Perry Hollow was her town. It was where she grew up. It was the town her father swore to protect and serve decades before Kat swore to do the same thing. And while she appreciated all the help she could get, she wasn’t going to just stand by and hope others caught a killer for her.

“I understand your position,” Nick said in a voice that veered perilously close to patronizing. “But you need to let us do what we’re trained to do.”

“This isn’t a turf fight,” Kat said. “Or some jurisdiction bullshit in which I can’t get along with outside cops. Men care about that stuff. Women don’t. We just want to get the job done.”

She watched as Nick considered her policemen are from Mars, policewomen are from Venus argument. Eventually, he asked, “What did you have in mind?”

“George Winnick’s wife, Alma, reported him missing this morning, at about the same time I found his body. Now, I know that when a married person is murdered, the spouse is automatically the main suspect. But Alma didn’t do this. She’s just not physically capable. But she might have heard something or seen something. And I’m the best person to talk to her. She’s old-school. She won’t trust you or someone from your team.”

The man sitting next to Kat clasped his hands together, extended his index fingers, and placed them against his lips. Then he nodded.

“I like the way you think, Chief,” he said.

Kat nodded back. She was still frightened. And still exhausted. But she was also pleased with herself. Because for the first time since meeting him, she had finally impressed Nick Donnelly.

When Kat entered the police station a half hour later, Louella van Sickle was waiting for her. Lou, who had been the department’s dispatcher since before Kat’s father was chief, was a grandmother of twelve and looked after Kat like she was one of her own.

“I got you lunch,” she said, holding up a burger and fries from the Perry Hollow Diner. “You need to eat something.”

Kat should have been starving. Other than her lone sip of coffee, she had consumed nothing all day. But eyeing the burger and fries, she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing. Seeing George Winnick’s corpse hours earlier and then hearing about the Betsy Ross Killer’s crimes left her stomach feeling nothing but queasy.

“I’m not hungry.”

Lou gave her a disapproving look. “The crime scene diet never works.”

“This is the overwhelmed single mother diet,” Kat said. “I heard it works really well.”

“Speaking of that,” Lou said, biting into one of the rejected fries, “do you need me to pick James up from school?”

Kat, who had been steadily working her way to her office, froze in the hallway.

“What time is it?”

“Two thirty.”

School let out at three, and no matter how hectic her day was, she made it a priority to be waiting at the curb when class was dismissed. It was her sole routine. If she didn’t show up, it would throw her son’s whole day out of whack.

“I’ll get him,” she said. “But it would be a huge help if you could call Mrs. Lefferts and see if Amber is able to watch James after school.”

Lou cocked an eyebrow. “Amber Lefferts is still your babysitter?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Kat said. “Trust me, I’ve thought it myself.”

“At least you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Kat reversed direction and headed back the way she came. As she neared the front door, she asked, “Is there anything else before I go?”

Lou’s expression—a combination of knowledge and regret—told her there was.

“Someone from the Gazette is here,” she announced. “I put him in the break room. He’s been waiting for almost two hours. Says he needs to talk to you about George Winnick.”

Kat sighed. “If it’s Martin Swan, tell him I don’t have time to make a statement. I’ll give him something as soon as I get a chance.”

“It’s not Martin, Chief. It’s Henry Goll. The obituary writer.”

The name sounded familiar to Kat, although she couldn’t come up with a face to match it, which bothered her. Perry Hollow was a small town, and although she didn’t personally know all of its residents, she at least had an idea of what most of them looked like.

“He said it was important,” Lou added.

Kat switched directions again and marched into the break room. Seeing her, Henry Goll stood rigidly, arms folded across his sizable chest.

“Henry? I’m Chief Campbell.”

The reason Kat couldn’t match Henry Goll’s name with a face was because she had never laid eyes on him before. She would have remembered it if she had. He was tall—over six feet—and powerfully built. When he stepped toward her, his muscles moved smoothly beneath his khaki pants and black polo shirt.

