Dumb luck, but still luck.

The child porn was the only reason Daryl Nesbitt was looking at a prison cell instead of stalking his next victim. There were a lot of bad things that could happen to a pedophile in prison. Grown men didn’t tend to land behind bars because they’d had happy childhoods. There was probably at least one inmate who would be more than willing to take care of the Daryl Nesbitt problem. Barring that, men like Nesbitt tended to find all kinds of ways to keep themselves inside once the walls started to close in around them.

Jeffrey stepped off the sidewalk, pretending like the strained muscles in his back hadn’t balled into a fist. He had finished the cough drop by the time he reached the Grant Medical Center. The parking lot was empty but for the Linton and Daughters Plumbing van. He opened the side door, hoping that Tessa would use the elevator.

This hope was crushed on the fourth step down. Jeffrey heard whistling. He looked over the railing, expecting to see the top of a strawberry blonde head.

Another crushing blow.

Eddie Linton looked up. He was smiling.

And then he saw Jeffrey.

Jeffrey was in no shape to run. Even a fast clip wouldn’t do the job. Sara’s father was remarkably fit for a man who spent most of his working life under a kitchen sink or shimmying through a crawl space.

Eddie stopped on the landing below Jeffrey. His work belt was low on his hips. Between his plumbing business and real estate investments, Eddie was probably one of the wealthier men in town, but he dressed like a homeless person. Torn T-shirts. Ripped jeans. His hair was seldom combed. His eyebrows corkscrewed like fusilli.

Jeffrey broke the ice. “Eddie.”

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest. “How’s the Colton place treating you?”

“Like a man who needs a plumber.”

Eddie grinned. “Get a metal bucket. Plastic absorbs the smell.”

Jeffrey had to admire the synchronicity. “How long is this going to last?”

“How long do you expect to live?”

Eddie was blocking the stairs. Jeffrey was not stupid enough to push past him and he was too proud to walk away.

Eddie said, “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this situation we both find ourselves in.”

Jeffrey figured only one of them was in it by choice.

“My wife told me something profound when Sara was born. You know my wife?”

Jeffrey gave him a look. “I believe she goes to my church.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a pretty smart lady. I remember something she told me when Sara was born. We were in the maternity ward. I was holding this beautiful little red-headed girl in my arms, and my wife—Cathy, that’s her name—told me that I’d better stay on the straight and narrow, because girls tend to marry men who are like their fathers.” He gave a wistful smile. “Right there in that hospital, I vowed to be kind and respectful to my baby girl. To listen to her and trust her and to make it clear that she should only expect the best.”

Jeffrey said, “I know there’s a point in there somewhere.”

“The point is, I wasted my time.” He shrugged. “I should’ve ignored her so she’d know how to deal with men who treat her like shit.”

Eddie grabbed the railing and pulled himself up the stairs. His shoulder bumped Jeffrey’s. The pulled muscle in his back screeched like a howler monkey, but he was not going to give Eddie Linton the satisfaction.

Jeffrey grimaced as he took a step down. Pain gripped his spine. It was nothing compared to how he felt when he saw the closed door to the morgue.

For his coroner duties, Brock used the basement of his family funeral home. Sara had used the hospital morgue. Her name was still etched into the glass from her last stint in the job. The letters read SARA TOLLIVER.

Masking tape covered his last name. LINTON was written over it in black marker.

Jeffrey guessed he could’ve chosen a different woman to cheat on Sara with than the town’s only sign maker.

He picked at the corner of the tape, but his sense of dignity kept him from ripping it away. He cocked his head, listening for sounds on the other side of the door. He wasn’t in the mood to be pounced on by Tessa. He didn’t hear voices. He heard music. Paul Simon.

“50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.”

Sara was playing their song.

Jeffrey straightened his shoulders. He ignored the twitch of protest in his back. He opened the door.

Sara was on her knees, rubber gloves on her hands, blue bandana tied around her head, as she scrubbed the tile floor.

