“Possible or probable?”

“Possible,” she said as her phone beeped. She pulled it from her jacket pocket.

“Pretty damned convenient, if you ask me.” He reversed out of the parking space, then wheeled through the lot. Snow was still falling steadily, and he flipped on his wipers as he reached the first intersection. “I’m not buying it.”

“Head trauma. Concussion.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They were passing by the storefronts at the center of town, hundred-year-old buildings tucked tightly together, most with Western façades and awnings, pedestrians bundled in thick jackets with hoods or warm stocking caps as they hurried from one shop to the other. Mendoza was buried in her cell phone, answering a text, but said, “It happens.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t. The doc does.” A pause. Then, “You really want to do this?” She looked up from the small screen.

“Uh-huh.” He felt as if he was spinning his wheels. Already stuck, with no new answers, and even though he’d been to the hospital twice, he hadn’t had a chance to interview Cahill. Each time, he’d been asleep, and the doc in charge didn’t want the patient disturbed.

Fuck that.

“It’s your show.”

“Case,” he reminded her. “My case.”

“Whatever.” She sounded bored, but she slid him a quick sideways glance, and he knew she was needling him. A little nervy for a newbie. But it helped lighten things up.

Besides, he wasn’t exactly a senior with the department himself, he thought as the town stretched out, tightly packed storefronts morphing into strip malls, gas stations, and parking lots. He’d spent years with the San Francisco PD before a change in leadership coincided with his divorce, and he’d decided to chuck it all, move anywhere out of state, far from the bustle of the city and a clog of humanity.

He’d envisioned this middle-of-nowhere county in western Washington as just the spot to land, far from Astrid and her new husband, away from the noise, headaches, and crowds of an overpopulated city.

He thought he’d left serious crime behind him.

But, hey, guess what? People are people, and now he was staring at a missing person, possible kidnapping, and potential homicide all rolled into one case.

Centering around James Cahill. Mr. No Memory.

Forever sleeping and probably in a haze of drugs anyway.

Rivers glowered through the icy windshield of his Jeep as the remnants of town gave way to a few houses bordering the river whose snowy banks lay white against the dark, fast-moving water, the bridge spanning its chasm icy with the cold. On the far side, all evidence of the town disappeared, the landscape a white blanket over acres of farmland rimmed by stands of evergreens and broken into sections by fences. A few farmhouses were visible, long lanes plowed, lights in windows against the gray day, eaves mustachioed with ice and snow.