“Her momma’s gettin’ out? I had no idea.”

“That’s where she went. To Nashville to see her mother in prison.”

“What?” he asked, sounding shocked. “It took three weeks?”

“The delivery driver gave her a ride to Chattanooga, and one of his friends ran her up to Nashville. I have no idea why it took so long.”

“Why in the hell wouldn’t she tell me?” He didn’t disguise the pain in his voice.

“I don’t know.”

“And why would she tell you, a woman she just met?”

“I don’t know, Max. I told her I was worried about Bingham’s interest in her, and I suspect she told me about her mother to change the subject.” When he remained silent, I said, “I pass the turnoff to her property on the way back to Drum. How about I stop by and make sure she’s okay?”

“Ruth won’t care,” he said, sounding glum, and part of me wanted to tell him that he was technically the boss, not Ruth. As much as I liked her, she could be too judgmental. But then again, I was more like Max—a big softy. We tended to give people the benefit of the doubt, and it often bit us in the ass.

“Nevertheless, I’m going to check on her. I’m worried.”

“Okay,” he said, and I heard the relief in his voice. “Let me know what you find out.”

Hank had been quiet during my call, but when I put my phone back into my purse, he turned to me. “The Baker girl took off again?”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t show for work, but I don’t think she left town.”

“Yer plannin’ to go by her place, ain’t ya? I want to be back in time to see Ellen.”

I rolled my eyes. For being a semi-gruff man in his late sixties, he sure loved his daytime TV. “It won’t take that long. You’ll still be home in time to see Ellen.”

“Well, all right then.”

He fell asleep again on the drive back up the mountain, so he wasn’t paying attention when I turned onto the county road toward Lula’s house.

The narrow drive, snaking through the trees, was still partially covered with snow, and I was worried about driving down it in Hank’s rear-wheel drive car, so I pulled into the gravel entrance and put the car in park. When I started to open the door, Hank roused. “What’s goin’ on? Where are you goin’?”

“I’m at the entrance to the lane to Lula’s house, but I worried that the car might get stuck, and I sure as hell don’t want to call Wyatt Drummond to pull us out.” Not that we’d even be able to call him. Even more incentive to leave the car close to the road.

“You’re gonna hike down that snowy road in those shoes?” he asked, glancing down at my ankle boots.

“I bought a pair of snow boots at Target,” I said. “I’ll wear them.”

He frowned, clearly not approving of this plan, but he didn’t protest.

I got out and popped the trunk, digging the boots out of a bag and pulling hard on the stretchy band that held them together to separate them. Once they broke free, I sat on the edge of the trunk and changed into my new boots.

I gave Hank a wave before I started down the road, but he unrolled the window and said, “Maybe I should come with you.”

That sounded like the worst idea ever, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I said, “If I find anything looks off, I’ll come back, and we’ll get Marco.”

Marco was still on medical leave from his gunshot wounds, but I knew he was up and driving, although I suspected that was against the doctor’s orders. Given the fact that the Hensen County Sheriff’s Department was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, Marco was one of the only deputies I trusted. The other was Marta White, the detective who had handled the investigation of Bitty’s and Carson’s deaths, but I wasn’t sure this warranted a detective yet.

I knew I might be borrowing trouble. Maybe Lula couldn’t get her car started. Or maybe she’d had some kind of accident and was stuck in her house. The latter was a possibility given the fact she lived alone, far from the road, and lacked a phone.

I picked up my pace.

I walked about a hundred feet before the lane ended at a small plot of open land and a run-down house. Lula had called it a shack, and that seemed fitting. It was a one-story structure with aged wood planks for walls, and matching wood shingles for the roof. The roof extended over a porch that ran the length of the front of the house, but the roof sagged on one side and several of the porch floorboards were missing. The whole thing looked like it would fall down with a strong wind.

A small compact, rust-covered car was parked in front of the structure, and the land behind the house dipped slightly toward a narrow babbling brook. I wondered if it was the same creek where Lula’s father had allegedly tried to drown her. It didn’t look deep enough now, but I suspected it contained more water in the spring.

There weren’t any lights on in the house, but then again, I didn’t see any electrical lines. It was no wonder Lula didn’t have a phone. I was fairly sure she didn’t have electricity.

“Lula?” I called out as I approached the house. One thing I’d learned about the people living on Balder Mountain was they took protecting their homes seriously, and their security system of choice was a 12-gauge shotgun. She’d already told me she had one. “Lula, it’s Carly. Are you home?”

When I didn’t hear her answer, I moved closer. “I’m coming up to the front porch.”

The wood planks sagged under my weight, and I gingerly made my way to the front door and knocked. “Lula? Are you in there?”

When she didn’t answer, I knocked a couple more times before trying the doorknob.

Surprisingly, the door was unlocked, so I slowly pushed it in, then took a step inside the dark house. “Lula?”

It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but then I scanned the room, realizing it was literally a one-room house. A bed was in the far corner—a mattress tucked into an old, dilapidated wooden frame. The bed was unmade, the covers thrown back as though Lula had gotten up in a hurry and hadn’t touched the bedding since. A tall chest of drawers was next to it, a still-glowing kerosene lantern on top.

A cookstove was across from the bed, close to the front door. On the wall opposite the bed was a line of cabinets with a porcelain sink equipped with a pump handle. No refrigerator. No dishwasher. Also no bathroom. There was a ladder to a loft in the peak of the roof, and I could see a small bed up there. Had that been Lula’s room when she was a girl? The front of the house had two single-pane windows. There was a window in the kitchen area, facing the creek, and another window in the back wall. Red-and-white checkered fabric was nailed into the wood plank walls above them to serve as makeshift curtains.

The room was warmer than outside but not by much. I could feel some heat radiating from the woodstove and used the sleeve of my coat to open the cast iron door. The interior was filled with glowing embers. Lula had lit a fire, but it looked like it had been hours since she’d added more wood. The few logs on the floor next to the stove suggested it wasn’t because she’d run out of fuel.

“Lula?” I called out even though I knew she wasn’t home. I climbed the ladder partway to the loft, but it was empty except for a twin mattress that sat on the floor, and several boxes.