“Mason,” I repeated, doing my best impression of a curious teenager. I let myself hesitate, then said, “Some people were talking at Ree’s this morning.” I averted my gaze, tentative enough to suggest that I knew better than to say what I was about to say. “About the murders of Anna and Todd Kyle…”

“Cassie,” my “aunt” said sharply, reinforcing the idea that I was a kid who’d just crossed a line.

“It was a horrible thing.” Thanes closed his fingers around an old-fashioned bottle marked with a skull. “I never cared for Anna’s father. He married a local girl, but never made much of an effort with folks here in town. His wife died when Anna was six or so, and he raised that little girl alone in his big house on the hill—too good for this town, from day one.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of memories. “Malcolm flat-out ignored the rest of us, but he clashed with Holland Darby and his followers. That never turns out well for anyone in these parts.”

I cast a glance at Agent Sterling, as if I were debating whether or not it was worth the risk to stop biting my tongue. “Anna and Todd Kyle were murdered. And their son…Mason…”

The old man stared at me for a moment. “My wife and I couldn’t have children. It seemed like the Christian thing to do. And Mason…” Thanes closed his eyes. “Mason was a good boy.”

Based on the way this conversation had unfolded, I could see two possible versions of Walter Thanes. One was an old man who’d tried to do his best by a damaged boy who’d thanked him by taking off as soon as he was old enough to shake the Gaither dust off his feet. The other was an incredible actor, one whose grief had less to do with the boy who’d left town and more to do with the man Mason Kyle had become.

Nightshade had failed the Masters.

Nightshade had gotten caught.

Nightshade had become a liability.

The sound of a bell tore me from my thoughts as the front door to the museum opened. Instinctively, I turned away, busying myself with another shelf of relics.

“Walter.” The voice that greeted Thanes was smooth and pleasantly pitched. Non-confrontational.

“Darby.” Thanes offered little more than a clipped greeting in return. “Can I help you with something?”

Darby, I thought, suddenly glad that I’d turned away. As in Holland Darby?

“I understand Shane had a run-in with my father.” Those calmly spoken words filled in the blanks. The speaker wasn’t the older Darby. It was—apparently—his son. “I was hoping to have a word with the boy.”

“I’m sure Shane would be grateful for your concern, doctor,” Thanes said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. “But I gave him the afternoon off, told him to get his act together before he comes back here.”

The response from Darby’s son was measured. “I would hate to see Shane prosecuted for assault. And we both know that my father is capable of baiting him into a confrontation and then pressing charges.”

There was another long silence, and then Walter Thanes abruptly changed the subject. “These folks were asking questions about Mason, about what happened to Anna and Todd Kyle. Maybe I’m not the one they should be asking.”

I remembered what Marcela Waite had said about Mason Kyle running around with the children of “those people.”

You were friends with Mason Kyle. My brain went full speed as I turned to get a better look at the man. Agent Sterling stepped forward, drawing his attention before his gaze could land on me.

This Darby had his father’s dark hair, but thicker and without any trace of gray. His eyes were a light, nearly see-through blue. I put him somewhere in the neighborhood of his early forties, none of which explained the way my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands the second I saw him.

A heavy weight settled in the pit of my stomach. My mouth went dry, and suddenly I wasn’t standing in the museum. I was hanging on to a rope swing, watching as a younger version of the same man laughed and swung my mom up onto the porch railing.

She was laughing, too.

I came out of the memory in time to register the man’s introduction. “Kane Darby,” he said, holding out a hand to Agent Sterling. “I’m a local physician, and as you’ve probably gathered, my father is not beloved in these parts.”

Kane. My brain latched on to the name. I heard my mom saying it. I saw her standing in the moonlight, her hand woven through his.

“You were asking about Mason Kyle?” Kane continued, so even and calm that I knew he had a natural bedside manner. “We were childhood playmates, though we had little contact after his parents’ murder.”

I should have looked at Lia for some indication of whether or not Kane Darby was telling the truth. I should have thrown myself into profiling the man.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Feeling like the walls were closing in, I pushed past Lia, past Michael, past Dean, the world blurring until I made it out the door.

My mother had never been the type of woman to fall head over heels. She’d gotten involved with my father when she was a teenager, longing to escape her abusive father’s household. But when she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d run, not just from her father, but also from mine.

All I could think, as Dean followed me outside—Lia, Michael, and Sloane on his heels—was that Kane Darby had held my mother’s hand. He’d danced with her in the moonlight.

He’d made her smile.

Your mama always did have an eye for good-looking men. Ree’s words echoed in my head. Then again, she also had an eye for trouble.

I tried to remember something, anything else about my mother’s relationship with the cult leader’s son, but came up empty. My time in Gaither was a black hole.

Viewing that memory loss with a profiler’s eye, I asked the obvious question. What is my subconscious trying so hard to forget?

I crossed the street. Vaguely, I was aware that the others stuck close to me, that Agent Starmans had reappeared and was trailing a discreet distance behind us.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that Kane Darby has daddy issues.” Michael did me the favor of not commenting on my emotions. “The good doctor really was as calm as he seemed—right up until the point where he mentioned his father.”

“What about Mason Kyle?” I asked. “What did Kane Darby feel when he heard Nightshade’s name?”