photographed it, and cut the branch, putting it with the hair into an evidence bag.
When he stood after completing his task, he noticed that Miranda had stopped as well and was staring at him. No, not at him. Beyond him. Seeing something that wasn’t there.
His heart beat faster. It tore him up inside watching Miranda put herself in these situations where she relived what had happened to her; her anguish was tangible. He remembered Miranda finding Sharon’s body, her grief, her pain undeniable. She was strong, but not indestructible.
He wanted to reach out, touch her and hold her.
“Miranda,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”
She snapped her attention to him. “I’m thinking,” she said. “She fell here. Why? No limbs to trip over. She’s in the clear. He shot at her.”
“You don’t know-” he stopped. Could be. He followed her line of sight as she turned in a slow circle. “Maybe,” he continued, “but where’s the evidence?”
“She changed direction here,” she mumbled, as if talking to herself.
“What?”
“She wouldn’t have gone in a straight line after he shot at her, she would have detoured, turned, done
“Here!” Her voice was tinged with excitement.
Quinn met her down the slope. Two more casings. He flagged the spot. “We need to go down,” she said, pointing down a precipitous slope.
“It’s steep,” Quinn said.
“Yeah, but this is the way they came.”
She was right. A sapling had been stepped on and broken twenty feet in the direction Miranda led him. The edge of the clearing ended abruptly another fifty feet away. He stopped Miranda when they reached the perimeter.
Twelve years ago they had walked a similar slope together to the shack where Miranda and Sharon had been imprisoned. Quinn would never forget Miranda’s courage that day.
“Are you ready for what we might find?” he asked quietly.
“Of course,” she said. But when he caught her eye it wasn’t anger brightening her dark eyes, it was memories.
Was she thinking of that day, too?
He reached out, wanting to connect with her, but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. He dropped his arm, angry with himself for trying, but wishing Miranda didn’t insist on carrying the weight of Rebecca’s pain solely on her shoulders.
They walked along the edge of the clearing, then stopped a moment later when something out of place caught his eye.
“Here,” he said. He squatted to examine trampled undergrowth.
“Let’s go.”
He pulled out his firearm and nodded when Miranda did the same, holding a smaller nine-millimeter Beretta. He’d never forget her coming in third in the Academy shoot-off. Third was damn good in a class of one hundred.
But she’d been upset with herself that she hadn’t come in first. Competition was tough at the Academy, but no one put more pressure on Miranda than she did.
Miranda breathed deeply, gathering every ounce of strength as she inched deeper into the descending woods. The forest became thicker when they left the sun-dotted clearing, the air cool and damp. The chill kept her adrenaline high, her eyes discreetly scanning for any sign of movement.
For the Butcher.
Scurrying animals, the call of birds, and their boots squishing the soft, wet, leaf-covered ground were the only sounds as they tracked farther into the woods. The air was fresh, clean from the rain, renewing the earth. But at the same time, an underlying, unpleasant scent of rotting mulch assaulted her. Reminding her of falling, of being filthy and cold and in pain.
Quinn paused to examine the path. This mountainside had a gentle slope, far from the higher, rocky terrain on which Miranda had escaped. Rebecca had been kept relatively close to civilization, only five miles as the crow flies.
Miranda closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When she opened them a minute later, everything appeared brighter, more vibrant. The greens were greener, the browns browner. Shimmering sunbeams cut through the trees, flooding the ground with streaks of light. Miranda loved days like this best, after a cleansing spring rain, when everything was fresh and new, and her guilt at being alive faded.
A sparkle caught her eye.
A slight reflection off a rusting tin roof. She stared, so focused on her discovery that the sounds of the forest faded and she heard nothing but her own beating heart. The worn, sagging wood that held up the flimsy roof didn’t look like it could have withstood the recent storm, but looks were deceptive. The cabin had survived harsh Montana winters, pounded by hard rain, half buried in cold snow.
“Miranda.”
Her attention snapped to Quinn and she pointed. “There.”
He looked, his expression unreadable. Pulling his walkie-talkie out of his belt, he depressed the mic. “Sheriff, we found a shack. About-” he glanced up the steep slope-“six hundred yards from the edge of the clearing. An orange flag marks where we left the field.”
Static crackled. “Roger that,” Nick’s distorted voice broke the quiet. “I’ll send a team.”
“Roger. Out.” Quinn pocketed the com and glanced at Miranda.
She tilted her chin up. She could do this. “Let’s go.”
Miranda stayed behind Quinn, close enough that she wouldn’t miss anything. They both pulled on latex gloves to preserve what was most likely a crime scene.
Where Rebecca had been raped and tortured.
Miranda briefly squeezed her eyes shut, then blinked, surprised to feel tears forming.
Quinn motioned for Miranda to stand back as he walked the perimeter of the shack. She didn’t argue.
The small cabin had probably been here for decades. The wood was rough, worn, almost black. It should have been lying in a heap, rotting under layers of decaying leaves, covered in moss. Though it didn’t look sturdy, the tiny building had been well constructed. An old, abandoned cabin, like so many others.
Until the Butcher found it.
With one hand Miranda took out her topographical map and viewed their approximate location and the path Rebecca had forged.
Her gut clenched at the visual representation of the co-ed’s journey. Not because her escape ended in death, but because if she had walked four miles in the opposite direction, she would have made it to a dirt road that led to a small reservoir. She still might have died, but the open road would have given her a better chance.
The voice came out of nowhere and Miranda’s grip tightened on her gun as she looked around, tamping down her panic while adrenaline pumped through her system.
No one. No one was there. His damn voice, low, gravelly, evil, plagued her. Damn him.
Rebecca hadn’t had any chance in choosing her initial path, any more than she and Sharon had. They ran
“Miranda?”
Quinn’s voice was soft but firm, and she was once again reminded that he had been her rock during her darkest days after the attack. She remembered the young, up-and-coming FBI agent she’d fallen in love with, a man excited about his life, his job, fighting the bad guys. And through it all, he’d steadied her, given her the strength she sorely needed.
