Sophie wasn’t waiting for her when Rachel pulled up outside the school, five minutes late thanks to Stephen Henry’s manipulations and the rain-slowed traffic. She left the car on as she ran into the school, but the halls were deserted except for a few stragglers and no one had seen Sophie.

She raced back to her car, praying that they might have just missed each other, but the car was empty, and her hands were shaking so hard when she tried to dial Sophie’s cell that it took her twice as long.

It went straight to voice mail. She’d either turned it off, when Rachel had told her never to do so, or she’d let the power run out.

Or someone had taken her and she couldn’t get to her phone to call for help.

No answer on the phone. David was next. He was in class, the department secretary said, and no, Sophie hadn’t been there. Rachel wanted to bang her head against the steering wheel in frustration. Of course she wasn’t. Sophie didn’t really like David.

That wasn’t true. Why did that thought pop into her mind, when she’d always been nothing but sweet?

Because Sophie was sweet to everyone, and Rachel knew her daughter.

Please, God, let her be all right, she thought over and over and she drove back to the house. She hadn’t specifically told her to wait to be picked up—their normal plan was to have Sophie walk or get a ride with Kristen.

So she must already be home. Rachel tore out of the school parking lot, narrowly missing a cheerleader, and raced back home at dangerous speed, half hoping that Maggie Bannister would stop her. At least she’d set her mind at ease.

She dropped her keys when she scrambled out of the car, fell when she went to pick it up, and it took forever to get through David’s complex system of locks. By the time the door opened she was ready to scream, but she took a moment to calm herself. “Sophie?” she called out, trying to sound ordinary.

No fucking answer. She didn’t care how it sounded, she raised her voice in a panic. “Sophie, are you here? Goddammit, answer me!”

The house was deserted. No sign of her daughter. Rachel ran back outside, out into the street, hoping to see her coming down the sidewalk, huddled against the cold rain.

If her daughter came back, that she wouldn’t even yell at her. But the streets were empty, and she stood there as the rain came down, feeling sick inside, frozen in fear.

She mentally kicked herself into gear. “She’s okay,” she muttered beneath her breath. “She’s going to be fine. Nothing’s happened to her—I’d know it if it did. I just need to calm down and find her. She’s okay.”

The sound of her own voice helped to steady her, and she climbed back in the car, reaching for her cell phone. No answer at the Bannister’s, which meant Sophie wasn’t there. Maybe they’d gone with another friend, maybe they were up in Kristen’s room, maybe, maybe…

“She’s okay,” she said again, and it calmed her. She set the cell phone down on the seat beside her and pulled out of the driveway. She could drive over to the Bannister’s, see if anyone was home, and the next stop was the police station, just to set her mind at ease, and by that time Sophie would be home…

The phone made a blessed, beeping noise, signaling messages, and she grabbed it, pushing the buttons to get her voice mail. David, wanting to know why she’d called, and she deleted his message halfway through, as she realized she was crying. She disconnected, and then immediately another beep. Someone had tried to call her while she was checking messages.

“Hey, Ma, I’m up with Caleb at his house. I asked him to pick me up at school—I know you were going to the Old Goat’s house, and I figured you didn’t want me to walk. He’ll drive me home in a—”

Rachel flung the phone across the car, not even bothering to hang up, and backed out into the street without looking, narrowly missing an oncoming car. Her tires skidded as she sped across town, hydroplaning as she reached the mountain, and she had no choice but to slow down when she started up the narrow road that led up to Caleb’s half-finished house.

It took her fifteen miserable minutes to make it up there, her tires spinning, her hands cold with sweat, and when she pulled up at his place she just clipped the fender of his rented Toyota.

The stairs were slick with rain, but she pulled herself together enough to climb them carefully, avoiding the weak one, and she forced her breathing to slow. She was going to kill someone, preferably Caleb, but she didn’t need to panic Sophie.

The house had no locks, and she shoved the door open so hard it banged against the wall, shaking the entire structure. Caleb was sitting on the floor by the wood fire, his long legs stretched out, a beer in one hand, as he looked up at her.

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

“Ma!” Sophie moved into view. She’d been sitting across the room from Caleb, a can of Diet Coke in her hand. “Chill!”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, Ma,” he said. “Chill. I told her to call you.”

“She did.” Rachel came down the short flight of steps to the room. Caleb had thrown something over the bloodstain in the middle of the room, thank God, and Sophie looked both relaxed and indignant, if such a thing were possible.

