Harper spent the night on the sofa with the baseball bat at her elbow, the scanner quietly humming. She slept shallowly—her fitful dreams filled with Luke, Naomi Scott, and danger.
She woke before the sun came up, but she didn’t get up. Instead she lay in the dark thinking, with Zuzu at her side.
By the time dawn stretched long fingers of light across the polished oak floor, she’d made up her mind.
There was someone else she needed to talk to. Someone who might be able to help.
First, though, she needed to take care of the car.
She left the house before eight, giving the Camaro a quick search in case anyone had left more packages inside.
Satisfied it was unmolested, she drove straight to Madsen’s Motors on Veterans.
Howie Madsen had worked on her car since she bought it four years ago. He always cut her a good deal, and he knew Camaros.
This time, in addition to changing the locks, he also conducted a thorough search for tracking devices.
“Why’re you worried about trackers, Harper?” he asked when he’d rolled himself out from under the Camaro on a wheeled backboard, looking up at her as he wiped oil from his hands with a stained red cloth. “You pissed someone off?”
“That about sums it up.” She sat on a dirty plastic chair near the open garage door holding a large cup of coffee she’d acquired from the doughnut shop next door.
The warm air smelled powerfully of engine grease—a sugary scent she was surprised to find she sort of liked.
“Well, there ain’t nothin’ there at the moment.” Howie stood up and kicked the board away. “Keep an eye out, though. It’s awful damn easy to fit one of them things without anyone noticing.”
A short while later, with the locks changed, she was driving west down Highway 280, with the sun at her back.
She’d been down this road four times over the last year—never once had she told a soul. This was her thing, and she intended to keep it that way.
It was an easy drive—the road was so straight and flat you could fire a bullet at one end of it and hit the markings right down the middle a hundred yards away. She drove fast through the lush Georgia countryside.
She used the time in the car to come up with all the questions she wanted to ask. She needed to focus the conversation from the start—there wasn’t much time. She had to be at work by four o’clock.
She was still thinking it through when the cold white walls of Reidsville State Penitentiary rose up in the distance, surrounded by acres of glittering razor wire.
It was a chain-metal fortress, bristling with weaponry. Watchtowers marked each corner of the fence line. Sniper guns followed the car as it rolled up to the huge gate.
Harper stopped where the road markings told her to and waited as a guard approached her, a .45-caliber handgun on his hip.
When she lowered her window she saw herself reflected in his aviator sunglasses.
“Kill your engine,” he ordered, in a tone that managed to be bored and tense at the same time.
Harper turned the Camaro off and put her hands on the wheel, where he could see them.
“How can I help you today?” he asked, leaning in to see her scanner on its holder on the dash, and then turning to see the backseat, where Harper had thrown her laptop and notebook.
“I’m Harper McClain. I should be on your visitors’ list for one o’clock,” she said.
Stepping back, the guard pulled a paper from his pocket and ran his finger down it—his expression told her instantly that she wasn’t on it.
“I was a late addition,” she explained before he could ask. “They only added me this morning.”
His expression didn’t change as he folded the paper away and clicked the button on the microphone at his shoulder.
“Got a McClain, Harper, at gate four. Says she’s on the list but she ain’t on mine.”
He waited, head cocked expectantly, one hand hanging loose near his sidearm. A long minute passed as someone in an unseen office did some digging.
It was so quiet out here. A crow cawed in the distance, and Harper heard it like it was sitting on her car. Every sound seemed amplified in the stillness—the tick of the car’s cooling engine, the long, low rustle of wind across grass.
She heard very clearly when a curt female voice responded over his radio. “McClain is approved for visit at thirteen hundred hours.”
The guard raised an arm at someone in the distance. A moment later, the massive metal gates behind him shuddered before rattling open, revealing the gray prison world on the other side.
“You have a good day, now.” The guard stepped back, mirrored sunglasses looking past her.
Driving into the prison grounds gave Harper instant claustrophobia.
She had to focus on not looking anywhere except straight ahead to steady her racing heart and calm her sudden, panicked desire to flee.
