“But you just said it was a horse.”

“I think you said that. Didn’t he, Odette?”

Twenty more minutes of this, and the boy copped to waiting for his teacher at the vending machine. He knew she bought a bag of cheese crackers and a Diet Coke between 4:15 and 4:30 every Wednesday afternoon between tutoring sessions.

He stuffed her mouth with his dirty athletic sock. The knife, left out on a cafeteria counter, was an opportunity he picked up while he dragged her to a pantry where he’d already pushed aside a big box of cheese to make room. He was absolutely certain that she enjoyed every minute of it.

It was a skin-crawling path to a confession, with a piece of rape porn lying on the table.

It turns out, there wasn’t a single tattoo on that teacher’s body.

It doesn’t matter that I abhorred his methods. Rusty saw the truth when I couldn’t.

The first hammers of the day are starting to pound as I pull my truck in front of Maggie’s. House skeletons are rising double-time in every direction, tucked close, no room to breathe.

Maggie’s secret life is soon going to be much harder to maintain. New neighbors will note the repair vans she calls, the little girl of hers with a primitive back yard habit, the succession of strangers who walk out the door at all hours with wounds taped and new clothes on their backs.

For a second, I bathe myself in the sleepy domestic picture behind Maggie’s door. The baby’s mouth tugging at her breast. Angel and Lola, curled up, cartoons jittering.

My partner has little innocents at home, too.

I make up my mind.

I’ll call Rusty back so he knows I’m OK. I’ll start by telling him I parked the patrol car back at the lake.

I thumb through every missed call.

Not a single one is from Rusty.

There are twelve in a frantic row, all from the same number.

33

“I got a DNA hit off the girl’s water bottle.”

Dr. Camila Perez, all business, doesn’t bother with hello when she picks up on the first ring. “The sample you gave me was pristine. It popped in the database as a match to a man named Christopher Coco. I can tell you with an extremely high degree of certainty the DNA you provided belongs to his daughter.”

My brain, processing. Camila found Angel’s father.

“He’s not a good guy, Odette,” she continues grimly. “Convicted of involuntary manslaughter. He was sent to Big Mac.”

“Big Mac,” I repeat.

“The Oklahoma pen. Where they cage the worst of the worst. But that was a few years back. He was released three weeks ago. I’m sorry to call so early, but that’s why I didn’t wait. I thought it was too much of a coincidence—that you handed me the DNA of a killer’s daughter right as he’s getting out of prison.”

Twenty steps away, Maggie’s front door is pulsing.

The colors in the sweet picture I painted behind that door, running red. The hammers on the rooftops, clicking like manic heels.

“Odette, did you hear what I said? There’s a lot of background noise. Like you’re in a hailstorm.”

“I heard you,” I breathe out. “I really appreciate your call. I have to go.”

Angel’s father, a killer.

I’m scraping my mind for when Maggie last texted me.

Feeling for my gun.

“What the hell is going on, Odette? Have you lost it?” Maggie, half-dressed, is lugging the baby, trailing after me down the hall.

“Where’s Rod?” I ask urgently. “Lola? Angel?”

“He’s at the hospital finishing his shift. The girls are still asleep. What is going on?”

“I want to see them. The girls.”

“Put your gun away,” she hisses. “Whatever you think is in here, isn’t. The security system is locked and loaded 24/7. You know I’m religious about that.”

I’m already cracking the door of Lola’s room. It’s a head rush of purple. Purple walls, purple rugs, purple stuffed animals—even a purple Cinderella nightgown, which is scrunched up over Lola’s diaper. Her butt’s in the air, thumb in her mouth. Sleeping.

I pull the door to as quietly as possible.

“See?” Maggie shifts the baby to the other hip. “Let’s make some coffee. And you can tell me what the hell is going on with you. Does this have to do with Wyatt? I saw on Twitter this morning that he was released. Where have you been? I asked you to sleep. You don’t look like you listened.”