Sophie had risen, a graceful fluid movement, her long hair swinging. “Are you all right?”

Don’t kill them both, Rachel told herself, struggling for calm. Even if they deserve it. “Girls have been murdered in Silver Falls, Sophie. I was worried.”

Sophie immediately looked stricken. “I’m sorry I scared you. You hadn’t said anything about picking me up and it was raining so hard I thought I’d call Caleb and see if he wanted to. Besides, I wanted to get to know him better.”

Caleb drew himself together and rose in a leisurely manner. “Can I get you a beer, Rachel? If I remember, you like my beer.”

“You’ve been here before, Ma?” Sophie looked at her, an odd expression in her eyes.

“Caleb gave me a ride down the mountain yesterday,” she said, controlling her anger. “Sweetie, would you do me a favor and go out and wait in the car? I need to talk to Caleb about something.”

“Now you’re in trouble. She’s hardcore when she talks like that.” She gave Rachel a swift kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be too hard on him, Ma. He was just doing me a favor.”

She waited until Sophie had left, closing the door behind her, before she turned to face Caleb. “You leave her the hell alone,” she said fiercely. “Don’t talk to her, don’t go near her.”

“Why?”

For a moment she was stopped. “Why?”

“Yes, why? Do you think I’m a pervert who molests little girls? Do you think I’m a murderer who strangles women and throws their bodies into the falls? Do you think I’m more dangerous than—” He stopped midsentence. “Exactly what do you think, Rachel?”

“I think that I’m barely holding things together and until they find out who killed those girls then I’m not going to let my daughter out of my sight unless she’s at school.”

“You’re an idiot. You should get the hell out of town.”

“Listen, if you’re so worried about us why don’t you set my mind at ease and keep your distance? Sophie might not like it but I’d appreciate it.”

For a moment he said nothing, and she could see the frustration and anger practically vibrating through his body. “Do me one favor,” he said finally. “Don’t let Sophie wear anything in her hair.”

“What do you mean?”

“No barrettes, ribbons, ponytail holders. Not even a bobby pin.”

He must have flipped out completely. “I don’t even know if they still have bobby pins. And she needs barrettes—otherwise her hair falls in her face.”

“Let it. Even better, get her hair cut.”

“Why?”

“When the women have been found there’s only been one thing missing from their bodies. Their hair clips. I think he collects them as souvenirs.”

She stared at him, trying to ignore the sick feeling inside. “Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

“Ask Maggie Bannister. You’ll notice she’s cut her daughter’s hair. Kirsten’s got brown hair but Maggie wasn’t taking any chances. Maybe you could dye Sophie’s hair black.” He moved closer, and she resisted the temptation to take a nervous step back, away from him. “Your daughter’s waiting for you. Don’t be too hard on her—she didn’t know you think I’m a homicidal maniac.”

“I don’t.”

He made an impatient noise. “Then what’s your problem?”

“There’s a difference between what I think and what I know. And I can’t risk my daughter’s safety based on my instincts.”

For a moment he looked distracted, staring down at her. “Your instincts tell you to trust me. Why won’t you listen? If you won’t leave, then you need to be very, very careful. Don’t leave Sophie alone with anyone unless you’ve given your permission. And don’t give your permission. I don’t want to have her body turn up at the bottom of the falls, with her barrettes missing and her hair floating in the stream like Ophelia, caught in the branches.”

“Stop it!” Rachel cried, horrified. “That’s a hideous image.”

“I was the one who called in the first murder. I saw her like that. I don’t think I could stand it if it was Sophie.” Before she realized what he was doing he reached out and pushed a tangle of her red hair away from her face. “I don’t think I could stand it if it was you.”

For a moment she didn’t move, wanting to rise into the touch of his hand. But an instant later sanity came back, and she stepped away from him. “Nobody else is going to die. It was a transient serial killer and he’s gone. I’ve read enough about sociopath killers—they don’t murder in their own backyards. It’s all about keeping their little hobby a secret. Whoever did these things is long gone. But you’re right, I’m not going to take any chances. And that includes letting you anywhere near Sophie. Understand?”

“I understand,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’ll do it.”

She turned on her heel and stomped out of the house, slamming the poor, abused door behind her, narrowly missing the damaged step. Sophie was sitting in the passenger seat, looking subdued.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Sophie said softly when Rachel got in the car. “I just happen to like him. And no, he’s not some creep who’s into little girls—you’ve taught me to spot them a mile away. I have perfect perv-radar. I figured he’s my uncle, and he’s funny, and I ought to get to know him.”

