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narrowing it down to a stretch of road between Gardenia and Port St. Joe. Dade Ford Road ran along an area punctuated by a dozen small sloughs and ponds. Maddy claimed she’d thrown the guns in one of them and the phone in another. But it was dark when she did it, with only a few stars to see by. She couldn’t tell one place from another.
    Three or four times now they’d pulled off to the side of the road, Maddy squinting through the windshield. Then she’d say, “No, this isn’t it.”
    On the drive, Maddy told Jolie about her adult children. One girl had two children, a boy and a girl, and the younger girl was a theater major at FSU. In close quarters, Maddy’s voice seemed very bright and loud—almost manic. Jolie felt increasingly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t just Maddy’s voice. She knew that at some point, she would have to get out of the car and walk out to one of these ponds.
    Jolie wondered if this… phobia could affect her job. Nobody wanted a phobic cop, especially a water-phobic cop in a county where there was so much water.
    Maddy said, “You know, I really think this is it. Up a little farther. Off that little road.”
    Jolie drove along the road’s shoulder and turned onto the crushed shell two-track in the direction of the trees. She parked. Maddy got out, but Jolie remained in the car.
    It was hot with the air off. Like an oven. Beads of sweat prick-led her scalp.
    Maddy waded through the brush a ways and turned back. “You coming?”
    “In a minute,” Jolie said. “You go ahead.” She took the clipboard off the dash. She stared at it without seeing and made a notation—her initials. The heat buzzed at the edge of her nostrils, making it hard to breathe. She glanced at her computer. Looked through the windshield at Maddy, who was walking along the edge of the trees.
    All right.
    She pushed open the heavy car door and stepped out. Adrenaline rushed to her hands and feet, leaving her center cold. The buzz in her gut grew louder.
    She watched Maddy push through the undergrowth. Lots of low vegetation and tall trees. Kudzu vine, too. Jolie stared at the kudzu. It was a special color green. She knew the color. What was it? Kelly. Kelly green. It was so bright, so luridly green, she had to look away.
    Maddy called out to her. “I really think this is the place.”
    Jolie straightened and took a breath. Pushed off with her left foot. Kept on walking, right foot, left foot. She’d walk until she had to stop. Through the brush, she caught glimpses of the water, stained to a tea color by the tannin from the cypress trees.
    And she surprised herself. Before she knew it, Jolie had reached the bank. Stood at the edge, looking down at the water.
    And she felt nothing.
    No dark, buzzing cloud of unreasoning fear. No feeling that she would die any minute. None of that.
    She did experience a thrill. Pure, like salvation.

12
    Nick thought: This book will sell itself.
    He loved the idea, his agent loved it, and the publisher loved it. Why not? Something like that happens to you, why not use it? He’d be a fool not to.
    Someone murders a bunch of people in an upscale house in Aspen, kills a big star like Brienne Cross, and you’re the sole survivor? It’s like the gods came down from Mount Olympus and said, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
    His agent and his publisher wanted the book soon. Even before the ink was dry on the contract, they suggested he get out there and hype it. And so he did. He gave interviews to news organizations, tabloids, magazines, radio, and the bloggers. He always held something back, though, giving every one of them the same canned story. He needed to keep his powder dry for the book.
    When he and his publisher were tossing around ideas, they fell into calling it “The Aspen Project.” They all agreed he had a special perspective, having written the series of essays on Brienne’s reality show for Vanity Fair . Nick had been embedded with the Soul Mate cast and crew,