His facial features were strong, too—square chin, Mediterranean nose, a thick head of black hair. He could have been a real looker, Kat thought, it if wasn’t for the massive scar that sliced diagonally across the lower half of his face. The upper part was also marred, dominated by a large burn mark covering his left temple and most of his forehead. His skin was pale—startlingly so—making the defects stand out all the more.

Kat extended a hand. When Henry shook it, she willed herself to look him directly in the eye and act as if everything about him was normal. Because of James, she understood the importance of treating someone different just like everyone else.

She smiled when she spoke. “I hear you have something that might interest me.”

Henry didn’t smile back. “Is there someplace private we can talk?”

Kat glanced at her watch and saw that she had five minutes. She needed to keep the conversation short, but Henry Goll appeared to be in no rush.

“I apologize,” she said, “but I need to run out for a little bit. Family matter. Could this wait until later?”

Henry pulled a creased sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it into her hand. Kat scanned the page, seeing George Winnick’s name and little else.

“Is this his obituary? It’s pretty skimpy.”

“It’s a death notice,” Henry said. “Not an obituary.”

“What’s the difference?”

“An obituary contains details—the person’s family, his career, his hobbies. A death notice is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a notification to the world that someone just died.”

Kat glanced from the paper to Henry and back again. “So this is George’s death notice. I’m still not sure what the issue is here.”

“The issue,” Henry said with maddening calmness, “is that it’s a fake.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just read it again.”

Kat obliged, eyes sliding across the humble sentence. When she got to the mention of George’s time of death, her heart skipped a beat.

“Now look at the top left corner,” Henry instructed.

Her gaze drifted to the top of the page. There, she saw what Henry was referring to—a time and date printed in minuscule letters. She had discovered George’s body at about eight that morning. The time printed on his death notice said he died at quarter to eleven the night before. Yet the time stamp on the fax indicated it had been sent at ten fifteen—thirty minutes before his death.

“This is impossible.”

“I told you it was important.”

Kat eyed her watch again. She needed to leave immediately, and there was only one solution she could think of.

“Do you feel like going for a drive?” she asked. “I need to pick my son up from school. On the way there, you can tell me everything you know.”

FIVE

Henry didn’t know where to begin. It wasn’t easy sounding sane while telling someone a killer faxed you his victim’s death notice before the murder occurred. But he was determined to try.

He also didn’t know what to make of the woman sitting next to him. Kat Campbell seemed to inject everything she did with relentless drive, whether it was marching out to her patrol car or buckling her seat belt. That quest for efficiency extended to her facial features. Her sharp chin jutted forward while her lips formed a grimace.

Yet Henry noticed small attempts at femininity peeking through her determined personality. Light pink gloss coated her lips. Tiny gold hoops hung from her ears. And some salon-produced highlights colored her obviously darkened hair. All that, coupled with shapely curves that couldn’t be erased by a severely starched uniform, made her look both tough and vulnerable—a soccer mom heading into battle.

And she drove like a maniac. Careening out of the station’s parking lot, they barely missed hitting a fire hydrant and had to swerve out of the way of an approaching car.

“First thing,” Kat said, steering through an alley that would take them onto Main Street, “when did you receive the death notice?”

“It was sitting in the fax machine when I got to my office this morning.”

“And what time was that?”

Henry clutched the dashboard as Kat jerked the steering wheel, making a sharp right onto Main Street. “Nine.”

“I found the body just after eight. I’m certain word trickled out to enough people for someone to send it before you got to work.”

“That doesn’t explain the time stamp,” Henry said. “And before you ask, yes, I already checked the fax machine to see if its date and time are set correctly. They are.”

“What about the fax number it was sent from?”

Henry knew what she was talking about. On every fax, the sending number appeared next to the time stamp.

“I don’t recognize it. Which means it wasn’t sent by a funeral home I regularly deal with. Or even by a funeral home at all.”

“So who do you think sent it?”

“If I had to guess,” Henry said, “I’d say it was sent by whoever killed George Winnick.”