“How can he be your uncle when you can’t look at David as a father or Stephen Henry as your grandfather?”

“Number one, Stephen Henry is as big a perv as you can find. Oh, I think he’s pretty well behaved, and stuck in a wheelchair there’s not a lot he can do. I could always outrun him, and besides, I think his aide is his boy toy. He just gives me the creeps.”

Rachel had never lied to Sophie in her entire life, and she wasn’t about to start now. “Yeah, he does me, too. But David adores you, and you and I have talked about him adopting you.”

Sophie’s face didn’t change. “I know he adores me, Ma. And he makes you happy, so I like him. But let’s hold off on the adoption stuff, okay?”

“We’ll take as long as you need. And if you never want it then that’s cool, too.” She’d never told Sophie that she was doing all this for her, and she never would. Sophie didn’t need that kind of pressure. Sooner or later she’d settle in, start to see Silver Falls as her home, David as her family. David and Stephen Henry.

And Caleb?

He’d be gone. Stephen Henry said always he came back to cause trouble for his brother and then left again, usually without warning. She just had to be patient, and wait. Once he was gone she wouldn’t be looking at David’s placid good looks and finding them boring. Once he was gone the safety and normalcy of this shadowed town would wrap around her like a soft blanket.

Except what the hell was so safe about murdered students and a serial killer?

Maybe Caleb was right. Maybe she should leave.

She turned to Sophie as she slowly drove the car down the mountain. “Do you feel like taking a little break from here? Maybe a minivacation, just you and me? We could go somewhere sunny, eat food that’s terrible for us, maybe go find some street fairs and markets. We wouldn’t have to come back for weeks.”

There was no missing the hope and delight that sprang into her daughter’s bright blue eyes, but a second later they were shuttered, blank. “What about David?”

For a moment Rachel was at a loss for words. “He says he can get some time off if we wanted him to come with us. We do, don’t we?”

Sophie said nothing.

“What with all the things that have been going on, he doesn’t really feel he can leave right away. Or that we should leave. But maybe in another week or so.”

“Sure, Ma,” Sophie said, sounding singularly unenthusiastic. “That would be great. But you know I’m really busy right now anyway. I’m just about ready to be bumped up a class, and if I go away now I’ll have more catching up to do.”

“Honey, you’re already working on college level math.”

“That’s because you taught me to go for it, Ma. I just have to fill in the gaps with English and chemistry and I’ll be just fine. Give me three weeks and we can take off.”

“If we left then we’d be gone over Christmas.”

“I don’t think David is terribly invested in Christmas, do you? He doesn’t seem the type,” Sophie said.

“I think he’s been looking forward to a real Christmas with his first family.” She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Christmas was her favorite thing in the world, and she loved going to strange, new places and celebrating it with local customs. The local custom here was probably The Festival of Coal.

“We’ll see,” she continued. “In the meantime I need you to stay close to home. Don’t leave the school with anyone but me or Maggie Bannister. Don’t walk home, don’t accept rides, and don’t let anyone but me get you from Maggie’s house.”

Sophie looked at her. “Not even David?” she asked.

Rachel thought back to Stephen Henry’s words. Don’t trust anyone. “Even David,” she said finally, the words tasting like acid in her mouth.

Too many people, people she distrusted, told her not to trust anyone. If the liars and tricksters warned her then the situation had to be pretty bad.

But they’d make it through. Sophie was too young, and as long as Rachel was vigilant she would be perfectly safe. Absolutely no one would want to harm her.

No, if they just kept their heads together and didn’t panic then everything would be resolved. And in fact, Sophie would like Christmas here as well. A traditional American Christmas was just as foreign as celebrating it in the Sudan or South America. And maybe the three of them would finally start feeling like a family.

In the meantime she simply had to stop thinking about Caleb Middleton, his dark warnings, and Stephen Henry’s odd behavior. She needed to get home, immerse herself in her darkroom, secure in the knowledge that Sophie was planted in front of the wide-screen television, and not think about anything but exposure and negatives and the safe, dark world of photography.

He was going to have to do something, Caleb thought, watching them head down the mountain. The stubborn redhead wouldn’t listen, and if he told her the truth she’d be even more resistant. She would believe it was some demented sibling rivalry or childhood vengeance.

There were a number of ways to get rid of her, short of kidnapping and dumping them five states away. If he could only think of something. Right now he’d tried every way of telling her and none of them had made a difference. Nothing would, short of the brutal truth, and the fact is, he had no proof. Nothing but circumstantial evidence that could lead to him as easily as it could to his brother.

