I sat up and squinted. The burned-out snag I’d seen just before we found the hidden entrance to Mae’s place was visible from this side as well. Mae had sketched that snag in two of her drawings.

I mentally retraced the path we’d taken from the mine. We’d followed the stream heading east, according to the sun, then southeast. The snag was on the highest point west of here. I hadn’t seen it from the mine, but I hadn’t looked around once we started down the trail.

Was that important? Mae drew the things around her—the people she saw, the dogs by the stream, the landscape. The only unusual things were her portraits, revealing two sides of the face.

And the weird drawing of two men. Two men standing on what looked like a cloud with two lines at the bottom.

I frowned. An elusive idea lurked just out of reach.

The sun, which had been pleasantly warm, was now hot. The killer hadn’t returned . . . yet. I needed to move out of the center of Mae’s yard and then find a way out of here.

I’d searched Mae’s house once before, but I was looking for a battery. I’d try it again. Maybe this time some brilliant solution would come to me. I made my slow way over and entered the house.

If anything, it was sadder than the first time I’d looked. I left the door open to air out the smoky smell. Crossing to the built-in bed, I lifted and shook out the covers, raising only a cloud of dust. I felt grubby. Touching her things, with her body lying so close by, gave me the willies. I moved to the orange crate shelves, this time removing everything and placing the items on the table. Mae should have a knife, maybe even a pistol, somewhere.

I should have realized whoever murdered Mae and so carefully destroyed her art wouldn’t leave anything behind. Picking up her Bible, I turned it upside down and flipped through the pages. An old photograph fell out. The image was faded and grainy, but I recognized Mae from the self-portrait. She was much younger, standing under a maple tree. Standing in shadow. I put the photo in my pocket.

One last sweep of the room brought me to the cookstove. It had been warm when I opened it. Someone had a fire in there recently.

Maybe I needed to rethink the idea that the killer had followed me. Maybe he was already here when I arrived. Cleaning up loose ends? Burning art? Making sure that if someone found this place, there would be nothing useful?

But the killer couldn’t be two places at once. He shot out a window last night and opened fire on us as we fled this morning. Everyone had been accounted for in the lodge in both cases.