After burying Lisa, he never stopped looking for Danny—sending messages, making appeals for help to people who were in Banff at the time of the hotel fire. Now he considered the video shot by the Italian tourists who were there; it had captured a glimpse of a boy in the townsite who looked like Danny.

Was it Danny? Is he still alive somewhere in the world?

Wyatt was waiting for information from the Italian couple, more details about the time and location of where their friend’s video had been recorded. Looking into the woods, he felt alone in the world. Wyatt bit back on his emotions. He turned to his right, where Molly, his lab, would be sitting if he had brought her with him. He missed her.

Wyatt thought of Jill McDade and her daughter, both of them wounded by tragedy, too. How, in their own way, they were alone, just as he was.

Wyatt hit a bump in the road, shaking his SUV. His thoughts shifted back to Samantha Moore. Something was happening on the story. The Houghtons’ video of the motel was a new development.

Call Rod Noble, he thought. But it was unlikely he’d get anything from him. Noble didn’t know Wyatt well enough to tip him. Try McDade, or Tony DeCastilla. Although both were in New York, it’s possible they could’ve heard something on the cop grapevine. Trouble was, he couldn’t call anyone from here.

For now, he had to concentrate on finding two of the last people to see Moore—Cass and Gibby.

Wyatt’s odometer indicated he was close. According to his notes, maps, and calculations, he was within range of the turn he’d missed before.

It should be right about here—and there it is!

Wyatt stopped his Ford at the grassy beginnings of a road—more like a path—nearly concealed by overgrowth. He consulted his notes and the directions Zeffie had given him. Through the branches, he saw the sparkle of a stream. Then he rechecked the map and Zeffie’s notes.

That’s Gallows Creek.

He turned onto the hidden road, branches brushing and slapping against his SUV, and crept along what Zeffie had called the old cemetery trail. His Ford swayed along the rutted pathway. At times, the oil pan scraped the earth, forcing Wyatt to slow to a crawl.

He emerged from the trees and rolled by a neglected cemetery. Its gates had broken off. The archway leaned, as if it had surrendered to time. A few remaining rotted slats of its picket fence poked from the ground. The graveyard was blanketed with tall grass that nearly obscured the two dozen headstones.

Bet there’s a story there, but for another day.