Satisfied he was telling the truth, Lara nodded and pushed through the Gothic wooden double doors with a strength she didn’t know she had. As she stepped outside, through a cruel twist, the sun was now peeking around a soft cloud.

Hearing steps on the pavement below, Lara looked down to see Ben Archer, Kerrigan Falls’ chief of police. He was out of breath, his uniform rising and falling as if he’d been out for a hard run.

In this humiliating and intimate moment, she’d hoped to avoid seeing anyone, let alone a perfect stranger, but their eyes met and she could see that he, too, had nothing to report.

There would be no wedding today.

Chapter 3

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

October 10, 2004

With his phone on vibrate, it took Ben Archer a minute to comprehend the sound he was hearing until it traveled off the nightstand and onto the wood floor, clacking like a child’s windup toy. That woke him up.

Sweeping his hand under the bed, he retrieved it just as it went to voicemail. Damn. It was Doyle Huggins, his deputy. He hated these new mobile phones. The idea that he was now tethered round-the-clock to Doyle was nearly unbearable. He hit the redial. “It’s six A.M., Doyle.” His voice was low even though he was alone.

“I know. I thought you’d want to know right away. They’d found a car about an hour ago—Todd Sutton’s car.”

He felt a lump in his throat. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah,” said Doyle. “It’s his car all right.”

“What about Sutton?” Yesterday Ben had been out looking for the runaway groom for hours.

“No sign of him yet, but I’m looking.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s the fucked-up part.” Doyle seemed hesitant to speak. “I’m standing in the middle of Wickelow Bend.”

Ben inhaled sharply. “I’ll be right there.”

He slid out of the warm bed and got dressed quickly. Grabbing coffee at the 7-Eleven, Ben drove across the Shumholdt Bridge with its dramatic view of Kerrigan Falls’ hundred-foot drop.

Seventy minutes southwest of Washington, DC, Kerrigan Falls was named for the wild and winding Kerrigan River that flowed south another sixty miles. Famous for its large rocks and fallen trees that crossed the small gorge like Pixy Stix, the Kerrigan River ran parallel to the Blue Ridge Mountains that loomed above the town’s tiny skyline.