On Main Street, traffic was plentiful. A UPS truck idled in the middle of the road, forcing all vehicles behind it to inch their way past. Kat huffed in frustration, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“Have you told anyone else about this?” she asked.

“No. I thought it was best to keep something like this quiet.”

Kat no longer appeared to be listening. Instead, she glanced in her rearview mirror before snapping her head toward the window, her hair whipping across her cheek. With her jaw set and the nostrils of her pert nose flaring, she said, “Hold on.”

She flicked on the car’s lights and siren before swinging the vehicle around the car in front of them and into the left lane. Without slowing, she continued on the wrong side of the road until they were past the UPS truck.

“Did you get a look at that truck’s plates?” she asked. “I should ticket him.”

A shaken Henry, who figured Chief Campbell should ticket herself first, shook his head.

Kat shrugged and veered left, bouncing them through another alley until they were on Baker Street, home of the elementary school.

“Let’s say the fax really was sent at ten fifteen last night,” she said, resuming their conversation. “Now, assuming it is from the killer, that means he would have sent it almost immediately before George Winnick died. But why would he do that?”

“I have no idea,” Henry said. “Maybe it was a warning.”

Kat sighed. “Or else a taunt.”

As she spoke, the school edged into view. Kat steered the patrol car into a line of sedans and SUVs waiting at the curb. She put the car in park just as the school’s front doors flew open, depositing a wave of children onto the sidewalk.

“I have a favor to ask,” Kat said, her eyes glued to the school doors. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Not your editor. Not any of the reporters. Not even Martin Swan.”

“Agreed.”

The chief glanced away from the school long enough to flash him a look of pleased surprise.

“Not a very devoted employee, are you?”

“My loyalty lies with the people I write about,” Henry said. “Nothing else is my concern, so I don’t bother with it.”

“That’s a good attitude to have.”

“I think so.”

Among the last students out of the school were two boys. One of them was a small child with ebony skin, thin limbs, and a pair of glasses balanced on his nose. The other was larger but slower, and he broke into a smile when he saw the patrol car. From where he sat, Henry could tell that the boy had Down’s Syndrome.

“Hey there, Little Bear,” Kat said as she jumped out of the car and planted a sloppy kiss on the boy’s cheek.

He ran the back of his hand across his face, wiping the kiss away. “Mom, not in front of Jeremy.”

The boy’s voice was thick and halting, though not as bad as most other cases of Down’s that Henry had seen. The clothes he wore—jeans and an oversized Philadelphia Eagles jersey—made it clear Kat wanted him to be treated like any other boy.

“How’s your cough?” she asked him. “Better?”

The boy nodded. “I only coughed eleven times today.”

“Eleven? I guess that’s better than twelve.”

When the police chief smiled this time, Henry noted it wasn’t a forced grin like the one she had offered him in the police station. It was natural and maternal, spreading across her face with unconscious joy. Much more attractive than the pinched expression she had worn during the drive there.

Kat opened the patrol car’s back door to let both boys climb inside. When he saw Henry, the chief’s son held out a pudgy hand.

“Hi. I’m James.”

“My name’s Henry.”

The other boy crinkled his nose at Henry, a gesture that made his glasses rise and fall.

“What happened to your face?”

James swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t be rude.”

“I was just asking,” the other boy said.

“This is Jeremy,” James told Henry. “He’s a stupid head.”

Jeremy scowled. “You’re a stupid head.”

Kat slid behind the wheel and admonished the pair with a stern glance in the rearview mirror. “You’re both stupid heads. End of discussion.”

That sent the boys into hysterics.

“Mom called us stupid heads,” James said through a torrent of giggles. “That’s funny.”

Henry should have found it funny, too. Yet the presence of the boys made him so uncomfortable it eclipsed all amusement. He wasn’t good with kids. Not anymore. And although he could normally bear brief moments of contact with them, this was too much to handle. He had to get out of the car.

“I need to go,” he mumbled.

