Bram finished up at the arson scene and performed the welfare check before heading to the sheriff’s department in St. Anthony. The route took him from the high mountains of the Caribou-Targhee National Forest to eastern Idaho’s rolling fields and grazing land. The town perched on the Henrys Fork of the Snake River with a population around 3,500. The farming community held both sinners and saints, with thirteen churches juxtaposed against the largest state-run juvenile correctional facility and a correctional work center. Over 65 percent of the town’s population was Mormon.

He never told anyone he’d moved to St. Anthony and later taken a job there to be near his brother, incarcerated at the prison work camp. He thought he’d help his wayward sibling by staying close by. His plan was derailed when his brother committed suicide shortly after his release. His grandmother’s voice rang in his ears every time he thought of his brother. Don’t be like your worthless mother or brother, Bram. It’s up to you. Choose the right road. Make sure you do something perfectly or don’t bother . . .

A copy of the arsonist’s latest taunting note was in a plastic sleeve on his immaculate desk. He pulled the case file and added the note to the others. No fingerprints so far, according to the chief. DNA would take a great deal longer to process.

After entering his reports on the welfare check and barn fire, including the fire marshal’s comments, he flipped through his phone messages. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Returning to the fire marshal’s comments, he thought for a moment, then typed some notes to himself.

• Arson for insurance? Different families but maybe for hire? How contact?
• Arson for a cause? No claim, and letters would reflect this.
• Criminal cover-up? No evidence.
• Impaired judgment? Too controlled a scene.
• Anger or vengeance? Against whom?

Early in the investigation, the sheriff had asked an FBI profiler for help. The profile hadn’t added much to what they already knew. He said the criminal was likely a white male twenty-five to thirty-five years old who had a low-paying job or was not employed. Ninety percent of Idaho was white, and the median age was thirty-five. Everyone had low-paying jobs.

Bram returned to the notes from the arsonist and reread them, even though he knew them by heart. Could the content of the letters be useful? The words themselves? The Unabomber had been identified by his manifesto. And Roy had said Darby’s job had something to do with language and deception.

Or maybe Bram was just devising some way to see her again.

Sheriff Turner wouldn’t let him head back out to Mule Shoe unless he could convince her Darby might prove useful to the arson case.

He’d start with her name, job title, and work. He typed in what he knew about her.

The results were immediate. No Darby Graham lived in Washington state.