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  Cradling the warm cup, she sipped the stiff brew and moaned as satisfaction and the caffeine infused her blood, wiring her for the day. Youngstown. The Weather Channel had reported snow on the coast of southern Maine last night. Perfect. She hated snow. That was the one thing she deplored about living in New York, the winters. Still, she'd take a New York winter any day over a Maine winter.

  "But we go," she muttered, "whenever and wherever the work takes us."

  That was another thing she was beginning to hate. The work. She refilled her cup and hoped like hell a second shot of caffeine would get her on the way to feeling remotely human. Three or four more cups between now and flight time and she might just attain that elusive goal.

  She trudged back to her bedroom. Pack, get dressed, then take the train to LaGuardia. A short flight to Portland, then a ninety-minute rental-car drive to Youngstown. Whoopee.

  No doubt a welcoming committee would be waiting for her.

  Something else she intensely disliked. Sarah downed the last of the coffee. The people. Wherever her work took her she could always count on being the passing freak show.

  The locals would stare at her. Whisper behind their hands. Make up weird shit to say about her in their insignificant little newspapers. Bring up crap from the past and call her unreliable. Then, when she was finished, they would really go for the jugular.

  A charlatan who just got lucky when she stumbled upon what no one else had found. A burned-out pessimist who got off on damaging the lives of others with her harsh, tell-all reports of truth in relation to so-called real life in small-town America.

  The truth she worked so hard to uncover was never what anyone wanted to see or hear, no matter that the mystery was ultimately solved in the process.

  Sarah's view on the subject of truth was simple. It was fact. No amount of steadfast determination, relentless hope, or desperate prayer changed it.

  It is what it is.

  Once she revealed the facts, her job was done. She left and then for months or even years the good citizens would blame her for their every misfortune.

  She stared at her beat-up old suitcase and shook her head. "Man, I love this job."

  CHAPTER 3

  Youngstown, Maine, 6:00 A.M. The Overlook Inn

  From the broad expanse of windows in his parlor-turned-lobby Barton Harvey gazed out across the sleepy harbor below. Morning mist still shrouded the vessels docked there. Floating aimlessly in the chilly water like abandoned pirate ships, the schooners waited patiently for their protective covers to be removed. The scraping and painting and other maintenance work that had gone on the better part of the winter was finished now. The fishing boats were already venturing daily into the icy waters.

  The peaceful village that had been his home from the day he was born clung to the side of the gently ascending cliff, rooftops jutted stubbornly through the lingering fog. Chimneys puffed the smoke of survival.

  As stubborn as the houses their ancestors had built centuries ago, his friends and neighbors were ready to plunge into the work they loved—dredging the sea for its generous bounty and playing host to tourists from far and wide.

  In a couple of months or so his inn would be filled to capacity. For most folks life would move smoothly into the tourist season as it did every year.

  His jaw hardened. But not for Barton. Not this year.

  A young girl was dead. Another was missing.

  And she was coming.

  Barton turned away from the picturesque view. He had duties to see to. No matter how he worried. The facts would not change.

  Murder was murder… new or old. Didn't matter.

  Someone would have to pay.

  She had a reputation for finding the truth, however crude and dispassionate her tactics.

  Barton glanced at the blazing fire he'd meticulously prepared to chase away the morning chill. Guests loved arriving in the lobby of his inn to a glorious fire roaring in the massive stone fireplace. One guest or an innful, he never liked to disappoint.

  He crossed the quiet room and stepped behind the two-century-old registration desk. His grandfather's grandfather had imported the intricately carved mahogany greeting-counter from Spain. The matching hutch that hung on the wall behind the counter and housed messages for guests and room keys had been designed and handcrafted by the same artisan. Every square foot of this inn echoed centuries of history from near and far. It represented all that Barton was. In good times and bad, he never neglected his responsibility to his heritage.

  After slipping his reading glasses into place, he opened the leather-bound reservation book. He despised computers. Refused to use them to this day. He liked making reservations the old-fashioned way, the way his father had and his father before him.

  Scrawled in the block for today's date was one name.

  Sarah Newton.

  He closed his eyes and fought to calm the emotions warring deep in his chest.

  No matter how good she was, he had to make certain she didn't find the one secret he had kept carefully hidden for so very long.

  No one could ever know.

  No one.

  Squaring his shoulders with determination, he dismissed the worry. Failure was out of the question. He would not allow her to destroy all that he had worked for his entire life.

  All his forefathers had carefully preserved for those who came after.

  He would stop her.

  Whatever it took.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Living Word Church, 6:10 A.M.

  "Amen." Reverend Christopher Mahaney lifted his head and gazed at the beautiful crucifix adorning the wall beyond the modest altar.

  He had prayed for most of the night. A sweet child was still missing. Christopher's eyes pinched shut in agony. Another lay dead beneath a snow-covered blanket of earth.

  The devil had ascended upon the community of Youngstown with devastating impact, igniting a ripple, the full effects of which were building, broadening, threatening…

  "Forgive me, Father," Christopher murmured, the anguish seizing his faulty heart yet again.

