But the woman hadn’t been in the car, nor the trunk, nor the house. No body of Megan Travers. Or anyone else. Yet someone had driven the car to the cabin, and the keys to the car, and presumably her apartment, had been left in the Toyota’s ignition. They were still puzzling it all out when, along with another couple of deputies, the tow truck had arrived, the driver managing to back the huge rig with its flashing amber lights over the narrow bridge and between the trees to park in front of the garage where the Corolla had been stashed.

“No clothes,” Mendoza remarked. “Nor any kind of overnight bag—no makeup kit or bag for prescriptions.” She frowned as she shone the beam of her flashlight over the car’s interior. “I get that she was angry and left in a huff, but she had the presence of mind to bring her laptop and iPad and phone with her.”

“Maybe they were already there, in the car.”

“But she knew she was leaving. She wrote the note at her apartment and didn’t return, right?”

“Yeah. She got off work, went home, changed, and then drove out to Cahill’s house, got into it with him; things got physical and she took off, nearly hitting the snowplow and driving like a bat through town, calling her sister and . . . then what? She didn’t just drive here.”

“Not unless it was some kind of disappearing act on her part, which I doubt.”

“Agreed.”

“So she either planned to meet someone here, or got a call and came here because of that call, or was forced to drive here.”

“And then what?” Rivers said just as he caught a glimpse of a new set of headlights, beams reflecting on the snow as a white Range Rover came into view, growling across the bridge spanning the creek. As Rivers watched, the SUV stopped to one side of the series of ruts created by the other vehicles. The driver’s door swung open, and a beefy man no more than five feet, eight inches tall swung out, slamming his door shut.

“Harold Sinclaire,” Rivers told Mendoza.

“What the hell is this all about?” Sinclaire demanded, his eyes wide, his face flushed. He was dressed from head to toe in red and black snow gear, a matching knit cap pulled down over his ears, all adding to the image of a spark plug. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Megan Travers’s car is here?”

Rivers nodded. “In the garage. We’re going to tow it back to the department’s garage.”

“But why?” Harold asked, astounded, his eyes round. “I mean why would she end up here . . . or her car end up here? What the eff is this all about?”

“That’s what we were hoping you could help us with.”

“I have absolutely no idea.” He turned his gloved hands palm up to show his state of confusion.