Rachel Parkerson leaned forward between the two seats and pointed through the windshield. “There,” she said. “There’s the lake.”
Stevens followed her gaze past the T-intersection and into the gloom. The sun had set fully on the ride out to the lake, and he could see nothing but blackness beyond a few modest cabins down a slight slope a hundred feet distant. “Guess I’ll take your word for it,” he said.
“It’s there,” she said. “Lake Norman—or part of it, anyway. This is where Michael took us, right here.” She pointed through the windshield again. “Guess his daddy owned that plot of land there.”
“So his lake house should be somewhere around here.”
Rachel shrugged. “If you say so.”
Stevens glanced at Windermere in the driver’s seat. Then he ducked low and looked in his side mirror. Behind the rental Camry, a convoy of law enforcement sat waiting in their cruisers and SUVs and unmarked sedans, ready to hunt down Michael Parkerson, wherever he was. Stevens studied the long row of headlights for a moment. Then he straightened. Surveyed the intersection, the cabins and trees beyond. “Okay,” he said, “let’s start looking.”