I can only stare at him. Gray eyes, lined now but with the same light; his square jaw, and fine straight nose; the fringe of unruly red-gold hair bristling from under the brim of his hat. He’s a phantom, a memory, a forever-ago friend. “Will Flood.”

I go to hug him and bang my elbow against his shoulder, then back away, stepping on his foot.

“Ow!” He laughs. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I can’t think fast enough to answer him. The last time I saw Will, I was eighteen and he was twenty-two, newly in uniform in the sheriff’s office his father had run seamlessly for decades. Back then Will had big dreams, often talking of San Francisco, LA, Denver, Seattle, anywhere but in Ellis Flood’s long shadow.

“What’s going on here?” I ask, as if it isn’t obvious.

“Missing girl. Two days now. Disappeared from her home in the middle of the night, no signs of forced entry.”

“She a runaway?”

“Don’t think so. Mom’s Emily Hague.”

“Emily Hague the actress?” I can hardly believe it. A movie star in Mendocino?

“What are the odds this falls on me? Family wants it all to stay out of the media. Dad tried to give me ten thousand dollars under the table to speed up the search. As if that works. Wave some money and the girl appears out of a hat.”

“I hope you took it.”

His laugh comes fast. “Listen, have a drink with me later.”

“I can’t.”

“Like hell you can’t. Patterson’s at eight or I’ll come looking for you.”

I feel another spasm of vertigo and I wish I could blink and disappear. Be faraway and invisible. But this is Will. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll be there.” Then he’s striding away toward the assembled team, giving orders as he goes.

—

I climb into my Bronco and start the engine as the team plunges out onto the main trail. I know it by heart, and the tough work that lies ahead for them, too. They’ll be making a grid of each square mile, scanning for disturbed vegetation or shreds of clothing, anything that looks off or out of place. Some of the dogs will be search-and-rescue animals focused on Cameron’s scent from a sweatshirt or pillowcase, something she’s used often. Others will be cadaver dogs, trained to detect traces of human decomposition, a scent picture rising from the soil or hanging on the air.

In a case like this, when someone has simply vanished, the odds—at least at first—are just as likely that they’ll turn up unharmed. It’s possible Cameron has gotten lost in the woods somewhere, or that she’s chosen to run.