The drive back into town was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just a heavier silence. The kind of silence that settled after something unpleasant had been dragged into the light and left there twitching.

Camilla sat angled slightly toward the passenger window, elbow resting against the door as Bitterroot rolled past outside in faded greens and rusted fences. The ribbon sat tucked safely inside her notebook on her lap.

She could still feel it there.

Mal drove one-handed, relaxed behind the wheel. One arm rested lazily near the open window, fingers tapping occasionally against the door in rhythm to a song only he could hear. Dust curled behind the truck as they left the west side behind.

"You think he killed her?"

His voice cut cleanly through the hum of the tires.

Camilla glanced at him. "Clay?"

"Mm."

She let the question sit for a moment.

"He's frightened," she said finally.

Mal smiled faintly. "That wasn't the question."

"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."

The truck rolled through an intersection. A dog barked somewhere behind a chain-link fence. Camilla watched Mal's profile carefully. "You don't think he did it."

Mal's thumb rubbed once against the steering wheel leather.

"I think Clay likes scaring women," he said. "I think he likes being needed by damaged people. I think he enjoys watching somebody unravel if it means they depend on him afterward."

Camilla tilted her head slightly.

"But?"

Mal glanced at her briefly.

"But I don't think he's patient enough."

The words settled heavily between them. Camilla felt something tighten low in her stomach.

Patient.

Interesting word choice.

"And you think your killer is patient?"

Mal chuckled softly. "I think anybody capable of this kind of violence has to be."

"Why?"

"Because impulsive men get caught."

The answer came too quickly.

Too naturally.

Camilla's eyes lingered on him a second longer than before. Mal noticed.

Of course he did.

"You disagree?"

"I think rage can make people sloppy," she said carefully. "But obsession makes people methodical."

That earned her a look.

Not long.

Just enough.

Something flickered behind his eyes then disappeared again beneath the calm surface.

"Obsession," he repeated quietly. "That's an interesting word too."

The truck slowed at a stoplight.

Golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the windshield, cutting sharp lines across his face. Camilla could see the rough edge of the scar through his eyebrow more clearly now.

"You think this is personal?" he asked.

"I think all murder is personal."

Mal smiled again.

Small.

Private.

"That's another hell of a thing to say out loud."

Camilla leaned back in her seat. "You keep saying that."

"That's because you keep saying things most people are smart enough to keep in their heads."

"Maybe I'm not very smart."

"No," Mal said softly. "I don't think that's your problem."

The light turned green.

The truck rolled forward.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then:

"You didn't seem afraid in there."

Camilla looked over slowly. "At Clay's?"

"Mm."

"I wasn't."

"Most people would've been."

"I'm not most people."

Mal huffed a quiet laugh beneath his breath. "No. You really aren't."

There it was again.

That feeling.

Like they were having two conversations at once.

Camilla watched the blur of trees outside her window. "You know," she said lightly, "you ask a lot of questions for someone supposedly helping me."

"I'm a sheriff."

"You're profiling me."

That finally made him grin properly.

Warm.

Sharp around the edges.

"Occupational hazard."

"You worried I'm dangerous?"

Mal's gaze slid toward her slowly.

Deliberately.

The air inside the truck seemed to pull tight.

Then he smiled again like the moment had never happened.

"Should I be?"

Camilla smiled back.

"Probably."

For a moment neither of them looked away.

Then the radio crackled sharply to life. Both of them shifted slightly, the tension breaking just enough. Mal reached down and lowered the volume after a dispatcher mumbled something about a loose dog near county road twelve.

"You always answer questions with questions?" Camilla asked.

"Only when I'm trying to learn something."

"And what exactly are you trying to learn about me?"

Mal turned onto Main Street.

People waved as the truck passed.

He nodded back automatically.

Comfortably.

Like a king acknowledging subjects.

"I haven't figured that out yet," he said.

The honesty of it unsettled her more than a lie would have.

They passed the memorial in the square again.

Flowers.

Candles.

Photographs.

A red ribbon tied carefully around the neck of one of the bouquets fluttered softly in the breeze.

Camilla's eyes caught on it instantly.

Mal noticed that too.

His fingers tapped once against the wheel.

"You ever notice," he said quietly, "how people turn tragedy into ritual?"

Camilla looked away from the memorial. "That's how people survive grief."

"Maybe."

"You disagree?"

"I think sometimes people just need to feel involved. Makes them feel safer."

His tone was casual.

Too casual.

Camilla studied him carefully. "And what makes you feel safe, Sheriff?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Knowing things."

Again:
too honest.

The truck finally pulled up outside the McCurdys' house.

Neither of them moved immediately. The engine idled softly beneath them.

"I'll send those articles tonight," she said.

"Looking forward to them."

She opened the truck door halfway before his voice stopped her.

"Camilla."

She glanced back.

Mal rested one arm against the steering wheel, studying her with that same unreadable calm he always seemed wrapped in.

"You should be careful with this case."

There was no humor in his voice now.

No teasing.

Just quiet seriousness.

Camilla raised an eyebrow. "You worried about me?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that some people go looking for dark things because they think it'll help them understand themselves."

A chill slid carefully down her spine.

"And?"

Mal's eyes held hers steadily.

"And sometimes the dark things look back."

Silence stretched between them.

Then he smiled again. Warm, easy.

"See you around, Hart."

"See ya, Mal"

His eyebrow quirked up at that. "Mal?"

"I thought maybe you earned a more casual name than just sheriff. It seems to fit you much better."

Camilla climbed from the truck without another word.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she crossed toward the carriage house apartment. She could feel his eyes on her all the way to the stairs.

Only when the apartment door shut behind her did she finally exhale.

The silence inside felt strangely dense. A little heavy.

Camilla loosened her jacket slowly before sinking into the cushions. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the skylights overhead in pale gold bars.

For a long moment she simply sat there.

Thinking about:
Clay's fear.

Mal's patience.

The way both men had looked at each other.

Then she reached into her notebook and pulled the ribbon free.

Red satin slid softly between her fingers.

Carefully tied.

Deliberate.

Not random.

Camilla turned it over thoughtfully beneath the light.

Her thumb brushed the knot once.

Marking behavior.

The thought arrived instantly.

Automatic.

Her brow furrowed.

Something about the familiarity of it unsettled her in a way she couldn't explain. Like recognizing a smell from childhood but being unable to place where.

Predators marked territory. Marked mates. Marked prey.

Her fingers stilled against the ribbon.

Then she exhaled sharply and leaned her head back against the chair. Outside, somewhere down the street, a dog barked twice before falling silent again. She closed her eyes.

And for the first time since arriving in Bitterroot, she found herself thinking less about the killer...

...and more about Sheriff Mallory.