Below it she’d penned a few short lines—

Why do I remember

The sins that stalk my soul?

Why can’t I hold on to the

Forgiveness that makes me whole?

Ashes rise to steal my breath.

I choke from drowning fear.

Help me, Lord, to cling to You

In never-ending prayer.

Her words spoke of anguish that God hadn’t removed. Why did He promise peace when she obviously lived a self-induced nightmare? Did she have dreams of a husband and children? Ambitions to use her business degree? Make a success of her jewelry design? How could she hold on to God when He’d failed her? I shrugged. God failed people on a consistent basis. I knew firsthand.

A thought lingered . . . What if she had changed?

The sound of footsteps outside the front door caused me to step between Shelby’s bedroom wall and the door. Trapped just when I’d tried to gain her confidence. Maybe she’d forgotten something, and I could stay hidden. I peered through the slim crack between the door hinges and the frame.

A square envelope slid under the door.

Randy Hughes had a few loose screws when it came to Shelby. But invading her privacy while representing the law seemed low for him. I suspected him of sending the last note, except the person who’d left it had raced into the woods. Hughes’s beer gut slowed his speed. Of course, I was breaking and entering. What about the man who’d fired into Edie’s tire? Ran Shelby off the road and into a ditch?

I hurried to the living room window and saw no traces of the sender. The person had been on foot and obviously headed to the side or rear of the cabin. I drew my Glock as I slipped out the back door, hoping I didn’t confront a bullet. The quiet morning greeted me. Man-size boot prints sank into the dirt and led to the woods behind the property. I snapped a few pics of them and wrestled with the idea of trailing him. If the person was armed, the stretch of open field behind the cabin set me up as target practice.

Inside the cabin, the envelope lay on the floor with Shelby’s name written in adhesive black letters, like those purchased at a craft store. Tearing off a paper towel, I wrapped it twice around my fingers to grasp the unsealed envelope. I slipped out a card.

To the Pearce family,

No words can ease your loss

In the suicide of your daughter

Or the answer to why

Or bring comfort in the pain.

Know you are in our thoughts and prayers

In this difficult time of grief.

We all will miss Shelby.

I stared at the handwritten personalization at the top and bottom of the card. The sender had a warped sense of humor. My jaw dropped, and the card fell from my hand. What kind of sicko broke—?

Someone wanted Shelby dead and concealed the telltale signs of murder. Her time in prison raised the likelihood of her gaining enemies, and her past left a trail of hate and possibly even vengeance, but what else had she done? What information needed to follow her to the grave?