CHAPTER ONE

Sheila Stone's cruiser crunched over the gravel as she pulled into the parking lot of the Dusty Bottle, a forgotten bar clinging to the fringes of Coldwater County. A neon sign flickered above the entrance, half-hearted in its attempt to lure patrons with the promise of cheap beer and refuge from the Utah sun, now retreating behind distant mesas. The lot was a wasteland of vehicles, their rusted bodies testament to countless storms weathered in silent defeat.

As Sheila killed the engine, her hands betrayed her with tremors that rattled her resolve. She clasped them together, summoning images of her mother's warm smile, now just echoes in the cold gallery of unsolved cases. Eddie Mills—each syllable of his name was a stone in her shoe, a constant irritant since the day she'd linked him to her mother's mysterious end. Justice had been a shy bird, always eluding grasp, but tonight, the possibility of its capture made her pulse thunder in her ears.

"Focus," she whispered, eyes fixed on the bar's scarred door. "You need to do this for Mom. You can't screw it up."

With a deep breath that did little to steady her nerves, Sheila stepped out and moved toward the entrance, boots scuffing the dirt, mentally preparing for the confrontation that lay beyond the threshold.

The door creaked a protest as she pushed it open, stepping into a haze of cigarette smoke that embraced her like an unwelcome relative. The bar was a relic; its walls bore the scars of brawls and broken dreams, adorned with faded posters of rodeos and long-gone country stars. Yellowed light bulbs dangled from the ceiling, casting a sickly glow on the patrons scattered throughout the room. They were a gallery of hardened faces and wary eyes, each one pausing mid-sip or mid-drag to size up the newcomer. The clatter of pool balls ceased, the twang of a country song on the jukebox suddenly intrusive in the thickened silence.

Sheila marched to the bar, her badge a shimmer of authority amidst the dull wood and tarnished brass. The bartender, a man whose face seemed carved from the same gnarled wood as the bar itself, eyed her with open disdain .

"Eddie Mills," Sheila said, the name tasting like bile. "Where can I find him?"

The bartender's scowl deepened, his eyes flicking to the glint of her badge before meeting her gaze with unyielded obstinacy.

"Listen, lady, you can get a drink or you can get out," he said, wiping a glass with a rag that might have been white a few lifetimes ago.

Sheila felt a familiar fire kindle in her chest, the same heat that had driven her through Olympic trials and crime scenes alike. She leaned in closer, her voice low and steady. "I just want to know where he is," she said. "Then I'll be out of your hair."

"Can't help ya," the bartender grumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a steep incline.

The floorboards creaked ominously behind Sheila, heralding the approach of trouble before a shadow loomed over her. She didn't need to turn to sense the bulk of the man who had decided to insert himself into the conversation—the reflection in the barkeep's wary eyes was enough.

"Law ain't welcome 'round these parts," the large man said, his voice a low rumble of thunder promising a storm.

"Last time I checked, this was still America," Sheila replied coolly, her hand resting nonchalantly on the butt of her holstered weapon. "Public place. And I'm just looking for some information. You should go back to your drink."

The man snorted derisively, leaning in so close Sheila could smell the stale beer on his breath. "Something tells me you wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for that piece at your side."

Sheila turned around, her posture radiating a confidence born from years in the ring. Her eyes glinted with the silent challenge. "Is that right?" she asked. "Would you like to put that theory to the test?"

A murmur rippled through the onlookers as the tension thickened, the air charged with anticipation. The bartender, a flicker of recognition crossing his face, interjected with a cautious tone.

"Easy, Frank. This one used to be an Olympic kickboxer. She's the sister of that sheriff."

Frank snorted. "The one who shot herself? Coward's way out, if you ask me."

Sheila stiffened. The man had several inches—not to mention thirty or forty pounds—on her, but she didn't care. The bigger they were, the harder they fell, and she couldn't just ignore him talking about her sister that way.

"I'll show you what cowardice looks like when I kick your ass," she said.

The man leaned closer, glowering down at her. Sheila was about to knee him in the groin when, as if coming to a sudden decision, he grinned and leaned back, revealing yellowing teeth. "No need to get rowdy," he said. "We're all friends here." He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slapped it on the bar. "For my new friend. Wouldn't want her to feel unwelcome here."

There were a few laughs and snickers as the man strolled away. Sheila watched him all the way until he had disappeared inside the restroom. Then she turned her attention back to the bartender.

"Alright," she said. "Now, where can I find Eddie Mills?"

The barkeeper wiped his hands with the rag, his tongue working something loose from his teeth.

"I'm not leaving until I get an answer," Sheila said, sitting down again.

The barkeeper sighed. "You know, most cops I've met would've puffed their chests out, waved their badges around—and then pissed themselves when Mikey waltzed over. But you? You did the opposite. That takes guts."

Sheila waited, saying nothing.

The man sighed and glanced over at the clock. "There's a trailer park a few miles down the road," he said, reluctance tainting his gravelly voice. "Eddie's holed up there, last I heard. Unit 302. But you didn't hear it from me."

