Though it brought on a massive stress headache, she attended Marla's funeral. She sat through the short service with Xander, with Kevin and Jenny flanking her other side.

It seemed to her nearly everyone in town had come, wearing sober faces, paying respects to Marla's mother, to Chip.

The church smelled too strongly of lilies-the pink ones draped over the glossy coffin, the pink and white ones rising in sprays from tall baskets.

She hadn't been inside a church in more than a decade. They reminded her of her childhood, of Sunday dresses stiff with starch, of Wednesdaynight Bible readings.

Of her father standing at the lectern reciting scripture in his deep voice, so much sincerity on his face as he spoke of God's will, or God's love, of following a righteous path.

Being inside one now, the sun streaming through the stained glass, the lilies clogging the air, the reverend reading all-too-familiar passages, she wished she'd stayed away. She hadn't known Marla, had only had a difficult encounter with her.

But she'd found her, so she'd made herself come.

Relief came like a sharp wind through musty memories when she stepped outside into the clear, uncolored sunlight, the clean, unscented air.

Xander steered her away from where most gathered to talk before the drive to the cemetery.

"You went pale."

"It was so close in there, that's all." And too many who'd come snuck glances at her.

At the woman who'd found the body.

"I need to go to the cemetery," he told her. "You don't."

"I don't think I will. It feels too much like gawking when I didn't know her."

"I'll drive you back, drop you off."

"I should've brought my own car. I wasn't thinking."

"It's not much of a detour," he began, then turned as Chip walked up.

The picture of grief, Naomi thought. Red-rimmed, dazed eyes, pale skin bruised under those dazed eyes from lack of sleep. A big man with a hollow look.

"Chip. Sorry, man."

They exchanged the one-armed hugs men seemed to prefer before Chip looked at Naomi.

"Miss Carson."

"Naomi. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You found her. The chief said the way they'd . . . how they'd left her, it might've been a while before anybody did. But you found her so they could bring her back, take care of her."

Tears leaked out of those dazed eyes as he took her hand between his massive ones. "Thank you."

Habitually she avoided touching strangers, getting too close, but compassion overwhelmed her. She drew him to her, held him a moment.

No, killers didn't think of this-or did they? she wondered. Did pain and grief add to the thrill? Did it season it like salt?

As he drew back, Chip knuckled tears away. "The reverend said how Marla's gone to a better place." Chip shook his head. "But this is a good place. It's a good place. She shouldn't have to go to a better one."

He swallowed hard. "Are you coming to the grave site?"

"I am. I'm taking Naomi home, then I'll be there."

"Thank you for coming, Naomi. Thank you for finding her."

As he walked off like a man lost, Naomi turned away.

"Oh God, Xander."

And she wept for a woman she hadn't known.

Twenty.

As most of the crew had known Marla, Naomi came home to a relatively quiet house. The noise centered, for now, in what would be her studio, and came in the form of country music and a nail gun.

Still, when she tried to work, she couldn't settle. Whatever images she brought onto her screen, she ended up seeing shattered eyes.

Instead, she took the dog and her camera out front. She'd get those before pictures for Lelo, as simple and routine a task as she could devise. She'd make copies for herself, she thought, maybe put together a book on the evolution of the house.

She could keep it in the library, revisit the process when it would have the charm of distance.

When the dog dropped one of his balls at her feet, she decided to embrace another distraction. She tossed it, watched him joyfully chase after it.

The third time he returned, he spat it out, his ears pricked up, and his gaze shifted with a low, warning growl seconds before she heard the sound of a car.

"Must be the crew coming. Talk about distractions."

But she saw the chief of police's cruiser come up the rise.

Everything in her tensed, balled up in tight, cold fists. She'd seen him at the funeral. If there'd been any progress on the investigation, the odds were high she'd have heard something there. In any case, her finding the body didn't mean he'd feel obliged to tell her anything directly.

There was only one reason he'd come to see her.

To help calm herself, Naomi laid a hand on Tag's head. "It's okay. I've been expecting him."

They started across the bumpy, patchy grass as Sam got out of the cruiser.

"The Kobie brothers," he said, nodded toward the truck.

"Yes. Wade and Bob are upstairs working. The rest of the crew went to the funeral."

"I just left the cemetery myself. I wanted to have a private word with you before the rest of Kevin's crew got back."

"All right." Her stomach in knots, she turned toward the house. "I don't have a lot of seating yet, but it's nice on the deck off the kitchen."

"I heard you hired the Lelos to do some landscaping."

"They plan to start on Tuesday."

"You're making real progress," he commented as they stepped inside.

She only nodded, continued back. Progress, she thought, but for what? She should never have let herself fall in love with the house, with the area. She should never have allowed herself to become so involved with the man.

"This is a hell of a nice kitchen." Hat tipped back, Sam stood, at ease, looking around. "And a view that doesn't quit."

