They drove north for several hours. As they got close to their destination, Billy became agitated again. Gibson heard him groaning quietly under his breath, as if tectonic plates were shifting inside him, grinding against each other. Billy didn’t seem aware he was doing it.

“I hate coming back here,” Billy said.

They turned onto a narrow, shoulderless road that ran parallel to Lake Erie. It was wooded on both sides, but, through the trees and down long dirt roads, he could see expensive beachfront homes and the sun sparkling off the lake. It was a beautiful, peaceful part of the world—rustic but intentionally so. It amazed him that such a place existed less than an hour from Kirby Tate’s house.

Most of the properties didn’t have mailboxes and weren’t otherwise marked. It would have been easy to get lost, but Billy knew exactly where they were.

“Okay, it’s your next left. No, not this one, the next.”

“What’s on the left? Whose place is this?” Gibson asked.

“Mr. Musgrove’s. I mean, not anymore, but it was before. It’s his sister’s now. She lives in Saint Louis. She was here for two weeks in June. Probably won’t see her again until next year.”

“And you know this how?”

“I’m her caretaker.”

“How many jobs do you have?”

Gibson slowed and turned off onto a bumpy, poorly maintained dirt road. Like many of the properties, it had a chain between two wooden posts blocking the way. Billy hopped out and unlocked the chain and threw it off the road before getting back in the car. Trees rose up steeply on both sides, and there was barely enough room for the car to pass.

“You want to go easy here. There’s kind of a big rock in the road.” Billy pointed to a spot up ahead.

After a quarter mile they cleared the tree line and came upon a large two-story wood-framed house. A wide, appealing porch supported by white columns encircled the house. The dirt road gave way to a circular white stone driveway. An elm rose in the center of the loop. Short trimmed grass ran down both sides of the house and sloped away toward the water’s edge. To the left were parking spots, but Gibson pulled up in front of the stairs leading up to the porch.

“Why are we here, Billy?”

“This is where I hid Suzanne. I think I got Mr. Musgrove killed for it.”

Anguish swept over Billy Casper’s face. He got out of the car and walked, head down, toward the lake. Gibson watched his shoulders buck uncontrollably; Billy was crying, sobbing, really. Gibson let him go, giving him a little space, then followed.