5

I definitely regretted not going back to Pat’s for the bobble hat. Only half way up Birchardville Hill, I felt as if I might die. I jammed my hands into my pockets, but that proved little protection against the wind. It sliced through my coat and bit at my thin Florida skin. My eyes watered, my nose ran. My ears actually hurt.

Following the instructions Ida had given me, I walked along the edge of Birchardville Hill Road, keeping the dry stone wall to my right. Apparently, it had been erected by the original Birchards shortly after their arrival in 1799, but even this clear evidence of history failed to warm me. I scrunched my shoulders and burrowed my nose into my flimsy scarf—a decorative number I’d brought from home and triple-wrapped around my neck, falsely believing it would protect me. Tomorrow I’d be smarter. I’d strip the comforter from the bed and wear it as a cape if I had to. Anything to combat this bone-aching cold.

Having reached the cross street at the top of the rise, I paused to gain my bearings. To the left, Griffis Road wound away into the woods. To the right, it climbed steadily upward. To reach the summit of Birchardville Hill, I'd need to bear right and search for an unmarked access road.

I closed my eyes and listened for the clack of horse hooves, the rolling of the mill, and the tolling of the old church bell. In a silence cut only by the wind, I strained to hear history. It seemed to call my name.

No, wait. Someone actually was calling my name.

The kid from the diner loped up the hill, his red hoodie in stark contrast with the bleak winter backdrop. The hair was mashed under a hat, and he waved an arm over his head lest I somehow miss him.

I was nearly freezing to death, and he wasn’t even wearing a coat.

“Morgan!” he called. “Morgan Scott! Wait up!”

I wasn’t even moving. He bounded to my side and drew in great, bracing breaths.

“Are you following me?” Since he was a fan of the show, he must know how I felt about men following women down deserted roads. Not that he counted as a man. If that chin had ever felt the scrape of a razor, I'd eat Pat Martin’s homemade bobble hat.

Reed snorted. “Ida told me you asked about Birchardville Hill. But I knew she wouldn’t tell you the easy way. Ida hates outsiders.”

“There’s an easy way?”

He lifted his arms and stretched, bending from side to side. “See? I told you.”

“Why wouldn’t Ida like outsiders?” It just seemed like such a cliché. Besides, she’d been nice to me.

Reed smirked. “Ida moved here after she married Chuck Parrish. That was decades ago but makes her less of an outsider than you are, so she probably feels good lording it over you.”

“I take it you’re a native, then?”

His face clouded. He pivoted on his heel, gesturing toward Griffis Road. “It's that way.”

I put up my eyebrows. “You seem pretty sure you know where I’m going. What if I’m just out for a walk?” Without a hat or gloves in the middle of winter like an idiot.

He emitted a long sigh. “I already told you. I’ve considered the evidence. You're here to research the Roth Murders for a segment on your show.”

He would know. He’d sent the file, after all. Which is why I didn't object when he fell into step beside me. Also, I didn't want to spend hours wandering around the Pennsylvania hills in search of the right access road.

Reed bounced along beside me. “I can take you to the clearing where it happened. If you aren't worried about going off into the woods with a stranger.”

“I'm not worried about you.”

“Why not?” His voice cracked.

“I’ve considered the evidence.”

“That’s cold.”

I shrugged. “’Tis the season.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I still like you.”

I looked the other way, fighting a smile. “You're not dangerous.”

“Not to you, anyway.” He sneezed and swiped a hand under his nose. “Birchardville must seem pretty pathetic after everything you’ve seen.”

After everything I’d seen. To him, I was just a crime podcaster with a bent toward historical murders. All things considered, my life was much less thrilling than people thought. Sure, I did a little boots-on-the-ground work—but that was mostly with historical murders, like this one. Everything modern was accessed mostly online—including interviews with friends and family members of the victims and perpetrators. It was an introvert’s dream job, really. In fact, unless you counted my agoraphobic Internet stalker, most days were nothing to write home about. Sometimes I worked in my pajamas. “My job isn't dangerous.”

Reed swiveled and jogged backwards up the trail so he could gawp at me more fully. “Are you telling me that making an enemy out of Mitchell Charles David Johnson isn’t dangerous?”

He had me there, but the Johnson case was an exception. I should have known Reed would bring it up, though. He’d already mentioned Sins of a Father. He’d know all about the case that had made me famous. “Johnson’s incarcerated,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’s a whole network of, um—well, it’s like prison mafia? They can get to anyone, inside or outside. Sometimes the guards even help them. I mean, you did an episode about it last season. Besides, isn’t Johnson’s case up for appeal, like, right now?”

The wind kicked up. I shuddered again, which was just unfortunate timing. I didn’t want this kid thinking I was worried. The justice system had done its job. Johnson had been rightly convicted. His appeal would result in nothing more than a media circus.

He wouldn’t get my attention, though. Between the coverage during his first trial and my subsequent book, I’d already spent enough of my life absorbed with that man’s crimes. I needed a break.

Leah was new to my inner circle, but she seemed to understand. Just before my flight had taken off, she’d texted a promise to keep me apprised of the headlines and send links as soon as the decision was handed down by the courts. But I wouldn’t be sitting around waiting for it.

Partway up Griffis, Reed indicated an access road that had obviously not seen a snow plow. Loose and soft, the ankle-deep snow sloughed underfoot. It was like slogging through frozen sea foam.

“I'm not worried about Johnson,” I said firmly. His appeal would definitely be denied. “I am worried that I won’t have a relaxing Christmas vacation if I can’t keep a low profile. If you can refrain from telling any more residents of Birchardville who I am, that would be great.”

Reed snorted. “It won’t matter who else I tell. I’m pretty much your only fan here. I mean, you saw them back in The Store. Nobody cared.”

He had a point.

Reed turned around just in time to keep from running into a gate. Instead of opening it for me, he bent forward and hitched himself up. He swung one long leg and then the other over the top. Awkwardly, I followed suit.

“My Uncle Levi listens to The Usual Suspects sometimes, but I wouldn’t call him a fan. I’m pretty sure he only listens when I make him. He did say you have a soothing voice, though.”

This was news to me. Online commenters tended to criticize my voice. I’d stopped caring a long time ago.

Reed swung around suddenly. “Hey! This is private property. Aren't you worried about trespassing?”

“My assistant Leah e-mailed the owners last week and asked for permission. They said they'd be visiting their kids over the Holidays but I should feel free to wander around to my heart’s content. Leah said they sounded really nice.”

“They are.”

“Aren't you worried about trespassing?” We mounted a second gate.

“Are you kidding? I grew up playing in these woods. And I worked up here last summer, picking fruit and helping in the apiary.”

“It doesn't bother you to work on the site of one of the most horrific local murders of the nineteenth century?” Probably any century. Birchardville didn’t exactly seem riddled with crime. Although you never could tell about these small towns.

Reed shrugged. “I honestly never thought about it.”

We crossed the third gate and found ourselves at the top of a rise. In front of us stood a clearing studded with wood-framed enclosures and fenced in with chicken wire, the harsh edges smoothed by a soft drape of snow. Small hand-lettered signs stood on posts: Peaches, Blackberries, Strawberries, Goats, Chickens, Bees.

The very center of the clearing, however, remained open.

This was it.

Birchardville Hill.