  He'd begged for forgiveness over and over during the days since the first girl had gone missing. Though his heavenly Father forgave His children freely, Christopher was not so sure he would ever truly be forgiven for this despicable mistake. A sin for which he had no acceptable excuse.

  Except that he was guilty of just one thing—giving her what she wanted.

  She had cried on his shoulder and told him of her desperation… of her darkest desires. She had needed him. He had surrendered to the temptation. Then, afterwards, she had changed her story. Insisted he had misunderstood her needs.

  Anger trickled into his veins. He served his congregation selflessly… was always there for each and every one of them. Did no one see his own needs? He was, after all, only human.

  Christopher resisted the frustration and anger. The error was his… no matter the excuse. The path of repentance was the only road to forgiveness.

  Perhaps forgiveness was not the issue… but punishment.

  He squeezed his hands together in supplication.

  "Give me the strength, Father… to stand firm during the coming trials."

  When the chosen time came there was no escaping God's wrath. As a faithful servant, he would not be so bold as to wish to escape. He was not entitled to mercy. The wherewithal to endure would be gift enough. He must humbly accept whatever punishment his dear Lord decreed.

  But not this…

  His chest heaved with a burdened breath.

  She would arrive today.

  Mere hours from now.

  He had read accounts of her exploits in other towns, with other cases. She left many desolated lives in her wake. Not even the innocent stood in her way. As God had sent forth his faithful servant Ezekiel amid the children of Israel to reveal their sins and to give warning… she too came forth as a revealer and to give warning.

  The truth would be exposed, naked in the lig
ht, for all to see and be outraged.

  There was no escaping… no hiding… not when one's fate had been ordained.

  Christopher genuinely feared that the Divine decision regarding his having succumbed to the sins of the flesh had already been made.

  He was as certain as a lowly human could be.

  She was his punishment.

  How would he endure?

  CHAPTER 5

  Youngstown Municipal Offices, 1:55 P.M.

  She was here.

  Kale Conner stepped outside Youngstown's Municipal Offices as the Budget rental car pulled into the lot. Mayor Patterson owed him one for this. No one on the village council had wanted this job, but not a single member was willing to allow Sarah Newton to roam the town unsupervised.

  Her reputation preceded her.

  By several hundred miles and endless newspaper headlines.

  "Ms. Newton?" Kale ordered a smile to go along with the cordial tone he managed. There was work he could be getting done. Running a decent-sized fleet of lobster boats kept him plenty busy. But, as Patterson had so graciously reminded him, he also had an obligation to the citizens and to the village. There would be times that obligation would need to take priority over all else. Like now. Since Kale was the first in all the generations of Youngstown Conners to hold a political office, he doubted his father would be particularly proud if he screwed it up this early in his new career.

  New… right. His career was the same as it had always been—pleasing everyone but himself.

  Get over it. There were worse things. Doing the right thing was something to be proud of.

  "That's me." Newton thrust out her right hand.

  Kale gave her hand a quick, polite shake. Her grip was firm, self-assured. He'd expected nothing less. "Kale Conner. I'm certain you're anxious to get settled at the inn."

  Zipping her coat against the chill, she glanced around. "Actually, I'd like to go to the scene first." Her gaze reconnected with his. "If you'll give me directions, I'll be fine on my own. I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone."

  The offer was tempting but he had his orders. "You're our guest, Ms. Newton. We—"

  "Sarah," she cut in.

  Kale hesitated.

  "That's what people call me," she explained, obviously mistaking his pause to modify his strategy for confusion at her suggestion. "At least in the beginning."

  He nodded. "Sarah," he repeated. "We appreciate what you've come here to do and we want to facilitate your efforts any way we can. I'm completely at your disposal." Good for him. He'd gotten out the whole backup spill without a glitch. He couldn't see any reason why she wouldn't grasp the logic in that explanation.

  Except maybe for the skeptical look in her eyes. Clearly he'd needed a Plan C. She was nowhere near convinced of his sincerity or the sensibleness of his offer. Great.

  "That's very nice of you, but I'm used to working alone."

  He just bet she was. She had that whole martyr-with-a-cause attitude about her, from the defiant tilt of her chin to the wide set of her feet. At all of five three or four, maybe ninety lean pounds, and full of spit and fire, she was ready for battle. Blond hair hugged her neck and would probably hug her face if it weren't so haphazardly tucked beneath a black ski cap. Shaggy gold wisps curled this way and that. But it was the eyes that put him on guard. Bluer than any body of water he'd navigated, and he'd navigated plenty. Intense, high-octane blue. And totally suspicious of his motives.

  "But leaving you to fend for yourself wouldn't be very neighborly of me." When all else fails, go for the basics. "I insist on making your visit here as pleasant as possible."

  That analyzing gaze she skillfully wielded claimed another few seconds to complete its scrutiny of him, then she presented half a smile. "You mean you don't trust me so you want to babysit me."