The visitors’ lot was nearly full. The only space she could find required her to squeeze the Camaro in between an SUV and a mud-caked pickup truck with a Confederate flag and an empty gun rack in the rear window.
A sign at the edge of the lot warned visitors to remove all valuable possessions from view.
Ironically, prison parking lots are not that safe.
She put her laptop, scanner, and phone in the trunk before heading across the sunbaked concrete to a thick metal door marked VISITORS.
Inside was a small, dank room where the air-conditioning seemed to serve mostly to make the air so damp drops of condensation formed on the concrete walls. At a table near the door, she put her keys in a plastic tray, which was shoved onto a shelf by a sullen guard who didn’t look at her once.
From there, she lined up behind a raucous family who, apparently unconcerned by the setting, chattered with one another and the guards.
The two guards—a tall, emaciated young man, and a woman half his height, whose wiry, dark hair was scraped back into the tightest of knots—let the kids play with their metal-detecting wands as they waited.
“And you’re six now?” the female guard asked a small, round-faced boy, who nodded seriously while scanning the top of his own head.
“Six and four weeks,” he said, as if this were an incalculably large amount of time to be alive.
“Still obeying the law?” she asked.
The boy nodded hard.
A curly-haired baby smiled and waved a fat fist at Harper as his mother carried him through a metal detector, chiding and cajoling her other children out into the hallway.
After they’d gone, the room felt empty.
The two guards seemed to feel the same hollowness. They both stared silently at the top of the portal as she walked through until the light above her head turned green.
The thin man pointed down the corridor behind him, where Harper could see the noisy family making slow progress.
“Follow them,” he said. “They’ll get there sooner or later.”
She didn’t tell him she already knew the way.
She could hear the visiting room long before she reached it—the tense, excitable rumble of conversation from people who had only an hour to get through a month’s news and complaints.
The room was the size of a high school dining room, with high ceilings. The few windows were covered with a web of metal. Most of the light came from fluorescent strips overhead.
“Name?” asked the guard by the door. He wore the same pale blue uniform as the rest of the guards. Mace and a high-caliber pistol hung at his hip.
“McClain,” she said.
He ran his finger down the M’s, and made a mark when he found her.
“Table fifteen,” he said. “We’ll send him out.”
Harper walked to where he indicated, and sat on a bench that was bolted to the floor in front of a scarred wooden table, with the number fifteen painted on top.
As she waited, she looked around at prisoners in their white jumpsuits with DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS written on the back, and their families—some smiling, some somber.
The noisy family had settled at a table across the room. The woman held both the baby and the six-year-old on her lap somehow, with two other children perched on either side of her. They faced a man about the woman’s age. He wore a white jumpsuit, and had the same wide smile as the little boy.
The children, who had been so boisterous outside, were much quieter here.
It was impossible to know from looking at him what the man had done to get himself put in here. Reidsville was a maximum-security prison—it held a lot of murderers. This man didn’t look like a killer.
But then, as she had learned, most killers don’t.
The door at the end of the room opened, and Robert Smith shuffled in, with a guard at his elbow. Smith’s hands were cuffed to chains in front of him, which were connected to chains around his ankles. With him shackled in this way, his every step jangled as he crossed the room toward her, a frown already clouding his face.
Watching him, Harper’s heart twisted. Smith had been her mentor. She’d once loved him more than her own father. Then she’d learned the truth about him.
On so many levels he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. But she never stopped missing him.
He was a big man, with a craggy, lived-in face. His nose showed where it had been broken when he was young. He looked grayer every time she saw him, but also more muscular. There was nothing to do, he’d told her on a previous visit, except exercise and read.
The guard unlocked the cuffs from his wrists, leaving the ankle chains in place, and directed him to the chair across from Harper.
“No touching, no sharing of property,” the guard intoned. “You have an hour. Enjoy your visit.”
When he’d gone, the two of them studied each other across the solid expanse of the table.
“How are you, Lieutenant?” Harper asked.
“Oh, I’m as well as I can be.” Smith’s tone was steady but his piercing brown eyes were watchful. “A little surprised to see you. Normally you let me know you’re coming. What’s happening? Pat and my boys okay?”
“They’re fine,” she assured him. “This isn’t about them.”