Maybe he could sabotage her car. If she banged herself up a little bit then it was too damned bad. He’d like to bang her head against the wall to make her listen to him, and that was far from the only thing he’d like to bang, but she was too busy protecting David and fighting her attraction to him. His first plan had been to use that interest, enough to scare her into leaving, but that wasn’t getting him anywhere and besides, he was finding it all a little too tempting. Things were bad enough—he wasn’t going to take his brother’s wife, no matter how much he found himself wanting her. That would just convince the old biddies in town that he was exactly as David had painted. A jealous, treacherous lecher, who took everything David had ever wanted and more.

Nobody noticed that it was David who’d bought the architect’s house, three years after Caleb had picked up the man’s half-built disaster. He hadn’t stolen Libba away from David—they’d been secretly going together for a long time before David decided to put moves on her.

The problem was, he’d had such a hellish reputation that Libba hadn’t wanted to tell her mother, and they’d kept the affair, the first and best of his life, a secret. But David had known. There was no way he could have missed it. And when he started publicly courting her, public opinion swung directly against Caleb, as it had so many times before.

He wondered where Libba was now. He hoped to Christ she was happily married, with children. He hoped the scars had healed. Even with them crisscrossing the left side of her face she was still beautiful.

He’d been blamed for that as well. He’d been driving David’s car and David had followed. By the time he woke up in the hospital David had explained it all to everyone else…how his jealous older brother had chased after them, ramming their car with his trashy beater.

David had the story right. He just had the roles reversed. And Libba’s concussion had taken care of the rest of the truth.

He should never have taken the rap for the cat so many years ago. It still made him sick to think of it, no matter how many atrocities he’d witnessed overseas, but he couldn’t stand to see his apple-cheeked baby brother painted as such a horrific creature. So he’d made excuses—a spilled can of gasoline, a careless cigarette—and they’d bought it, sort of, looking at him funny and knowing he was lying. They just didn’t know who the lie was protecting.

It was too late to save David. He could no longer ignore the fact that he’d graduated to killing women, and by saying nothing, doing nothing, despite his suspicions, he was guilty as well.

But he wasn’t covering up anymore. Wasn’t walking away. This was going to stop, stop now, before anyone else got hurt.

But first he had to get Sophie and her mother out of the line of fire. Or they might be the next to go.

Stephen Henry Middleton waited until his personal assistant drove out of the driveway. Dylan was a charming boy—the generous salary Stephen Henry paid him was going a long way toward covering his college expenses, and he was smart enough not to notice anomalies. Or if he did, not to mention them.

The curtains at the front of the house were drawn, the lights were on, the doors were locked. No one would stop by unannounced, not his argumentative sons, certainly not his snooty daughter-in-law who liked to think he didn’t realize that she considered him a dirty old man. It amused him to play into it. In fact, he much preferred his sexual partners to be experienced, mature and male, though he kept that as one of his many secrets.

He set the brakes on his top-of-the-line wheelchair, kicked up the foot plates and rose. It was a good thing his house had wall-to-wall carpeting—there’d be no telltale scuffs on his shoes. He walked over to the small drinks table Dylan had set up, pouring himself a generous glass of his favorite Scotch, the one he never shared. Most palates were too unsophisticated to appreciate it. And besides, he wanted it all to himself. At his age he deserved to indulge himself.

He was going to have to do something about the current situation, though he wasn’t quite sure what. In his worst nightmares he could envision total disaster, but he firmly believed that things couldn’t be as hideous as they seemed. He simply wouldn’t let them be.

He was a selfish old man, lazy to a fault, greedy for attention and not particularly interested in other people’s needs, even those of his sons. He had no illusions about himself, not at his advanced age.

But he also didn’t want the extremely comfortable life he’d arranged for himself be shot all to hell by a nutcase for a son.

He moved into the sunroom, staring out through the dark, leafy houseplants, to the backyard and the rainy evening. He didn’t deserve that kind of lousy luck, and he preferred to think positively. A psychopath for a son would put a real damper on his golden years.

Therefore he simply wasn’t going to consider the possibility. Life was too good for him right now—he was waited on hand and foot, the attention was constant and flattering, and even if it looked like his sons had made some unfortunate choices, they couldn’t be as bad as he suspected. Plus there was no way the college could kick a cripple out of his plush faculty housing.

Positive thinking, that was the ticket.

And he raised his glass to his reflection in the window, a silent toast, before he headed back to his chair.