When she opened the accordion doors, he shook his head. "Doesn't that beat all? Did you come up with this, or did Kevin?"

"Kevin."

"They fold right back out of the way, just open it all up. You couldn't have a prettier situation here."

She took one of the spring chairs while Tag poked his nose to Sam's knee.

"I saw you at the service," Sam began. "It was good of you to go. I know you didn't know her, and what you did know wasn't especially friendly."

"I'm sorry for what happened to her."

"We all are." He shifted, turning from the view so his gaze met hers. "I wouldn't be doing my job, Naomi, if I hadn't gotten some background on the person who found her body."

"No. I should have told you myself. I didn't. I wanted to believe you wouldn't look, and no one would know."

"Is that why you changed your name?"

"It's my mother's maiden name, my uncle's name. He raised us after . . . They took us in, my mother, my brother, and me, after my father was arrested."

"You were instrumental in that arrest."

"Yes."

"That's about as hard on a young girl as anything could be. I'm not going to ask you about that, Naomi. I know the case, and if I want to know more, it's easy enough. I'm going to ask you if you're in contact with your father."

"No. I haven't spoken or communicated with him since that night."

"You never went to see him?"

"No. My mother did, and ended up swallowing a bottle of pills. She loved him, or he had a hold over her. Maybe it's the same thing."

"Has he tried to contact you?"

"No."

For a moment, Sam said nothing. "I'm sorry to add to things, but it must have struck you. The similarities. The binding, the wounds, what was done to her, the way she was killed."

"Yes. But he's in prison, on the other side of the country. And the terrible reality is, others rape and kill and torture. Others do what he did."

"That's true."

"But I'm here, and I found her. Like I found Ashley. Only I found Ashley in time. I'm here, and Marla was raped and killed and tortured the way my father liked to rape and kill and torture. So you have to look at me."

"Even if I did, I know you didn't take her, or hold her for two days, and do what was done to her. Even if I did, you were with Xander at times you'd have needed to be with her. I've known Xander all his life and sure as hell don't believe he'd be party to something like this. I don't believe you would either."

She should be grateful for that; she should be relieved. Yet she couldn't find the energy for either.

"But you wondered. When you found out who I was, you had to wonder. Others will, too. And some of them will think, well, Blood tells. It's blood that ties us together, makes us who we are. Her father's a psychopath. What does that make her?"

"I won't tell you I didn't wonder. That's part of my job. I wondered for about ten seconds because I'm small town, that's a fact, but I'm good at my job. I came here to ask you if you're in contact with your father, or if he's in contact with you, on the slim possibility what happened here is connected."

"He didn't even look at me. That morning, in the police station back in West Virginia, when they brought him in."

She could still see it, in minute and perfect detail, down to the sun hitting the water in the water fountain, the dust motes in the air.

"I came out of the room where they had me waiting. I just came out for a minute, and they were bringing him in, in handcuffs. And he looked right through me, like I wasn't there. I think I was never there for him, not really."

"You've moved around a lot in the last few years."

"I made it part of my job. Our uncles shielded us as much as they could from the press, the talk, the stares, the anger. They uprooted their lives for us. But the shield didn't always hold. Every few years, he bargains something, some privilege, something, for the location of another body. It brings it all back-the stories on TV, online, the talk. My brother says it's what he wants more than whatever privilege he's thought up, and I believe that, too. Moving around means you're not in one place long enough for anyone to notice you, or not very much."

"You bought this house."

"I thought I could get away with it. I just fell for it, and convinced myself that I could have this-a real home, a quiet place-and no one would ever know. If I'd walked another way that day, if someone else had found Marla, maybe, but I didn't walk another way. I've got no reason to tell anyone about this."

When she turned her head to meet his eyes again, Sam gave her hand a pat. "It's yours to tell or not."

She wanted relief but couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel. "Thank you."

"It's not a favor. I got background, that was an official act. I don't go around gossiping on people's private business. I needed to ask you the questions I did. Now we can put it away."

"I . . . I just want to find out if I can live here. I want time to try."

"It seems to me you're already living here, and doing it well. I'm going to say something personal now, and then I'm going to go, get back to town. It's clear to me now you haven't told Xander any of this." Sam pushed to his feet. "I'm going to say to you, on a personal level, you're doing him, and yourself, a disservice. But it's your story to tell, or not. Take care of yourself, Naomi."

He walked down the deck steps, left her sitting there staring out at the water, at the white sails of clouds above it, wondering if she'd ever feel again.

- Like twin storms, grief and gossip rumbled through the cemetery and left Xander with a low-grade headache. He slipped away as soon as possible, switched the radio off for the drive back to town. He could do with some quiet.

He had enough work, including what he'd postponed that morning, to keep him fully occupied. He stopped into parts and sales, got a ginger ale from the machine, picked up some parts, then headed over to the garage.