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another notepad from his shoulder bag and flipped it open. “Why don’t you save me the trouble of writing how uncooperative you were and give me the information you know you’re going to have to share with me later?”
    Nick bit the inside of his cheeks to refrain from saying something he most definitely didn’t want to see in print.
    “I cannot confirm that the young adult female body found this morning is in fact Rebecca Douglas. The body has not been identified and is currently awaiting the coroner’s examination and family identification.”
    “But it was the Butcher, correct?”
    “The coroner’s report should be helpful in that determination.”
    “Come on, Nick. Let’s get real here. You know the Butcher had Rebecca Douglas for the past week.”
    “Don’t push me, Eli. I remember that the parents of the Croft sisters read about their daughters in the damn newspaper before they even knew they were dead.”
    Eli had the good sense to look sheepish. “Okay, off the record. I promise I won’t print anything until the coroner confirms it.”
    “You’re getting nothing, Eli. You know that old saying, ‘Fool me once.’ ” Nick had given him one tidbit three years ago when the Croft sisters had been found; he’d never trust the asshole again after seeing his off-record statement in print.
    “Aw, come on, Nicky,” Eli said. “One quote. One quote for the paper and I’ll wait like a good little boy for your statement tonight.”
    “Deputy.” He motioned to Booker. “Get this man off my crime scene.”
     
    Elijah Banks had rubbed salt in every one of her wounds, starting by printing a picture of her being loaded into a Lifeline helicopter twelve years ago after she barely survived her jump into the icy Gallatin River. What had been a terrifying, humiliating, soul-shattering experience for her had won him some award in some stupid journalism contest. Worse, the photograph had been reprinted in major newspapers across the country.
    She couldn’t stand him. But sometimes she suspected she didn’t despise him because he was doing his job in the most obnoxious way possible, but because seeing him reminded her of the worst day of her life, which he’d immortalized in a photograph.
    The sun slipped behind
Gallatin
Peak
.
    Miranda was numb, but the sudden dip in temperature reminded her she was cold. So cold.
    Sharon was dead. He’d shot her in the back. He was coming for her.
    Run, Miranda, run!
    She stumbled down the steep slope, grabbing a sapling to slow herself. The river was closer; the rush of the rapids a steady hum echoing against the mountainside.
    Where was he? Was he close? Did he see her? Did he have her in the sights of his rifle?
    She didn’t dare look back. If she saw him, she feared she’d freeze like a deer caught in headlights. And he wouldn’t care that she’d stopped. He’d kill her and leave her body to be eaten by scavengers, picked apart by vultures, her flesh a meal for the cougars . . .
    No! Stop it!
    Sharon .
    She hadn’t wanted to leave Sharon, but Sharon was dead and he would have killed her too if she’d stayed.
    When he’d first unlocked the chains that pinned her to the floor she thought for sure he would kill her. She was so weak. He brought water and stale bread for them to eat, feeding them after he raped them. First Sharon.
    Then her.
    Stop it!
    But she couldn’t. The flood of images hit her as she half ran, half stumbled down the mountain, the river calling to her.
    If she survived, she would go back for Sharon. She had to. She couldn’t leave her exposed in the woods. Sharon deserved more.
    She was her best friend.
    Suddenly, the land dropped sharply. Miranda tried to stop her descent, but the momentum propelled her forward. She fell to her knees, then started to roll. The river—she felt the dampness, heard the roar—and then she was falling, falling . . .
    Sheer luck plunged her into the water and not atop a rock. She thought she’d been cold as she ran