“But we’re not finished,” Kat said, baffled by his sudden change in mood. “You need to come back to the station and make an official statement.”

Henry shook his head, feeling tears form at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want anyone to see him crying. Henry Ghoul didn’t cry. Especially in front of children.

“I can’t right now,” he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the street. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

Kat was left with no choice but to drive away. As the patrol car departed, James and Jeremy pressed their faces to the window and waved.

Henry mustered a small wave in return. Then, once they were gone, his anger and sorrow took over. These feelings were difficult to control, even after five years. Still, Henry tried. And as he breathed deeply, the rage flaring in his chest, only one tear leaked out. It caught on his scar and followed its path down the entire length of his face.

SIX

Kat and James arrived home after school to find Amber Lefferts waiting on the front porch. She wasn’t alone. A tall, young man with a shock of black hair and an intimidating build leaned against the railing next to her. One of his huge arms was propped over the babysitter’s shoulders. He had the other wrapped around her waist, hand sneaking upward toward her right breast.

The youth immediately stopped pawing Amber when the patrol car turned into the driveway. Despite his speed, Kat saw it all. And when she got out of the car, the groper offered a sheepish grin.

Kat knew his name. Everyone in the county knew Troy Gunzelman, the star quarterback for the Perry Hollow Cougars. He was as good as any player his age in the state, and the town expected big things from him. There were rumors Penn State was trying to recruit him, a big deal for a place as smalltime as Perry Hollow.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Campbell,” Troy said in his best suck-up voice. “How are you today?”

“It’s Chief Campbell. And I’m not married.”

She eyed Troy warily. He wasn’t merely good-looking. With his chiseled features, he was movie-star handsome. Kat didn’t know exactly why he was hanging out with Amber, but she had a pretty good idea.

“Troy gave me a ride from school,” the babysitter said. “He was just leaving.”

That was news to Troy, who shot Amber a disappointed look. She apparently forgot to tell him about Kat’s strict no-boys-allowed policy.

“Whatever,” he said. “I’ve got to hit the gym anyway.”

“See ya, Troy.” Kat patted him on the back as he stomped down the porch steps. “Hit it hard.”

She remembered Lou’s earlier comment about Amber as she watched Troy cross the yard to his vintage green Mustang. Yes, she knew what she was getting herself into.

The babysitter came from one of the most respected families in town. Reverend Lefferts was pastor of the First Presbyterian Church. His wife volunteered with every organization in town, despite having to raise seven children, all of them blond, pale-skinned, and squeaky-clean. They were Perry Hollow’s own von Trapp family, only without the lederhosen.

Except for Amber.

Barely fifteen, the youngest of the Lefferts children was by far the wildest. She smoked behind the high school, stayed out after curfew, and altered her clothing to reveal as much as she could get away with. In spite of the winter weather, that afternoon she sported a pink T-shirt, white Keds, and a denim skirt so short it might as well have been a belt. Despite being a natural blonde, she had put streaks in her hair that were practically white. Combined with her porcelain-doll skin tone, it almost made her look like an albino.

No one had high hopes for Amber, including Kat, but she was an angel with James. Unlike other sitters, Amber talked to James and not at him. Since she showed no signs of being uncomfortable around him, James responded in kind. Amber was the only babysitter he looked forward to spending time with. For that reason, she was always the first person Kat called.

When he got out of the car, James bolted onto the porch and gave Amber a hug.

“Do you wanna play Wii with me?” he asked. “I got a new dog game.”

“Sure,” Amber said, shaking off the sting of Troy’s abrupt departure. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

Kat opened her wallet and took out a twenty.

“This is for pizza. I have no idea what time I’ll be home. If it’s past ten, I’ll pay you overtime.”

Amber accepted the money with a shrug and tucked it into a fake Gucci purse slung over her shoulder. “It’s cool.”

Before leaving, Kat pulled James aside. Although she knew what his answer would be, she asked, “Are you going to behave for Amber?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, his voice tinged with the sarcasm he was just beginning to learn. For that, Kat blamed Jeremy.

