In three days, he would move out. All that was left to do was tell Skylar. Neither of them wanted to upend the girl’s life. But Hadley needed a new challenge. A new something to consume her life and thoughts.

Poor Skylar. She had been born to a mother who was damaged. A mother who was OCD about so much irrational shit but who was powerless to ease her grip on control. She was a mother who kept secrets and lied because they made her feel safe and in control. A mother who recognized love but was so consumed by guilt she had forgotten what genuine emotion felt like. Maybe if Hadley had made different choices, Skylar would not have suffered.

Hadley slipped out the back door, closing it behind her but not bothering to lock the door. Even if someone broke into the house, Mark would hear it. And he would know what to do, because he always knew how to fix any problem.

He was Mark the Savior. The Fixer. The Jailer.

She stretched out her calves and Achilles tendons before easing out the back gate. She began with a slow and steady jog down the back street illuminated only by the light of a near full moon. Despite her warming up her muscles, the plantar fasciitis in her right heel sent pain bolting up her leg. Experience had taught her that the discomfort would continue for several miles, and when it vanished, she would miss it. She functioned best when she was hurting.

Her muscles groaned and pulled but finally relaxed, coaxed by the warm morning air. She drew in a deep breath. Normally, she ran five miles, but today she was tempted to go farther. Her body craved the activity that released the endorphins. She ran faster.

The image of Marsha’s reconstructed face jostled into her thoughts. Though the sculpture was good, the face had an artificial look, much like a person prettied up for a coffin viewing. Real but not quite.

Each time she thought about Marsha’s skull under the clay and paint, she imagined her sister watching her through the glassy brown eyes. Marsha’s eyes had always been so trusting, because her sister had believed that no matter what, Hadley had her back.

Hadley stared up at the clear night sky and the full moon, remembering the moon had looked very much like this on the night Marsha had left. It had been clear, pure, and white. Almost perfect.

“Do you have to be such a bitch? You’re never happy, are you?” Marsha asked. “Hadley, it’s not my fault.”

Hadley quickened her pace, trying to chase away memories of her sister. “Go away,” she whispered.

Marsha’s voice echoed again in her head. I just wanted to go out and have fun. You should have warned me.

“Shut up!” Hadley said.

Hadley pumped her arms harder. Ahead, a cat screeched, and another howled back. Sweat began to pool between her breasts.

The image of her sister’s face flashed in her mind. The last time she had seen Marsha, her sister had been headed out the back door to meet a date at a club. Hadley could have said something. But she had not. She had remained silent as she’d watched Marsha drive off. It had never occurred to her that Marsha would not come home. She had thought maybe she would get knocked down a peg or two, but she would come home.

I trusted you! Marsha’s voice echoed.

The memory of the bust’s eyes stalked her. “You’re dead. You’re dead. And it’s not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault.” She whispered the involuntary chant over and over as she pounded the pavement.

She tripped on a small pothole and had to take several quick steps to right herself. “Shit,” she muttered as she refocused on the pavement.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

The pain in her leg returned, and she let it lasso her thoughts. She ran for another hour, and when she entered her front door, her calf was on fire. The scent of coffee surprised her, and she wondered if her husband had set the timer on the coffee maker incorrectly again.

She limped up the stairs, not bothering a glance toward Mark. The upstairs was still dark, but she had walked this hallway so many times she knew every creak in the floor, the number of steps from the landing to her bedroom, and the location of all the light switches.

The digital display on her nightstand clock read 4:32 a.m. Good. She still had an hour before the house woke up.

She sat on the end of the bed and reached for her laces. As she ducked her head, she had the sense that someone was in the shadows, lurking, watching.

Hadley rose and walked toward her bedroom door. Her sister’s name on her lips as she stared down the long quiet hallway. Her heart pounded in her chest. She listened but heard only the gurgle of the coffee maker downstairs. No one was there. And yet, something was definitely off.

She returned to her bedroom and readied to close and lock the door. But as she took hold of the knob and pushed it closed, the hair on the back of her neck rose. Her skin prickled. And then came the creak of floorboards only a few feet away.

The sound wasn’t coming from the hallway but from behind her.

Someone was in her room.

The phone woke Nikki McDonald, startling her from a hazy, restless sleep. Her body was still buzzing with too much caffeine, and her mind was crammed with ideas about the Marsha Prince story.

She reached automatically for the first of three cells on her nightstand. Blinking away the sleep, she focused on her phone.

What do you think of my tip?

She sat up so quickly the papers piled on her chest slid to the floor. She had received nothing from the tipster who had contacted her early in the summer through her website. And now, he was texting her.

Heart pounding, she drew in a breath. She gave out this cell number to anyone and everyone. It was the number she used when she worked a story, so no surprise that whoever her mystery person was, they had gotten ahold of it.

Nikki texted back: Who is this? How did you know Marsha Prince was in that storage room? She waited for the text bubbles. “Come on. Don’t leave Mama hanging like that.”

And then the trio of rolling bubbles appeared. I know a lot about Marsha Prince.

Who is this?

The bubbles vanished.

She typed, Reward for more information.

“Come on, come on.” She gripped the phone for minutes, staring, waiting, before realizing whoever had contacted her might not be motivated by money. If coins were not going to do the trick, a few ego strokes might.

No one can tell your story like me.

Silence.

She fell back against the mattress, holding the phone to her chest. Whoever this was, this was contact number two. This mystery source was building up his nerve. He wanted something from her but was not ready to ask.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She dialed her contact in the police department.

“Manny Jackson.”

“Manny, this is Nikki McDonald.”

“Long time no talk.” The rough edges softened as he was likely remembering the multiple rounds of bourbon she had bought him while working the Beltway Bomber story three years ago.

“Been on the move.”

“So I hear.”

She rose and paced, making herself smile. “Hey, Manny, got a favor to ask.”

“You always have a favor to ask.” He sounded more amused than put out.

“Hey, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Your department came off looking like heroes when I covered the bomber.” The cops had been heroes. In cinematic fashion, they had found the bomb and disarmed it so quickly she had almost been disappointed. A little explosion or fire would have made for great footage, plus more airtime for her.