It was five minutes to closing and both the young women in the coffee and pastry shop wished to God that no one else showed up so they could get out of there the second the big green clock hit the hour mark. The night had been as intermittent as the storm, customer-wise. A flurry of latte-sippers after eight, then nothing outside of a trio of high school kids who managed to stretch their coffee drinking into what seemed like a two-hour marathon. The women working the counter were authorized to give refills to customers at their discretion, but those teens weren’t getting another sip. The workers wanted to go home. Snow had fallen and it looked like it would be a total bitch to drive.

      Then he came inside, just before the lights would be dimmed.

      The young blonde behind the stainless-steel counter had a concerned look on her face. She was petite, with lively blue eyes and a kind of knowing countenance that comes from either personal tragedy or too many years of retail experience. She smiled at the man in front of her, looking him over for a cue of recognition. Face. Eyes. Shirt. Anything. He wasn’t a regular. He was handsome, trim, and had a killer smile, which seemed to be on autopilot as he entered the store. He wore a heavy navy blue coat, from one of those expensive outdoor recreation companies that specialized in outfitting men with outdoor dreams and office realities. His jeans were old-school 501s, stained wet and dark at the knees. He seemed vaguely familiar, as though they might have met somewhere, or had shopped at the same grocery store. But she knew she hadn’t seen him at the coffee shop. She was required to know every customer by first name—if they came in more than twice. He must be passing through.

      “You OK?” she asked. “You look hurt.” Her gaze landed just above his brow.

      For a second, he didn’t quite track what she was saying. Hurt? Like feelings hurt? Hurt, like an injury?

      “Huh? I’m OK,” he said. “Tall mocha please. Extra hot.”

      She handed him a napkin. “You’ve got a cut on your head.”

      Oh, that hurt.

      He took the napkin and dabbed at the small wound. Blood bloomed between the paper fibers. It was too high up—on his forehead—so he couldn’t use the old “cut myself shaving” excuse.

      Which he’d used at least once before.

      “Must have scraped it on the darn tree,” he said, adding a quick smile, and gesturing toward his pickup truck. “Those noble firs are spiky. Been out all evening getting the perfect tree.”

      That explained the dirty attire. Good one.

      The girl was frothing the milk and the noise howled in the space of the coffee house. “And I thought I was rushing the season,” she said. “They made us put up this Christmas stuff Thanksgiving night.” She rolled her eyes and indicated a heap of faux gift boxes around a hot pink feather tree.

      He shrugged. “Can I use your restroom?”

      “Over there.” She handed him a key with an oversized foam core cutout of a coffee cup with REAL MEN DRINK MO-CHAS emblazoned around the rim.

      Once inside, he locked the door and turned on the faucet.

      Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

      His own interior monologue mocked him as he scrubbed away the crusted-on blood from his temple. She had hurt him. She goddamn made him bleed. She paid for it, of course. Nevertheless, why did she have to go and do that? What was the point, bitch?

      He looked at his face in the mirror. Normally, when he did so, it brought an appreciative gaze from his own eyes. This time, his heart pumped a little faster. Not as fast as it had earlier that evening by the frozen pond, of course. But faster, nevertheless. The blood he saw at his left temple brought worry and a touch of fear. He knew it meant something that he hoped would never surface. That she, literally, would never surface. It was possible that his DNA was lodged underneath one of her prettily painted fingernails. How come he hadn’t thought of that? He could have chopped off her fingertips and fed them to the dog. He could have killed her faster to avoid that burst of adrenaline that gave her the upper hand for just one second.

      Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

      Water ran down the drain as he scrubbed his hands and pulled himself together. Though he hadn’t used it, he flushed the toilet. He’d been in there a long time.

      Thinking. Cleaning. Worrying. But also reliving the triumph of what he’d accomplished in the flat, cold light of a snowy winter night in the middle of nowhere.

      His drink was ready when he emerged from the restroom and slid the key at the girl. She was pretty. No denying that. Yet not his type. She had a tattoo on her wrist that appeared to be some kind of tropical flower, maybe a hibiscus. The tattoo artist who’d rendered the image was either a hack or a newbie. Either way, it was permanently a very bad tattoo. If her wrist was any indication, she likely had more of them wallpapering her young, lithe body. Probably some piercings, too.

      The man liked his women a little more on the traditional side. More conservative. Pretty, like the coffee girl, but not so wild. Not so reckless with the beauty God had bestowed on them by virtue of His grace and their parents’ genetics.

      “Whip on this?” the girl asked.

      “Oh, yes.” He smiled, set down five dollars pulled from a gold monogrammed money clip, and winked. “I love whip. Keep the change.”

      The girl at the counter caught the eye of her coworker, a pudgy brunette who never flirted with customers. They watched as the man with the mocha got into his truck, turned the ignition, and drove away.

      “Do you want some creepy with that mocha?” the brunette teased.

      “No kidding. Make that a venti creepy.”

      “Extra hot, though.”

      The young women laughed. Both knew that the man, no matter how handsome or fit, was too old for them anyway. Besides, it was against company policy to even think about hooking up with a customer. The last one to do that got a week of corporate-sponsored ethics training and a new assignment repacking scones in a warehouse. Not worth it by a long shot.

      As the truck backed out and pulled past the windows of the shop, the blonde walked to the door and turned the lock. Her coworker flipped the overhead lights and the store went dark. As they looked out at the moving truck, which was slightly shrouded with swirling snow, they noticed something that seemed a little strange. There was no Christmas tree in the truck bed.

      It was empty.

      “I thought he said he’d been out getting a tree,” the brunette said

      “Jesus. It figures. Everything is a pickup line these days.”

      The blonde rolled her eyes. “You got that right.”

      Chapter One

      Cherrystone, Washington

      Emily