She looked up at Jeffrey over the rim of her glasses. “Did you run into my father?”

“Yeah, he played me the full G?tterd?mmerung.”

She caught herself before she smiled. The scrub brush dropped into the bucket. The gloves came off. She stood up and wiped the grime off her knees. She was in shorts and a paint-spattered T-shirt that had a faded orange and blue Heartsdale High logo on the front.

She asked, “Nesbitt?”

“The DA is holding back on everything but the porn charges. Between us, I can’t blame him. It’s a weak case. Everything is circumstantial, and that’s being generous. We’re looking at a lawsuit over Caterino. Nobody wants to jump unless we know where we’re going to land.”

“You’re certain it’s Nesbitt?”

“Who else would it be?” Jeffrey asked. “Set aside the circumstantial evidence. The killer knows the woods. He knew about the fire road. He was familiar with the campus. He stalked the victims. He stole personal items. He knew their routines. All that points to a man who can easily blend in.”

She said, “All that points to someone who was raised in Grant County.”

“Daryl Nesbitt,” Jeffrey concluded.

Sara allowed, “He attacked two women within half an hour of each other. It says something that no one else has been hurt since he was arrested.”

“I’m hoping that a con with Daddy issues takes him out before he goes to trial.”

Sara frowned. She had the luxury of not believing in vigilante justice. As a cop, Jeffrey had learned that sometimes you had to skate into the gray areas to make sure the wrong people didn’t get hurt. The trick was making sure you didn’t spend your life there.

She asked, “Have you talked to Brock?”

Jeffrey had talked to Brock more times in the last week than he’d talked to any cop on his force. The man wanted to hear. every single detail of the investigations. “I’ve got five voicemails on my phone. He’s pretty upset about the attacks.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Sara said. “He’s floundering without his father. You know how hard it is for Brock to make connections. His family means everything to him.”

Jeffrey felt guilty for brushing off Brock’s calls, which was exactly what Sara had intended. “He’s still got his mother.”

“I’m not sure for how long,” Sara said. “Myrna almost died last year. She was at home by herself and had a bad asthma attack. Brock is the one who found her. It was touch and go for a few weeks. I’ve seen him cry before, but never like that. He was sobbing.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“I only remember the date because the attack on Tommi Humphrey happened while Myrna was in the hospital.” Sara pulled the bandana off her head and shook out her hair. She explained, “Brock asked me to sit with her. His daddy was drunk. Brock was effectively running the business. I stayed with her for a few hours to give him a break. He was so frantic when he came to relieve me. Almost giddy, I guess from lack of sleep and fear. I worried about him the rest of the night. Then I went to work that morning and Sibyl called me about Tommi.”

Jeffrey got the message. “I’ll return Brock’s calls.”

“Thank you.”

Sara picked up the plastic bucket. She asked him, “Did you want to take this home?”

“I’ve been told that metal is better.”

Sara was smiling as she carried the bucket to the sink.

Jeffrey looked around the morgue while she rinsed out the soapy residue. He hadn’t been inside the basement for at least a year. Nothing had changed, but then nothing had changed in almost a century. The hospital had been built in 1930, during one of the county’s boom times. The basement hadn’t been touched since then. The light-blue tiles on the walls were so old that they were coming back into style. The floors were a mixed check pattern of green and tan. The autopsy table was porcelain with cupped sides and a drain at the center. A shallow sink and faucet were at the foot. A scale like you’d find in a grocery store’s produce section hung from the ceiling.

“Jeff?” The faucet was off. Sara was leaning against the counter. “Why are you here?”

“I missed your pretty blue eyes.”

He watched those eyes roll in her head. It was an old joke from their marriage. Sara’s eyes were green.

He said, “I wanted to tell you that I’m glad you’re taking over for Brock. The county needs a medical examiner. Things are changing. Even rural communities are experiencing a spike in violent crime.”