Smith’s record for cracking crimes was unbeaten. In fact, one of the few murders he’d failed to solve was the murder of Harper’s mother. Which was how they’d first met, when she was twelve years old.
That day, she’d found her mother’s body, cold, in a puddle of blood on her kitchen floor.
Smith and his wife had taken her under their wing. As the years passed, they’d continued to include her in their lives, even after she became a crime reporter.
Until last year. That was when Harper investigated a murder case that ultimately led to Smith. When the truth came out, he was sentenced to life in prison.
The case fractured her relationship with Smith’s family, whom she saw only occasionally now.
But Harper’s mother’s murder was still unsolved, and Smith knew more about that case than anyone. She needed him.
Every few months, she came out to the prison to talk the case through—to look for new leads. To go over old ideas. To try to figure out, once and for all, what happened that afternoon, sixteen years ago.
Today, though, she was here for something different.
“I wasn’t planning on coming today, but something happened.”
Smith’s expression didn’t flicker.
“What exactly has happened that would make you drive all the way out here on a workday?”
Even in prison he knew her schedule as well as she did.
“There was another break-in at my place,” she told him. “I think it might be the same guy from last year. I need to know who it is. And what they want.”
He motioned with one hand. She’d seen him make that same gesture so many times, often with a cigar gripped, half forgotten, between his fingers.
“Tell me everything,” he said, in that familiar growl.
Talking fast, Harper told him about the suspected intrusions. The documents on her front seat. The keys in the kitchen.
Through it all, Smith listened carefully, rarely interrupting, and even then only to ask for more information.
When she finished, his expression was intense.
“The fact that he could get his hands on those documents,” he said. “That he even knew they existed. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“He’s a cop,” Harper said.
“Or a prosecutor, a lawyer, a judge—someone in the court system,” he corrected her. “Someone with access.”
“But who?” she asked. “Is it someone I’ve written about? And why leave those documents? If it’s the same guy who broke in last time…” She held up her hands. “What does that mean? Is he connected to the Scott family?”
Smith gave her an impatient look.
“This is bigger than the case you’re working on right now, Harper. This goes back much further.”
“How much further?”
“I need more information to answer that.” He shifted in his chair, his ankle chains jangling. “Aside from the keys, did he take anything else? Anything at all?”
Harper didn’t have to think about it. “A picture went missing. It’s a photograph of me and my mom. I thought it was lost but…”
His gaze sharpened.
“That’s the only thing missing?”
“As far as I know.”
He leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze. In his eyes she saw what he was thinking.
“This is about my mom.” Her voice was quiet. “Isn’t it?”
He nodded. “It makes sense.”
“But why?” Her stomach twisted. “You don’t think…?”
She didn’t have to finish the question.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Why would her killer leave you documents that help you with an unrelated case? No.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s him. This is someone else.”
“But who?” Her voice betrayed her frustration. “I don’t understand why he’s doing this. Watching me. Studying me.”
Smith gave her a stern look.
“Now, slow down, Harper. If you panic you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Let’s break this down.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “We’ve got multiple entries at your house over many months. A photo was taken of you and your mother. We have a message written on your wall—a warning or threat. Later, he leaves you information that’s valuable to you—an offering. There’s no indication of sexual obsession. No attempt at violence.”
Smith stared past her, across the crowded, noisy room, with that inward look he got when he was working a case.
“What I see is a person keeping an eye on you. From what you say, these break-ins took place maybe every month. That sounds like a regular check-in to me. For what purpose? To help you or to hurt you?” He paused. “I can’t answer that. But he hasn’t hurt you yet, and he’s had opportunity. Why wouldn’t he take it, if that’s what he wanted? So it’s got to be something else.”
“Thing is, he’s been communicating with you all along,” Smith continued. “The message on the wall was his first try. That was a misfire—you didn’t know what it meant and it scared the hell out of you. Taking a picture of you and your mother? That’s him telling you what he’s there about. The documents left in the car? He’s telling you he wants to help. He’s on your side.” He met her eyes directly. “He knows you’re on to him, and you’re nervous. And he’s saying, ‘Trust me.’”