  Well, hell. "Ms. Newton—Sarah—" he amended, "we've had a murder. The first in twenty years." The irritation he'd kept tightly compartmentalized seeped past his guard. She didn't want him hanging around and, in truth, he had better things to do. But that was just too bad for both of them. "We've got an eighteen-year-old girl missing. We want her found and this case solved. The whole village is living in fear of who might be next and, so far, the police don't have a shred of evidence, much less a suspect. If you can figure this thing out, I'm all for it. So's the rest of the town."

  As if she'd read his mind when he visually sized her up, she tugged off the ski cap, finger-combed her hair, then pulled the cap back into place before settling her full attention on him once more. She sighed as if she had to trawl long and deep for patience before responding. "Let's be completely frank here, Mr. Conner. I—"

  "Kale," he interrupted.

  Her eyes tapered with more blatant suspicion. "Kale," she acquiesced. "I know who you are and why you're here."

  He resisted the impulse to brace his arms over his chest. Keep it relaxed. No telltale body language. He should have anticipated that she would look into who's who in Youngstown before showing up. As much as she clearly wanted to give that impression, people like her didn't dive into a situation blind. To the contrary, they calculated every move.

  "You're a fifth-generation fisherman with a good-sized operation," she said. "Like so many other small Maine fishing companies, you turned the greater part of your attention to lobsters when the fish stocks became largely depleted. Last year you got yourself elected to the Youngstown Village Council. I imagine your family's very proud. But I also know that you're the youngest and newest member of Youngstown's esteemed council, so you get the menial jobs no one else wants to deal with. Like the potentially unpleasant task of handling me."

  He opened his mouth to regain control of the situation but she held up a hand to stop him. "In the past ten years, I've been down this road more times than I care to recall. I'm well aware of what people, like you and your fellow council members, think of me."

  She sent a pointed look across the street at Cappy's Chowder House where most of the patrons had their noses plastered to the windows. "I know what the citizens in your town think of me when they haven't even met me. And that's okay." Another of those half-smiles slanted one corner of her mouth. "I didn't come here to make friends. I didn't even come here to make nice. I'm here to clarify the facts in an unsolved case swaddled in naive myths. Nothing more." She made one of those facial expressions that said whatever. "It's quite simple. You don't get in my way and I won't get in yours. Capiche?"

  Don't say anything you'll regret.

  Though he'd passed impatient and was barreling toward ticked off, he took a breath. Kept it contained, as challenging as that proved. He inclined his head and countered her lengthy discourse with a somewhat shorter one of his own. "I know a little something about you, too, Sarah Newton. But I won't trouble you with the details. Whether you believe me or not, we're on the same side. If you can figure out what our chief of police, a fourth-generation lawman, and all his deputies can't, then by all means, let's get to it."

  She searched his eyes one long, pulse-pounding moment. "All right. We'll play this your way. Since," she qualified, "we're on the same side."

  The muscle in his jaw throbbed from the hard set of his teeth. Stay cool. Don't let her get to you. He gestured to his Jeep. "Why don't we take my vehicle?" He patently scrutinized her mid-size sedan. "I think you'll find that four-wheel drive comes in handy around here." Although the temperature was fairly mild, they still had upward of two feet of snow on the ground. Last night's misforecast storm had dropped six inches instead of two. The snowplows had been out in earnest this morning, ensuring the roads were cleared. "Good point." She gifted him with one of those looks that said he'd earned a measly point, then she did an about-face and hustled back to her rental car.

  She grabbed the keys from the ignition and a black shoulder bag before locking the doors. The bag was nearly as big as she was. With her back still turned, she draped it over her head, allowing the strap to fall onto one shoulder while the bulky bag settled a
gainst the opposite hip. A good stiff breeze and she'd surely topple over.

  No question the lady was from New York. Black coat, bag, and cap. His gaze traveled down the slim-fitting black jeans. Judging by her shapely legs, he would wager she had one hell of a great ass.

  "I know."

  His head snapped up. Busted. He was supposed to be representing the Village of Youngstown. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of pervert scoping out her assets.

  "I was supposed to bring snow boots but I forgot."

  He glanced down at the black Converse sneakers. She turned her palms up in a what-can-I-say gesture as she backed toward his Jeep. "I'll pick up a pair while I'm here."

  "That wouldn't be a bad idea." He'd dodged the bullet on that one. She didn't strike him as the type who wanted to be looked at. At least, not that way.

  He rounded the hood and climbed into his Jeep. As determined as she was to stick to her own agenda and methods, she seemed reasonable enough. She had agreed to ride with him. That was a step in the right direction. "You might want to get gloves, too."

  She made an agreeable sound as she settled into the passenger seat. "Definitely. Forgot those, too."

  "We've set a record for snowfall this winter." He started the engine, turned up the heat, and snapped his seat belt into place. Backing out of the slot, he added, "Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the next few days."

  No comment.

  "Lucky for us, last night's snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way."

  Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.

  He was done making attempts at conversation for now. He didn't doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind. For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment. Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown's thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor. Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street. Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.