out the window like a child on a car trip.

“You can’t be so sure of that.”

She turned to face him. “I think I can. I’ve been one of them. The desperate. I’ve seen him. Kevin, that story is the truth.”

It was full night by the time they reached Sawyer County, and Kimble was driving with caution, the roads slick with a light dusting of snow. There was more on the way tonight, the forecasters said. He stared out into the moonlit countryside of this place he’d known so well for his entire life and suddenly felt as if he did not know it at all, the beauty of rocky peaks and wooded hollows shifting on him, developing a constant, whispering menace.

They rounded the curves of County Road 200 and then turned onto Blade Ridge Road. Kimble had called Audrey Clark to tell her that he’d be making a patrol and not to be alarmed if she saw a police car—it would just be him, passing through. He didn’t want to have to stop at the preserve and allow her the chance to see him with Jacqueline.

As they drove down the rutted gravel track the lighthouse came into view, and Jacqueline turned to stare at it.

“Dark again,” she said.

Not completely, Kimble thought. With any luck, not completely. If Wyatt knew what he was doing with those infrared lamps, it only looks dark to us.

They passed by the gates to the preserve, and Jacqueline said, “Are those lions?

“Yes.”

“I don’t think this is such a good place for cats like those.”

“That seems to be a growing sentiment,” he said. They went on past the preserve and all the way to the end of the road, where the gravel ended in trees. Kimble brought the car to a stop and turned out the lights.

“Here we are.”

“Yes.” She was quiet, subdued. He looked at her in the mirror and saw that she was watching the dark trees with apprehension.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I can take you back and—”

“I have to, Kevin. You need me to. Don’t deny that.”

He shut the engine off, left the car, and opened her door. She stepped out and wrapped her arms around herself, and he realized for the first time that she had no jacket. He took off his own and held it out, and she gave him a faint smile.

“Thank you.”

When she turned and slipped into it, first one arm and then the other, her hair was close to his face and he could smell her, feel her back brushing against his chest.

“Such a gentleman,” she said. “Will you still hold my coat for me on the second date, or does it fade quickly?”

He opened his mouth but didn’t get out a response. His tongue was wooden, his throat tight. She zipped up his jacket and smiled at him. He couldn’t see the orange of the prison uniform now. Couldn’t see anything but the fine lines of her face in the moonlight and the dark hair cascading over his coat.

“A romantic walk in the woods, is that the plan, sir?” she said.

“Sure,” he said. His voice was unsteady.

Jacqueline looked at the outline of the mountains in the moonlit night, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Years,” she said. “It has been years since I stood anywhere and felt free.”

He didn’t answer. She stood with her eyes shut and one snowflake fell into her hair. He reached out, without thinking, to brush it away. When she opened her eyes and took his arm, he stiffened. She kept her hold on his arm and tugged gently. He took a step forward, and she came in to meet him, leaned up, and kissed him. When her lips touched his, Kimble’s legs trembled. The presence of her weakened him. Gloriously.

She shot you.

He stepped back, almost stumbling, said, “Jacqueline we’re here to—”

“I know what we’re here to do,” she said. “I know that better than you do, Kevin. But I needed that moment. I’m sorry.”

He said, “Thank you.” It wasn’t what he should have said, but it was all that came out.

She smiled again, smiled in that way that slid right through him.

Just like the bullet, Kimble? Does it slide through you just like the bullet?

“All those visits,” she said. “All that faith. Thank you, Kevin.”

It was silent, and he looked up at the trees and the path that led into blackness. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out there.”

She let out a breath, looked over her shoulder, and said, “It’s why you brought me here. You want to know what I see, right? Well, let’s have a look.”

“All right,” he said, and he could still taste her on his lips as he followed her into the darkness.

37

WHEN SHE HEARD THE SOUND of a car approaching, Audrey went to the window and peered out. A moment later it came into view, and she saw the now far-too-familiar sheriff’s decal on the side, the light bar on top.

“Kimble,” she said, and felt relieved. She liked Kimble. Trusted him.

Behind her Dustin Hall peered over her shoulder.

“He’s not getting out, is he?” he said.

“I don’t know. He told me he would be making some patrols tonight. That was all.”

“Well, after last night, I hope he’s not intending to walk around alone.”

“I know,” she said. Dustin’s presence had been Kimble’s idea, but Audrey was beginning to think it was a bad one. As competent as he’d been during the day, he was jittery at night. Then again, maybe he was just picking that up from her. She’d been pacing nonstop, making regular trips to the window, matching the restless behavior of the cats. They were peaceful tonight, though—no roars, no rattling of fences, no stretching upright and craning to see into the darkness.

Please, let it stay that way, she thought. One night of peace. That’s all I’m asking for.

But of course it was not. She would need more than one night. It would take time, Joe Taft had said. How much time, she wasn’t sure. But it would be much more than one night.

When it was done, though? When whatever amount of time Joe needed had passed and the cats she’d devoted the past several years of her life to were gone? What then?

Back to the legal world. She’d been thrilled to get away from it. The idea of returning to Lexington or Louisville and working in an office every day, drawing up wills and endowments and business mergers and handling corporate disputes, felt so wrong. She could go somewhere else entirely, of course, pass the bar in a new state and find a new city and get involved with a new kind of practice.

That didn’t seem any more appealing, though. Her life had become these cats. She didn’t want to lose that. Part of aging was adapting, was acceptance that all the planning in the world didn’t stand a chance against the fickle winds of fate, but hadn’t she adapted enough lately? Did she have to turn her back on the preserve that held her heart?

Dustin said, “What are you thinking about, Audrey?”

He was wearing his Whitman College sweatshirt and looked impossibly young. She was not inclined to tell him the truth. That all the best-laid plans of youth could be shattered in a slip-and-fall, a single misplaced step in the night, and the life you thought was promised to you would begin to vanish until the very memory of your plans seemed ludicrous.

“I’m thinking,” she said, “that I could use a glass of wine.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

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