Spiritsburg and Route 58.

Ten minutes after leaving the interstate, he arrived at Spiritsburg, passing homes, including some with stables, on huge lots, a school, a church, several storefronts, and the town hall before he came to the Green Rolling Hills Inn at the edge of town.

The transom bells jingled when he entered the office. An older man with wild hair, glasses, and a sweater hunched over the counter, looking at what appeared to be invoices.

“Good afternoon. Welcome. How may I help you, sir?”

“I’d like a room for a couple nights.”

“Certainly, it’s forty-two fifty a night.” He placed a registration card on the counter. “If you’ll just fill this out.”

No computerized registration? This is so old-school, Wyatt thought.

When he finished completing the card, the man gave him a summary of amenities. There weren’t many—“Internet’s spotty, and the ice machine’s broken.” Then he passed him the key for Number 8.

Wyatt looked at the key in his hand with hesitation.

“Is there a problem?” the man asked.

“Would it be possible to get room Number 6, if it’s available?”

“Yes, it’s available. Any particular reason you want Number 6?”