***

The drive to the trailer park was short but fraught with the kind of anticipation that made Sheila's heart thrum against her ribs. She navigated her cruiser through the maze of narrow lanes, squinting to make out the numbers on the trailers. Many were faded or covered in grime, rendering them illegible in the dim light.

She spotted a group of locals gathered around a crackling fire, the orange glow reflecting off their faces. They were an eclectic mix—weather-worn skin stretched over knotted muscles, clothes that told stories of hard labor and harder lives. Their laughter was rough, like the bark of dogs, and they passed around cans of beer with casual familiarity.

Sheila parked and got out. "Excuse me," she called out, stepping closer to the circle. Her badge wasn't visible, but something about her demeanor seemed to instantly set them on edge. "I'm looking for Unit 302. Can any of you point me in the right direction?"

One man, whose beard was a tangled thicket of gray and brown, snorted and took a swig from his can. "Why would we help a cop?" he asked, the challenge clear in his tone.

"I'm not here on official business," Sheila lied smoothly, though the skepticism in the eyes around the fire only deepened. "Just trying to find an old friend."

"Sounds like your problem, not ours," another man said, spitting near Sheila's feet.

"Listen," Sheila said, her patience fraying, "I just need—"

"Beat it, lady," a woman interjected, standing up to confront Sheila, her posture aggressive. "You come out here when you want to arrest someone, but when there's a shooting or a house catches fire, forget about it. You've got better things to do. But you know what? We don't need you—we can take care of ourselves."

Sheila recognized the hostility for what it was—an insurmountable wall. Whatever police ordinarily responded to calls in this neighborhood, they certainly hadn't cultivated good relations with the locals.

Without another word, Sheila backed away, her mind racing to find another way to locate Mills's trailer. As she retreated, the group's laughter followed her, mocking and cold.

Climbing back into her car, she kept driving. She could hardly read the numbers on the trailers, though, not with the darkness and the general griminess of the trailers. Switching up her approach, she parked her cruiser alongside the cracked pavement and decided to proceed on foot.

Her boots crunched on discarded trash, the silence around her almost suffocating. Every instinct told her to be cautious, to be aware of every shadow that stretched across her path. The numbers on the trailers were faded, obscured by years of weather and neglect, and she had to strain her eyes to make them out.

As she turned a corner, a rusted sign with peeling paint announced '302' in crooked digits. Sheila's heart surged—this had to be it. But as she approached, she discovered she'd misread it .

The number she'd taken for a '0' was actually a faded '8.' This was 382—not the trailer she was looking for.

Sighing, Sheila resumed her search. The trailers seemed to close in around her, suffocating in their proximity, yet she pressed on. And then, there it was—trailer 302, standing alone like a sentinel at the end of a row. Its windows were dark, showing no signs of life.

"Police," she called out tentatively as she knocked on the door, her voice steady but met with only silence. After a moment of hesitation, she tried the latch and found it unlocked.

Inside, the trailer was a time capsule of recent activity. A half-eaten meal lay abandoned on the kitchen counter, attracting a squadron of flies. A flickering television cast erratic shadows across the cramped space, illuminating a threadbare sofa and a coffee table littered with various papers and empty beer cans.

Sheila stepped carefully over a pile of laundry, her eyes scanning for any sign of Eddie Mills or clues to his whereabouts. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled in a way that suggested a hasty departure rather than a restful night. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sat on the nightstand, the stale smell of tobacco hanging heavily in the air.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. She had hoped to confront Eddie, to finally get some answers about her mother's death, but he was gone.

Sheila's eyes darted across the cluttered mess of the trailer's interior, seeking something—anything—that might point to Eddie Mills' next move. The dim light from the single bulb overhead cast long shadows, making the room feel even more desolate and abandoned. She moved methodically, her training as a detective guiding her through the chaos.

A pile of unopened mail sat atop the small kitchen counter, the top envelope postmarked over a week ago. Sheila rifled through them but found nothing of interest. Her gaze shifted to the fridge, its door plastered with magnets and yellowing notes. Most were mundane reminders, but one note caught her attention: a list of names and telephone numbers. Some of the names were first and last, but others had only first names, suggesting they were close friends or relatives.

Perhaps one of these people would know where to find Eddie.

Sheila took a picture of the list. She was about to do a second, more thorough search of the trailer when her phone vibrated in her pocket, jolting her back to the present. She glanced at the caller ID.

It was Finn, her partner .

"Stone," she answered tersely.

"Hey," he said. "I just spoke with Hank." He was referring to Hank Dawson, Coldwater's interim sheriff.

"Uh-oh," Sheila said. "That can't be good—not when you say it like that."

"Ever been to Mirage Salt Flats?"

Sheila considered. "As a kid, I think. Why?"

"Well, it's about time you see it as an adult. I'll pick you up in ten."

"No, I'm not at home—but I can be back in twenty minutes." She frowned, puzzled. "Why are we going to Mirage Salt Flats again?"

"Because a woman's body was found there," Finn said. "And the way she was found has got everyone spooked."