Harper leaned forward, intently. “If he knows something about Mom’s murder—I want to know what that is. Should I reach out to him? Find out what he has to say?”
“Seems to me you don’t have any choice.”
Excitement unfurled in Harper’s chest.
“Tell me about him.” Her voice was eager. “Who am I dealing with?”
Their heads were tilted toward each other now, both of them lost in the details of the case.
“We only have so much to go on. He’s obviously intelligent. Well trained, possibly ex–law enforcement. Maybe ex-military. But.” He held up one cautioning finger. “We can’t overlook that he is also obsessed with you. Obsessed with your mother’s case. He’s been systematic—exhibiting remarkable patience. Just because he’s made this overture with the documents…” He shook his head. “Don’t give him what he wants. Don’t trust him. But you can pretend to trust him. It’s good enough.”
Across the room, one of the children at the table Harper had noticed earlier began to cry. Smith glanced over before turning back to her.
“When you found the folder in your car, was there anything with it?”
Harper’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“Some other communication,” he said. “Any attempt to connect with you personally. A note.”
“I didn’t see anything like that,” she said. “Only the papers I told you about. Why?”
“Well, the last time he communicated, he spoke to you directly. He warned you to run,” Smith explained. “I’d have expected something like that. A direct message to you.”
“There was nothing,” Harper insisted.
The lines on Smith’s forehead deepend.
“Leaving that file in your car? That was his big announcement. His coming-out party. He knew you’d changed your alarm, figured you were on to him, and now … Ta-dah!”
He held up his hands.
“‘Here I am, Harper. You’re on to me. Let’s talk.’” He dropped his hands back down. “That’s the moment when he would communicate with you again in some way. The fact that he didn’t do that doesn’t make sense.” He leaned back in his chair. “Not for this guy.”
Harper tried to follow his thinking.
“What does that mean?”
Smith’s worn face was alert and focused—he looked younger than he had when he walked in the door.
Crime was his comfort. It gave him purpose.
“I think you missed it. Did you search the car?” he asked. “He could have left the note in the glove compartment or hidden beneath a visor. Maybe it fell behind the seat and got lost. It could be anywhere.”
Caught up in his theory, he leaned closer, hands reaching toward the middle of the table. A guard shouted a warning and he yanked them back, but his eyes didn’t flicker.
“If it’s the same person—and I think it is—there’s a note somewhere. Find it.”
When Harper walked out into the bright sun, she took a deep, cleansing breath. After an hour in the clammy prison, she thought she could feel it on her skin—coating her like oil.
The parking lot was still crowded, and her back pressed against an SUV as she opened the Camaro’s door to let the volcanic heat pour out.
It was an extension of her office and it showed. Notebooks were stuffed into the side pockets. Disposable coffee cups nestled in the back floorboard.
What if there was a message and she’d simply overlooked it?
Smith was nearly always right. He’d always been the best detective the force had. He saw through people.
Everyone but himself.
When she’d said good-bye, he’d said something she hadn’t expected.
“If you get into trouble, call Blazer. He’s a good cop. He knows how much you mean to me.”
But she wasn’t about to go to Blazer for help. She was going to figure this out for herself. Starting now.
Climbing into the car, she checked behind the visors, in the glove compartment, between the seats. Finding nothing there, she pulled the driver’s seat forward and rifled through the papers stuffed into the holder behind it. There were the receipts from the mechanic this morning, tire brochures, restaurant menus—but nothing useful.
Then she picked through the cups, making sure nothing was on the floor underneath them except the sturdy gray carpet.
From there, she felt under the front seats—but her fingers couldn’t get far enough back.
Sweat ran down her face now, and strands of auburn hair stuck to her skin as she walked around the car and knelt on the pavement beside the passenger seat, leaning over until her cheek pressed against the carpet and she could see beneath it.
There was nothing under the seat. Nothing except a rumpled scrap of paper at the very back.
Harper reached for it, wincing as she squeezed her fingers into the narrow space and grabbed a corner of the paper.
She pulled it out and turned it over.
It was lined notepaper. Three words had been scrawled on it with a black pen.
YOU DIDN’T RUN.