“Now, on the hug scale, how much do you love me?”

When James wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, Kat felt overwhelmed with love. Moments like that made all the hard work it took to raise him worthwhile. Moments like that made Kat realize she would do anything for her son.

“Go have fun with Amber,” she said, reluctant to let him go. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

James smiled and waved before running inside the house. Kat trudged back to the car, dreading the long evening ahead and wanting only to stay home with her son.

Ten years ago, while still a rookie officer with everything to prove, Kat never thought she would one day feel this way. At the time, she considered her pregnancy to be an unwanted burden.

So did the father.

His name was Jackson Moore—Jack, for short—formerly the other half of Perry Hollow’s two-person police force. Back then, he and Kat considered themselves a couple, although not a serious one. Kat’s focus was on her career, and she knew that when the time came to settle down, it wouldn’t be with someone as undependable as Jack. Despite a killer smile, a quick wit, and being an animal in bed, he wasn’t husband or father material.

Then Kat got pregnant, forcing both of them to make major decisions. The first was whether to keep the baby, a question Kat wrestled with more than she cared to admit. When she told Jack she’d decided to have his child, he did the honorable thing and proposed. Kat said yes, not because she wanted to be his wife but because she felt it was the right thing to do.

The wedding ceremony lasted ten minutes and was followed by beer, chips, and a cake Lou had baked the night before. Their honeymoon trip consisted of moving Kat’s belongings from her mother’s house to Jack’s apartment. They pretended to be happy while waiting out the remainder of her pregnancy. But the fact Kat kept her maiden name should have been a signal to everyone that she assumed it wouldn’t last.

When James was born with Down’s Syndrome, Kat vowed to love and protect her son for the rest of her life. Jack assured her he was also up to the challenge of raising a child with special needs, and Kat wanted to believe him. But deep down, she couldn’t. She expected the marriage to last at least a year. She got ten months.

Kat felt no anger when Jack filed for divorce, quit the force, and moved to Montana. Nor did she harbor any bitterness toward him after he abandoned all contact by the time James turned three. Jack was weak, and she forgave him for that. Besides, she knew her love for James would get them through whatever difficulties they faced.

That love, so strong it sometimes frightened her, prompted her to pursue the job of police chief when James was seven. As a mother, it was her duty to protect her child. And like her father before her, Kat thought protecting the entire town was the best way to go about it. If Perry Hollow remained safe, then so did James.

Other than a few adult variations of the Amber Lefferts model, Perry Hollow was a cinch to monitor. It was small, sleepy, dull.

Until today.

Driving up Main Street, Kat wondered how the town would handle something as disturbing as George Winnick’s death. It left her rattled and uncertain. She assumed the town felt the same way.

Tucked among the mountains of southeastern Pennsylvania, the town bore the name of Mr. Irwin R. Perry, who had deemed the area a worthy enough place to build a lumber mill. Fueled by abundant forests of pine, the mill prospered and the town grew. Perry Hollow was never large; nor was it ever rich. But it was comfortable, which was good enough for the folks who lived there.

The whole town had revolved around Perry Mill, which stood at the far end of Lake Squall. Homes were built to house the mill’s workers, who frequented stores that kept track of every mill payday. Even Kat was a product of the mill—her grandparents met while working there.

The first blow came in the sixties, when demand for lumber faltered. It only got worse in the ensuing decades. When the mill closed in 1990, Perry Hollow shuttered itself along with it. Residents left in droves, and a drive through town was a depressing tour of vacant storefronts and crumbling homes.

In 2000, when a restaurateur from New York City chose Perry Hollow as the location for a fancy French bistro, no one thought it would last very long. The food was so expensive that no one in town could actually afford to eat there. But out-of-towners could, and the restaurant thrived. “Destination dining” it was called, and it worked. For the first time in years, people actually stopped in Perry Hollow instead of cutting through it on their way to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

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