“You’re trying to make this murder into a social issue, when it’s not,” announced a white-haired man Madison didn’t recognize. “I’ve also never seen any racism in this town. What we’ve got is a psycho killer on the loose, and I’ll be sleeping with Betsy on my nightstand until they catch him. Betsy will put a hole in anyone who tries to break into my house.”

Several heads nodded in agreement.

Harlan grimaced.

“Did you know that Oregon was the only state that began as whites only?” Agent McLane’s voice was low but clear and carried through the room. “The original state constitution excluded all nonwhites from living here.” Heads swiveled in her direction, and questioning looks were exchanged as people tried to place her.

“That was over a hundred and fifty years ago,” someone answered.

“It was,” agreed Ava. “And just a few years ago, recruiting flyers were spread in southern Oregon asking people to join an organization that descended directly from the KKK. Its name is different now; its purpose is not.”

“Flyers are free speech,” argued a man a few feet from Ava. “That’s protected.”

“You’re correct, they are,” agreed Ava. “I’m not challenging the right to hand out flyers. The 1920s were a very active decade for the KKK in Oregon, but most residents would agree that it has fizzled out. No one has seen a white hood around here for decades, right?”

Nods answered her.

“The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation. Did you know the KKK was very active in Portland as recently as the 1980s? Someone even called Portland the skinhead capital of the US back then. We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.”

The agent clearly knew what she was talking about and had presented it tactfully, but scowls on several faces indicated they didn’t appreciate a lecture from an outsider. Many people in the pews studied the agent in confusion. Curious glances to neighbors were met by shrugs. No one knew who she was.

“Uh, thank you . . . Miss . . . ?” Harlan asked.

“Special Agent McLane,” she said solemnly. “I’m part of the FBI presence looking at whether or not the Fitch murders are a hate crime.”

The room erupted again.

Madison blinked. She’d assumed the FBI was present simply because the sheriff needed help investigating the two deaths. This was the first mention of a hate crime.

Am I dense?

“What the hell?” Her uncle shook his head, scowling.

The realization made her head swim. Sean and Lindsay might have been killed because of the color of Sean’s skin. The FBI’s presence indicated Leann Windfield’s theory could be right.

A long-forgotten memory poked at Madison’s brain again, wanting to come out.

“Is it true Nate Copeland was also murdered this morning?” someone shouted. “Was he murdered because he was the first deputy that saw the Fitch murder scene? He’s not black.”

Shock hit Madison, and she saw Leann straighten, surprise on her face.

Someone else has been killed?

“Holy shit,” her uncle said under his breath. “Another murder?”

All eyes went to Agent McLane. She said nothing but held up a hand until the loud conversations stopped. “I can’t comment on Deputy Copeland’s death, but the Clatsop County sheriff has the full support of the FBI in their investigation.”

In other words, they’re paying attention because it’s related to the Fitch murders.

Agent McLane set a hand on Emily’s shoulder and spoke rapidly to her. Madison’s gaze locked on her sister’s face. Emily was completely pale, her eyes wide, clearly alarmed by the news of Copeland’s death.

The reason for Emily’s fear struck Madison, and her heart skipped a beat.

Emily was there too.

Did Copeland see something at that murder scene that got him killed?

“Who’s the guy with the sheriff?” Rod mumbled beside her.

Sheriff Greer had stepped through the sanctuary door with Agent Zander Wells right behind him. Greer raised a hand in greeting to the townspeople while Wells swiftly took in the crowd, his gaze darting from face to face. He stopped when his eyes landed on Emily, ten feet to his right.

Relief and something else flashed on his face, and a ripple went through Madison’s female instincts.

The agent is attracted to Emily.

She set aside the observation to mull over later.

Emily and Agent McLane hadn’t seen the two men enter. Sheriff Greer worked his way around the pews toward the front of the room, stopping to shake an occasional hand or slap someone on the back. Ava finally noticed him and immediately turned to check the door. Spotting Agent Wells, she gestured for him to join them.

He took a place on Emily’s other side and joined their conversation.

Now that’s a conversation I’d like to hear.

She watched her sister listen intently to the agents. She’s upset and trying not to show it.

Madison was suddenly swamped by an image of a handful of odd coins. The fascination and curiosity she’d felt about them as a child swirled in her mind. She felt them in her hands, the cool, round surfaces, and she wondered what had triggered the memory.

What coins?

16

“Any updates on Nate Copeland’s death?” Ava asked softly as Zander joined them in the crowded sanctuary.

Surprised she’d asked in front of Emily Mills, Zander simply shook his head. “We’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Like whether he was murdered or not?” Emily’s question was delivered with her usual bluntness, but Zander noted her pallor. Her pupils were large in the bright light of the church, and her hands were clasped tightly together—to the point of white knuckles.

Ava caught his eye. “The autopsy will give us answers,” she said, her low voice quieter than usual.

“Do you need to tell the other deputies that were at the Fitch house to watch their backs?” Emily asked. She didn’t look at either one of them, her focus straight ahead. Still candid, but lacking her usual spirit.

Zander exchanged another glance with Ava. “We’re not at that point.”

“I see.”

“Can I have everybody’s attention?” Sheriff Greer had made it to the microphone. A sweating bald man darted away from the podium, relief apparent on his face.

Another man stood up near the front of the sanctuary. “What’s going on, Sheriff? How come no one’s giving us any answers?” Many heads nodded.

“I just got here,” Greer said. “Can I talk before you accuse me of not talking?”

The questioner folded his arms across his chest. “We’re listening.”

“Thank you.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “I know you’re all concerned about the deaths of the Fitches.”

“Damn right!” came a shout.

“Be quiet!”

“Let the man talk!”

“What we’re concerned about is our safety,” said the first man. “We all hate what happened, but the natural reaction is to worry about our own families. Are we safe?”

The air grew still as the audience waited for the sheriff’s answer.

Zander didn’t envy Greer.

The sheriff studied the audience, many of whom were leaning forward in anticipation, hoping to hear him say everything was okay.

Greer took a deep breath. “I’m not going to pretend everything will be fine. We don’t know who killed the Fitches, and we don’t know why.” His face softened. “I can’t stand here and honestly tell you nothing else is going to happen. I can’t predict the future.”

The brief stunned silence was disrupted by voices. Just about everyone’s voices. Some people stood and worked their way past the others in the pews, their children’s hands clenched in their own. Several streamed past Zander, fear and anger in their eyes, bits of their conversations reaching his ears.

“—going to Grandma’s in Portland.”

“—out of my gun safe tonight.”

“—dogs go bonkers if they hear someone outside.”

Beside him Emily tensed as people passed, many of them stopping to pat her hand or say a brief word about Lindsay.

“Folks!” The sheriff knew he’d lost the crowd. “Any more questions?” He was ignored as more people stood and left. A few gathered at the podium, peppering Greer with questions. Others met in small groups, their heads together as they spoke, occasionally casting suspicious looks at him and Ava or the sheriff.

“Fuck.” Ava was succinct. “This accomplished nothing except to rile up everyone.”

“What do you expect when they’ve been told that they could be the next murder victim?” snapped Emily.

“That’s not what—”

“I know that’s not what the sheriff said,” Emily stated. “But that’s what they heard.”

Zander couldn’t argue with Emily’s logic. Her color was better. Anger had replaced the earlier anxiety.

He liked her better this way.