He sipped his coffee while her eyes sharpened. “What’s your point?” he countered. “Why do you care so much about those attacks?”

“When a woman is raped, then has the forethought to save her attacker’s DNA and call the cops, it damn well better be tested.”

He shook his head. “You make it sound like we didn’t try to solve these cases. We talked to dozens of men. We had a couple of suspects that we leaned on hard, especially after Rebecca Kennedy was nearly strangled to death.”

“Who were the suspects in her case?”

“Her ex-boyfriend, Paul Decker, for one.”

“Paul Decker of the Dream Team?”

“That’s right. They were a volatile couple. Fought like cats and dogs when they dated in high school.”

“You remember them fighting fifteen years ago?” Macy asked.

“Sure. I worked every Friday night football game. Those two were constantly at each other’s throats. I even broke up one fight behind the bleachers, and they both had their share of cuts and bruises. Both swore it was nothing. And they kept on seeing each other. It was crazy.”

“Were they seeing each other around the time of her attack?” Macy asked.

“They were,” Greene said.

“Paul Decker was arrested five years ago,” Nevada said. “His DNA would be in CODIS, and our offender’s is not.”

Greene shifted his gaze to Nevada. “The DNA test results are back on those cases?” he asked.

“They are,” Macy said. “Of the eight cases we sent off, three were committed by the same offender.”

“What?” Greene asked.

“That’s right. You had a serial rapist in your own backyard.”

Greene’s brow furrowed. “There was a greenkeeper at the school,” he said. “He was picked up. More than a handful said he liked to watch the young girls a little too closely. The man’s name was Dave Potter, and he knew two of the three rape victims. But he ended up having an alibi for the first attack.”

“Did you do a buccal squab?” Macy asked. Buccal meant mouth or cheek, and the test entailed using a Q-tip to swab the offender’s cheek to collect DNA.

“No.”

“Where is Mr. Potter now?” Macy pressed.

“He passed away a couple of years ago.”

“Does he have family in the area?” Macy asked. “Anyone we could talk to?”

“I can find a name for you.”

“Sooner would be best,” Macy said.

“You said those rapes were connected to Tobi Turner?” Greene asked. “How?”

“We found DNA on her backpack. That DNA matched our serial rapist.”

“What?” Greene’s face paled, and some of the swagger left his shoulders.

She didn’t speak as she sipped her coffee. She hesitated because she wanted the full weight of her information to sink in. “We’ve not made that information public yet.”

“Sure. I won’t say anything,” Greene said with a more measured tone.

He appeared thrown off, but she didn’t care. “When I was doing background on the murders, I read about another girl who vanished about that time. Cindy Shaw?”

“She didn’t vanish,” Greene said. “She ran away.”

“Where did she go?” Macy asked.

“She said to anyone who would listen she wanted to go to California, but I never knew for sure.”

Jenna Montgomery had said Colorado. “Did it ever occur to you that someone killed her?” Macy asked.

“No. That girl could take care of herself just fine.” He shrugged, his smile sly. “If you want to know more about Cindy, talk to her brother.”

“I’ll do that.” She held up her cup. “Thank you for the coffee.”

Greene looked up, holding her gaze. “I might have made mistakes with those test kits, but I busted my ass looking for the person who hurt those three girls. And we turned this valley upside down looking for Tobi.”

Macy had worked enough cases to know when she needed to ease up. She might not like Greene or his methods, but until this case was closed, she might need him. “I’m only in town for five days, Mr. Greene, but you’ll be seeing more of me.”

“Stop by anytime. I’ll help in any way I can.”

Neither Nevada nor Macy spoke as they left the house. Only when they were seated in the front seat of his vehicle did he ask, “What’s your assessment?”

She clicked her seat belt in place. “Maybe we should test his DNA and compare it to our offender.”

“Greene? Jesus, Macy, that’s kicking the hornet’s nest.”

She shrugged. “If he didn’t do it, he has a good idea who did. During my research on the town, I saw that the county named the school gymnasium after him. That tells me he did more than show up at the games and keep the peace. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was protecting one of the players.”

When Nevada dropped Macy off at the police station, it was nearly ten and she was exhausted. Her leg ached as she got into her car, but she was damn careful to make sure Nevada didn’t see her discomfort. She drove to the motel close to the highway where she’d reserved a room for five nights. As she pulled up in front of the motel’s office, she realized the establishment didn’t quite live up to its website.

Macy pushed through the door and approached the front desk. She set her purse on the counter and dug out her wallet and ID. “A room for Crow.”

The receptionist studied her and then typed her name into the computer. “Five nights?”

“Correct.”

“Sign here,” he said.

She filled in the registration card.

“You must be the FBI agent,” he said, putting the set of keys on the counter. “You look like a fed.”

She scooped up the keys. “Somehow I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

“You here to find Tobi Turner’s killer?”

“Not really at liberty to discuss my cases.”

She grabbed her purse and left the office. She drove around the side of the two-story building and parked in front of room 107. Grabbing her roller bag, she walked fifteen feet to her room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The scent of pine cleaner nearly overpowered the faint aroma of cigarette smoke.

She locked the door behind her, secured the chain, and closed the thick vinyl curtains. She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over a chair by a small round table. Running her hand over her hair, she rolled her neck from side to side as she surveyed the room.

How many places like this had she stayed at while with the bureau? She guessed there was an unused Bible in the nightstand, four white towels in the bathroom, paper-thin toilet paper on the roller, and an ice bucket she doubted had been really washed in years.

She sat on the edge of the bed and with a groan leaned over and unlaced her boots before she kicked them off. She rose and pulled the comforter and sheets back before she lay down. In her early days, she’d carried a blue light that detected the presence of human fluids. Bottom line, she kept her socks on, didn’t use the comforter, and carried a fresh supply of wipes in her suitcase for cleaning the channel selector and the phone’s receiver.

She removed her gun from its holster and placed it on the pillow next to her right and dominant hand. As she lay back, a sigh escaped her lips. The good thing about being dog-ass tired was she didn’t worry about channel selectors, ice buckets, or counting sheep. Her body throbbed as she melted into the soft mattress. Her eyes drifted closed.

The day’s events replayed slowly in her mind, but the image that kept returning was Mike Nevada standing at the entrance to the Wyatt barn. Nevada and Ramsey respected each other, and as the new sheriff he needed this case solved. He basically was Ramsey’s eyes and ears on this one.

What surprised her was Nevada looking pretty at ease. The Nevada she knew was a hard-charging agent. She always figured him as a lifer being forced out at the mandatory retirement age.

What the hell had changed for him?

The question turned over in her mind slower and slower as her grip on consciousness loosened until finally she tumbled into darkness. She didn’t fight it. Sleep would recharge her brain and body, and she’d be sharper in the morning. Just a few hours of sleep and then she’d be up early.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The sound was distant and easily dismissed at first.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The sound grew louder. More insistent. Instinct had her fumbling for her weapon as she heard a woman’s faint whisper.

“Help me. Find me.”

As her fingers groped the cool sheets and then the rough texture of her weapon’s grip, a heavy weight pressed on her body, pinning her to the bed. Her heart raced faster.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“Who are you?” Macy asked.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Silence settled and the sounds faded.

“Who are you?” An anxious energy rolled over her.

And then, very quietly, “Please find me.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Please find me.”

Macy sat up in her bed. Her shirt was soaked in sweat, and her heart pounded against her chest like a battering ram. She looked around the room and saw her weapon lying on the pillow where she had left it. The room was bathed in shadows. She was alone. Still, she listened and waited. What the hell?

“I’m losing my damn mind.”

CHAPTER TWELVE