CHAPTER ONE
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The grimy backpack rested abandoned against the playground fence. Laney Thompson’s eyes riveted on the school bag, but her feet stuck to the gravel near the swings. What was the matter with her? The students had rushed less than a minute ago into the elementary school building after noon recess. One of them must have forgotten the bag. Simple explanation. Then why did her skin pebble as if she stood on this Minnesota playground in mid-January rather than the balmy end of May.

A warm breeze puffed a curtain of light brown hair in front of her face, and she blinked, breaking the hold of the strange paralysis. Laney brushed the hair aside and moved forward. Standing in front of the backpack, she curled her hands into fists. Come on. Pick it up. But her arms balked at the command to reach for the pack’s frayed top strap.

Dread pummeled her.

She studied the object. Mildew stains spattered the canvas, and the original color was barely discernable as green. Whoever owned this school bag had been mighty careless with it or was too poor to afford a new one. Several students who fit either description passed through her mind.

All she needed to do was check the inside for papers identifying the owner. The plumpness of the pack suggested that there ought to be plenty of clues inside. She reached for the strap, then froze, breath sawing in her lungs. Blackness trimmed her vision.

Laney Thompson, this is no time for a panic attack. You left those behind. Remember?

Yes, she remembered the years of counseling. Vividly. Then the determined struggle to put the past behind her and get a college education—an effort prolonged and complicated by a mistake of a marriage and the birth of a beautiful daughter. But at twenty-eight, she now had her teaching degree. She was what she had always dreamed of being—a protector and guide to the young. Perhaps to atone for . . .

Laney swallowed and rubbed damp palms against her tan slacks. She snatched up the pack. A side seam gave way, and the corner of a notebook stuck out. The bag was in worse shape than she had realized. Laney squatted and set the pack on new spring grass. A smell like rancid musk wafted from the canvas. Her heart rattled against her ribs.

Trembling fingers worked the zipper, and another seam parted as she yanked the notebook out.

She had to know who owned this school bag.

Laney flipped open a yellowed page, and found a first name printed in ragged block letters in the top right corner. For breathless seconds, her mind denied what she saw. Then the horror—and the guilt—deluged her, as suffocating as the day of Laney’s tenth birthday. The day the nightmare began.

Grace Thompson. The name mocked her from the page.

This backpack had belonged to her eight-year-old sister. At least, that’s how old Gracie had been the day she disappeared on her way home from school. Alone. Eighteen years ago.

That terrible smell now held no mystery. Decay. She gagged. The pack had come from the unknown tomb where Gracie’s abductor had stashed her body. Her killer had put the bag here on purpose. He wanted Laney to find it, to know he was nearby.

She scooted backward, wails ripping through her mind, but bottled in her chest. She tumbled onto her side and gripped her legs in a fetal position. The screams burst free.

A sliver of her mind continued to churn questions. Was he watching? Enjoying her breakdown? Why now? What did he want? Or who?

Briana!

A vision of her daughter’s face sobered her like a plunge in a glacial lake. She sat up stiff. How could this mean anything else? Briana was newly eight years old, just like Gracie.

Excited voices that had been there but unregistered reached her ears. The aide from the music department stuck his face in hers. “Are you all right?”

She surged to her feet, strong-arming him aside. “My daughter. I have to go!”

Astonished faces melted away before her, as she charged between approaching people. Why couldn’t she move faster than the speed of sludge? Laney yanked open a door and raced up a hallway floored wax-coated linoleum and walls covered with bulletin boards and glass display cases. Familiar scents pumped through her nostrils—white board markers, sweaty gym shoes stored in lockers. She rounded a corner and dodged around a line of kindergarteners and their teacher heading for the restrooms. Squeaks of surprise followed her into the first classroom on the left.

Briana’s teacher and Laney’s best friend, Ellen Kline, stood at the head of the third grade classroom. She stopped mid-sentence and stared at Laney. “What’s going on?”

“Mommy!” A little girl’s voice drew Laney’s attention.

“Sweetie, you’re okay!” She ran to her daughter at her desk and hugged her tight. At the smell of strawberry shampoo in soft, brown pigtails she exhaled a thankful prayer.

“Mommy . . . I can . . . hardly breath.”

Laney loosened her grip and eased away from her daughter. Briana’s sea-blue eyes, mirrors of her own, brimmed with puzzlement. The classroom was dead silent. They must all think she’d gone insane. She needed to find a quick excuse for the interruption without alarming her daughter or anyone else further.

Fastening a smile to her lips, Laney rose. “I’m sorry—I . . . well, I just needed to check on my daughter. One of those mother’s intuition things. I’m glad I was wrong.” She nodded toward Ellen, whose puckered brow said she wasn’t buying the lame explanation. “Forgive the interruption.” She backed toward the door, and a soft buzz of student voices followed her into the hall. So did Ellen.

Her friend stepped in front of her, hands planted on generous hips. “Are you okay?”

Laney’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of Ellen’s upper arms. “Don’t take your eyes off Briana. Don’t let her go anywhere alone, not even the bathroom. I’ve got to see Principal Ryder, and then I’m going to call the police.”

“The po—”

“I’ll explain later.” Laney hustled off, leaving her friend with her mouth open.

Seconds later, Laney burst through the door of the main office.

Miss Aggie, the receptionist, fixed her with an eagle’s stare. “If you were a student, you’d risk a warning for running in the halls.”

“Is he in?” Laney’s breath came in little puffs.

“Who? Mr. Ryder?” Miss Aggie stood, her line face beginning to mirror Laney radiated from her whole body.

“What’s up?” The man himself stepped out of the office situated to the left of the reception desk.

Lean and medium-tall, the strength of Principal Ryder’s steady green gaze left no one in doubt of his authority. In the school year that he and Laney had served the district together, he’d shown himself to be a man as protective of his students as he was a firm but understanding disciplinarian. He was also as honorable as he was good-looking, a combination that amazed Laney based on past experience.

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