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for her big break, and
    he’d agreed. But when the time came to actually put the pieces of
    his life in the tidy white rows of Bankers Boxes she’d assembled for him, he couldn’t do it.
    He couldn’t leave the farmhouse they’d restored together, room
    by room, over the early months and years of their marriage.
    He couldn’t leave his workshop with the table where he’d sanded
    and carved and shaped planks and doors and boards into their new
    lives. Every design choice was stuff ed full of memories, from the dry sink she’d found at a fl ea market to the wall sconces he’d rewired to mount on either side of the fi replace mantle. He couldn’t leave the creek that ran behind their place, the meadow where they’d said their vows, the diner where they had breakfast on lazy Saturdays. He was paralyzed with grief every time he contemplated those blasted
    moving boxes, staring up at him empty and reproachful.
    Meanwhile, she’d been sitting in a sterile, mostly unfurnished
    condo, waiting for him to do what he’d promised and come to be
    with her. Instead, he’d stopped returning her calls then served her with divorce papers.
    40
    CHILLING EFFECT
    Stop beating yourself up; look to the future, not the past. He repeated the words she’d said to him so often in the early days after they’d reconciled. And to their shared credit, they had forged forward together, leaving the past behind them, where it belonged.
    Th is trip was part of their new life together, a chance to make new memories to replace the ones they’d rather not dredge up.
    But now she was going to go off on a mission. He’d known this
    was coming. He’d seen the excited glint in her eye when she got in
    the car.
    Th e hill he’d been huffi ng up crested, and he stood for a minute and surveyed the dark outline of the mountains, the tall trees bend-ing in the wind, and the stillness of the air. Th e quiet was pierced by a shrill birdcall. Joe started at the sound. Th en a dark shape swooped overhead, low and close. He ducked, stumbled backward, and nearly
    lost his footing.
    “A bird must fl y.”
    Th e voice came from the clearing to the right and scared him
    worse than the bird had. He grabbed a tree trunk to avoid tumbling
    off the ridge.
    A man stepped out of the dark, holding a lantern.
    “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, a smile creasing his tanned, lined face.
    Joe examined the man’s face in the light dancing from the lan-
    tern. He looked to be in his midsixties or so. Long white hair, parted and braided into two neat plaits, hung over his shoulders.
    “Uh, no worries, ” Joe lied. It was clear the man was a Native
    American and presumably a local. But it wasn’t at all clear why he
    was traipsing around in the dark while a murderer was on the loose.
    Th e man extended his right hand. “I’m Matthew Cowslip.
    Everyone calls me Boom.”
    Joe wiped his sweaty palm on his slacks and then shook Boom’s
    proff ered hand.
    41
    MELISSA F. MILLER
    “Joe Jackman.”
    “I know.”
    Joe cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Th e hairs on his
    arms stood up. Was this an ambush?
    W
    Th
    as this an ambush?
    W
    e notion never would have
    occurred to him a year earlier, but being targeted and drugged by a prostitute in a bar, spirited to a remote cabin, and held hostage by a homicidal Eastern European gangster tended to make a guy suspicious of overly friendly strangers.
    “You do?”
    “Sure. You’re with Aroostine Higgins, correct?”
    “I’m her husband,” he said in a half growl, his worry mount-
    ing. He didn’t know which direction the man had come from.
    What if he’d already encountered Aroostine at the car? What if he’d hurt her . . . or worse? He clenched his fi sts at his side.
    “Of course. Ms. Higgins called in the report of the tragic death
    of one of our young people, Isaac Palmer.” Boom gave a sad shake
    of his head at the mention of Palmer’s death but kept his face open and friendly, as if to reassure Joe