Bitterroot Lake

“Cheer up, Janine,” Holly said. “None of our phones work out here.”

Janine stuck out her tongue.

“We got a booster for the cell signal,” Holly told Sarah. “The guy said it plugs into the jack for the landline. Easy as pie.”

“Assuming he knows which end is up,” Janine said.

“No help on the landline, though,” Holly continued. “Mom was on her way out, so I called the phone company, but they wouldn’t talk to me, since I’m not the account holder. At least the insurance agent was helpful. And Connor will swing by as soon as he gets a chance.”

“Pray it doesn’t rain before then.” Sarah glanced to the west, the sky clear and cloudless. But the weather changed quickly in the mountains. “Where was Mom going?”

“No idea.” Holly plucked a fry from the bag. “We walk in. She’s all friendly. I say I want to see what she’s working on—she must be deep into it if she’s not out here riding herd—and all of a sudden she’s got some place to be.”

“That is crazy.”

“Oh, by the way,” Nic said, “Leo was very interested when we showed him pictures of the roadside cross.”

Holly held out her phone, and Sarah took it, though she’d seen the memorial herself. Scrolled through the pictures rapidly. Stopped and swiped the other way. Tapped the screen, then spread two fingers to zoom in on the photo. Showed it to Janine. “That gold charm, with the basketball sitting on top of the letters UM. That wasn’t there yesterday, was it?”

Janine leaned in, frowning. “But who in Deer Park knew Michael Brown?”

“Good question, although there are plenty of college basketball fans up here, and he was a hot shot.”

“Twenty-five years ago. Who would remember him now?”

“I wondered if it was Lucas, but obviously not, if new things are being added to the shrine,” Sarah said. “We could share that photo on Insta or Facebook and see what we find out.”

“Leo’s already on it,” Nic said. “I can’t imagine how it might be connected to the murder, but you never know.”

“Could be totally innocent. Griz fan with a long memory,” Holly said. “Found a photo of him online and printed it out. Though why now, after all these years?”

Sarah picked up her pop can. “A sports fan that attentive, that obsessed, is probably male. I’ve always assumed it was women who decorated roadside crosses.”

“Tempe took drivers’ ed last fall,” Nic said. “The teacher made them work in teams and research newspaper stories about roadside fatalities. They had to visit the cross, take pictures, and give a report in class.”

“That’s cruel,” Holly said.

“And there’s a judge in Billings who makes that part of the sentence after a DUI,” Nic continued. “Leo said nothing like that goes on up here, but I think he liked the idea.”

“While you three were in town, I went up to the carriage house apartment,” Sarah said. “No interior damage, thank goodness. That’s where all the stuff from the third floor is. And the dollhouse.”

“I loved that old dollhouse,” Holly said. “But not half as much as you did.”

“None of you have gone out there?” Sarah asked, though there had been no footprints on the dusty steps. No’s, all around. “So how do you suppose these got on the bedroom floor?” She fished the three pennies out of her pants pocket.

“They look brand-new.” Janine plucked one out of Sarah’s palm and held it up. “It’s dated this year.”

If you’ve got something to say, Jeremy, just tell me.

* * *

Below the highway, Sarah pulled off McCaskill Lane onto the trail leading to the horse barn, then further east to the Hoyt place. She passed the weathered building, its stalls holding nothing but horses’ dreams, and kept going. In her bag, her phone pinged, but she ignored it.

She ignored the boundary between Hoyt and McCaskill land, too, certain George wouldn’t mind. She slipped her foot off the brake, then pressed the gas gently, steering the rig between the high spots and the muddy potholes frost heave left behind. Clearly, the road hadn’t been used much in the current century.

Ahead loomed the Hoyt barn, where George had kept his stock. Never much interested in managing the timberland he’d inherited, he’d turned to outfitting once he sold the sawmill. He’d run several crews of guides and hands, using horses and mules to carry guests into the backcountry to hunt or fish. The stock were long sold off and the barn looked lonely. The rails of the old corral had splintered and collapsed in the middle, like a shallow V, the posts leaning, as though they’d lost the will to stand up for themselves. Hints of wild brush and grasses greened the ground on either side of the road, but inside the corral, the dirt held only the faintest greenish sheen, as if all the hooves over all the years had pounded too hard even for weeds to take hold.

An illusion. Weeds were the sturdiest plants around. “A weed is just a plant in the wrong place,” her grandmother had liked to say.