6

Linden Hills, Minneapolis

Salem ran over the words like a mantra as they left the bathroom, kept murmuring them as they entered the elevator, didn’t stop when they laid eyes on Agent Lucan Stone in the lobby.

Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

Stone gestured toward the chocolate velvet couch near the door. “I have some more questions. Do you mind?”

Bel moved toward the sofa.

Salem didn’t.

Are you and your mother close?

Geographically, less than three miles separated Salem’s apartment from her childhood home. Emotionally, she might as well live in China for all the distance between her and her mother. They faked it well—phone calls twice a month and dinner once, erudite conversations on topics that Vida Wiley was passionate about, cards and gifts at all the appropriate holidays. Someone examining the relationship from the outside would have no idea how high the wall was between Salem and her mother, would compliment the two of them on what good friends they appeared to be. It had happened many times.

You two are almost like sisters.

The chasm between appearance and truth left a vacant spot inside Salem, a tunnel from her heart to her mouth where something solid should be.

“Do we have to answer your questions?” Salem gasped, startled that she’d talked back to Agent Stone—she, who’d spent her adult life avoiding conflict, who struggled to look people in the eye, who valued routine and order. And if she slowed down, she’d have to think about that, and about the repercussions, and about that shiny body bag they’d walked by to take the elevator down. So she floated ten feet above her frame, a gray balloon tied tenuously to the wrist of the shivering woman below.

“Are you asking if I can detain you?” If Salem’s question caught Stone off guard, he didn’t show it.

“Yes.” She watched her own feet. She felt him studying her, the whole energy of him trying to get inside her head.

“I can’t keep you here,” he finally said, “but the more information I have, the quicker I can locate your mothers.”

“Salem?”

Salem glanced at her friend. Bel had brushed her hair in the bathroom and wore her smooth police officer expression, but worry and exhaustion lurked just below the surface. Salem felt the same emotions, her brain and body groaning under the weight of Grace and Vida’s disappearance. As heavy as that was, though, it was outweighed by the memory of standing on shore doing nothing, not even yelling, as her dad deliberately drowned himself.

Vida’s instructions in the balsa wood box had been clear:

Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

It was the most authentic communication she’d had with her mother in fourteen years. “I want to leave, Bel. Now.”

Bel’s gaze sharpened. Salem knew she wanted more details on the case, wanted to stay and be the questioner rather than the questioned. In the end, though, she turned to Stone. “We’re going to leave, Agent Stone.”

He drew up his shoulders. Salem thought he was going to argue, convince them to stay. He surprised her by instead reaching into his jacket and pulling out a card, which he handed to Salem. She reached for it.

“It’s a bad idea that you leave,” he said. He didn’t release the card, held firm until she finally glanced up. His deep brown gaze pinned Salem in her spot. She felt it like an electric jolt.

“Vida Wiley is not in her home, and until we hear otherwise, we’re assuming she and Grace Odegaard are together and being held involuntarily.”

The world tipped for Salem. Still, she gripped the card.

“There is a possibility that the person holding them may target you, as well.” He finally let go of the card and turned to Bel. “Both of you.”

Bel nodded sharply. “Understood.”

“Thank you.” Salem slurred the word because her mouth was so dry. She tucked the card in her jeans pocket and walked toward the door, Bel following.

“My number is on there,” Agent Stone called after them. “Call if you need me.”

And you’re going to need me, Salem thought she heard him say, but by then they were out the door, crunching over leaves as brittle as bones.