“I want to check on Angel.” It’s a plea. “I need to see her for myself.”

“OK, OK.” Maggie pushes in front of me and knocks lightly on the door of the room across the hall. When there’s no answer, Maggie twists the knob, nudging it ajar, whispering, “Angel? Sorry to disturb. Just checking.” No answer.

I jerk past her and shove the door all the way open. The bed is empty, covers tossed. The blinds, wide open. The door to the adjoining bathroom, shut.

For a few seconds, we wait, my gun pointed at the carpet.

Behind the bathroom door, the toilet flushes. The sink begins to run.

“You want to burst in there, too?” Maggie asks.

“No. I’m good.” I holster the gun. “Where’s your laptop?”

It’s not hard to google up a few stories on Christopher Coco, a man who shot his thirty-two-year-old ex-girlfriend to death in a trailer park outside of Norman, Oklahoma.

Drawn-out chase. Quick indictment. Disgusting plea deal.

No mention of a daughter, one-eyed or two-eyed, hers or his or shared. No sense of whether they’d broken up after years or only a few months. No mention of his release because his victim, Georgia Cox, had already faded, just another of the three women a day in America snuffed out by an intimate partner.

“Angel would have been … what … maybe nine or ten … when he was put away?” Maggie muses. “It is possible she doesn’t know him. It says he also had a previous sexual assault conviction. Angel could have been another child he planted along the way, one he doesn’t know about. The timing of his release could be coincidence. You shouldn’t get this worked up until we know for sure that he’s the reason she’s running. Even if he is looking for her, he may just want to connect.”

“I can’t believe you aren’t taking this more seriously, Maggie. We both know it’s most likely she’s fully aware who her father is. If by some chance she isn’t, she should be. I have to talk to Angel about him, Maggie. Not just for her safety. For yours. And the kids’. She can’t stay here if there is even the slightest possibility he’s looking for her, even if he just wants to say ‘I’m really sorry I slaughtered your mother with a twelve-gauge.’”

“Please take a deep breath. You just burst in my house with your gun drawn. I’m still recovering. I can’t think about a killer hanging outside my daughters’ windows before eight in the morning. Let’s set Angel and her troubles aside for a minute.” Maggie plunks a coffee cup in front of me at the kitchen table and begins to pour. “What’s happening with Wyatt? I want to hear it from your mouth.”

She’s trying to take things down a notch. I’ll try, too.

“He’s … missing,” I say cautiously. “Rusty and I showed up at the Branson place last night to check for any trouble. The usual assholes were at the gate. They’d put up a banner. When they took off, we decided to check the house. Wyatt didn’t answer the door. I made the call to go in. Everything spiraled out of control after that. At least thirty cops were still searching the property when I left this morning. Half of me wonders if Rusty set me up. If this was part of his grand plan to get in that house again.”

“Are you worried about what they’ll find?”

“I’m more worried about what we did find. No Wyatt, and chicken thawing in the sink. Like maybe it wasn’t his idea to go.”

“I don’t know how much more direct I can be about this,” Maggie says slowly. “Forget Wyatt. Fix your marriage. Finish school. Climb fucking Mount Everest.”

“You want me to forget Trumanell, too?” Disbelieving.

“I do. Trumanell is a train off the track. Be the mountain in front of her. Stop her fury. Let her go in peace.”

“Be the mountain. Go in peace. You sound like one of your father’s overwrought sermons.”

Maggie switches the baby to the other breast and fumbles to help her latch on. “You’ve spent ten years of your life—ten years—being suffocated by this. Talk about spiraling. You are spiraling. Your husband has left you. You had sex with a man who is at the least mentally ill, and at the worst, a murderous psychopath. You are isolating yourself and not telling me big things, when I usually know whether you ate a vanilla or peanut butter protein bar for breakfast. I had to find out on Twitter that someone left a bloody shovel on your doorstep.”

“It wasn’t blood. How did you know … about Wyatt? Did Finn tell you?”