Daniel's throat tightened.
"Michael Turner?"
"I don't know."
"Did they say Michael?"
"Maybe."
Daniel stepped back.
The concrete room suddenly felt smaller.
Master Sergeant Michael Turner.
United States Army.
Intelligence specialist.
Daniel's closest friend for seventeen years.
Officially dead for almost six months.
Vehicle accident in western Tennessee.
Daniel had attended the funeral.
Closed casket.
Michael's widow had barely spoken.
Two weeks before dying, Michael sent Daniel an email.
Nothing dramatic.
Just:
When you're finally retired, I need a favor.
Come see me.
Don't bring the Army.
Daniel had promised.
Then Michael died before Daniel could come.
At the time Daniel assumed the favor died with him.
Now he wasn't sure.
"Lena."
She looked at him.
"Where did Michael Turner live?"
Her face drained.
"Outside town."
Daniel nodded.
"How far?"
"Eight miles."
"His accident?"
"Route 9."
"Who investigated?"
She hesitated.
Daniel already knew.
"Briggs?"
Lena nodded.
A door slammed upstairs.
She stepped back.
"Eat something else."
Then left.
Daniel remained motionless.
Michael Turner had asked him to come to Red Creek.
Someone had known.
Someone had been waiting.
And Michael's death suddenly looked less like an accident.
Daniel was released at 7:40 the next morning.
No explanation.
No formal charge.
Sheriff Briggs stood behind the desk while Daniel signed for his property.
"Prosecutor declined."
"That fast?"
"You're lucky."
Daniel looked at his phone.
Battery dead.
Convenient.
His wallet had been searched.
So had his backpack.
Nothing obvious missing.
Briggs handed over the keys.
"You leave town now, we don't have problems."
Daniel placed the keys in his pocket.
"If I don't?"
Briggs smiled.
"You seem smart."
Daniel leaned closer.
"I am."
Then left.
Duke waited outside with Lena.
The German shepherd saw Daniel and surged forward.
Lena nearly lost the leash.
Daniel crouched.
Duke pressed his head against his chest.
"Yeah."
Daniel rubbed behind his ears.
"I missed you too."
Lena watched.
"They searched your truck."
Daniel stopped.
"When?"
"Last night."
"Who?"
"Wade and two deputies."
"Looking for the file."
"Probably."
Daniel stood.
He scanned the parking lot.
His truck sat across the street.
"Where's Wade?"
"Home."
"You sure?"
Lena looked away.
"No."
Daniel understood.
"Do you want to go back to him?"
She whispered:
"I don't have anywhere else."
"You have family?"
"My sister."
"Where?"
"Nashville."
"Call her."
"Wade checks my phone."
"Use mine."
Daniel powered it with a portable battery pack.
Lena stared at the phone.
Fear returned.
Daniel held it out.
"I won't tell you what to do."
She looked at him.
"But if you're waiting for permission to leave, you have it."
Her lip trembled.
She took the phone.
While Lena walked several yards away, Daniel opened his truck.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
He checked beneath the seats.
Console.
Glove compartment.
Toolbox.
Someone had searched quickly.
He found a tiny scrape beside the rear interior panel.
They had removed it.
What had they expected?
A file Michael somehow placed in Daniel's truck?
Impossible.
Unless the file was never meant to be in the truck.
Maybe it was meant for him.
Lena returned.
"My sister's coming."
"Good."
"Three hours."
"We'll wait."
"You should go."
"Not without knowing why."
"Daniel."
"My friend is dead."
Lena became quiet.
Daniel continued.
"If that has anything to do with what happened yesterday, I'm not driving away."
Her eyes moved toward Duke.
"You're exactly who Briggs said you'd be."
"What did he say?"
"That you wouldn't quit."
Daniel smiled without humor.
"Michael knew that too."
At ten, Lena's sister arrived.
A blue sedan stopped behind the diner.
A woman jumped out and ran toward Lena.
They embraced.
Wade never appeared.
That worried Daniel more than if he had.
He waited until the sedan disappeared.
Then drove toward Michael Turner's former house.
Eight miles outside town.
Small property.
Two acres.
Mailbox removed.
House empty.
A FOR SALE sign leaned near the driveway.
Daniel parked.
Duke stepped out.
Immediately the dog became alert.
Not aggressive.
Working.
He sniffed along the porch.
Daniel tried the door.
Locked.
He did not break in.
Michael's widow, Elaine, had moved after the funeral.
Daniel found her number in old contacts.
She answered after four rings.
"Hello?"
"Elaine."
Silence.
Then:
"Daniel?"
"Yeah."
"Where are you?"
"Michael's house."
Long silence.
"Why?"
"He asked me to come before he died."
Elaine began crying.
Not loudly.
"Oh God."
Daniel's grip tightened around the phone.
"What?"
"He said you'd come."
"What did he leave?"
"I don't know."
"He gave me instructions."
"What instructions?"
"If anything happened..."
She took a breath.
"Let the house sit."
"Don't sell until after your retirement date."
Daniel looked at the FOR SALE sign.
"That's today."
"I listed it yesterday."
Michael had planned months ahead.
Daniel glanced toward Duke.
"What else?"
"He said you'd know where to look."
"I don't."
Elaine whispered:
"Then think like he did."
Daniel almost laughed.
Michael Turner thought like a paranoid chess player who expected everyone else to understand the board.
Daniel walked around the property.
Garage.
Tool shed.
Back porch.
Old motorcycle frame.
Michael had restored vintage bikes as a hobby.
Daniel entered the detached garage using the combination Elaine gave him.
Inside, dust covered everything.
Workbench.
Shelves.
Engine parts.
An old green motorcycle tank rested on a stand.
Duke sniffed it.
Then moved toward the rear wall.
Daniel followed.
Pinned above the workbench was a photograph.
Two young soldiers.
Daniel and Michael.
Iraq, 2004.
Underneath someone had written:
THE ROAD BACK IS NEVER THE ROAD OUT.
Daniel remembered the phrase.
Michael used it whenever they navigated convoy routes.
Never return using the same road.
Predictability gets you killed.
Daniel looked toward the garage door.
Road back.
Road out.
He stepped outside.
Two driveways?
No.
Then noticed tire tracks behind the shed.
Old.
Barely visible.
A narrow dirt path led through trees behind the property.
Daniel followed.
Five minutes later he reached an abandoned county road.
The road back was never the road out.
Michael had built a second exit.
Daniel walked along the path.
Duke stopped near a rotting fence post.
Sniffed.
Pawed once.
Daniel crouched.
Fresh soil?
No.
The ground had settled months ago.
He dug with a tire iron.