I found the sheriff’s spare key in his nightstand. Nestled in the drawer beside it was a framed picture of Blanton’s ex-wife. I lifted it to the light. The shot showed Katie Blanton at a backyard barbecue. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top, not too much but enough to show a sliver of tan skin beneath her collarbones. She held a beer and was laughing, her teeth flashing in the sun.

She looked a lot like Alex.

As I lowered the picture back into the drawer, I saw what the frame had been covering. The sheriff’s holstered revolver. It was heavier than I thought it would be. I clipped it onto my jeans and headed into Alex’s room.

I’d been too scared to notice before, but it smelled really good, like shampoo and citrusy perfume. In the corner leaned a hockey stick—Alex was a tough-as-nails forward with a wicked slapshot. Standing in her room with those scents washing over me, I felt as though I’d stepped into some other dimension.

I put the baling hooks on her bed and went to her walk-in closet, looking for a jacket. I found one, looped it over my arm, and started emptying her drawers into her hockey gear bag. Shirts. Jeans. Socks. I opened the next drawer and froze.

Bras.

They were black, white, or skin-colored. Embarrassed, I shoveled them into the gear bag, doing my best to look away, down at the floor. My eye caught on two big boot prints in the carpet.

Sheriff Blanton had to have been standing here for a long time to leave footprints as clear and deep as that. I pictured him motionless with his eyes glowing and his head tilted up, like he was meditating or something. That clicking sound returned, a memory echo, and I shuddered.

What had he been doing?

“Chance?”

Mortified, I looked up to see Alex leaning in her doorway. I pivoted my head to the bra still grasped in my hand. I released it. It fell into the bag.

“Um…,” I said.

Her lips pursed—not a smile, not tonight, but maybe something close. She came toward me and held out her cuffed hands. I dropped the bag.