WHERE THE RAIN FORGETS OUR NAMES

Deputy Cole did not get out of the patrol truck; his injuries from the pantry collapse had left him behind at the house. Only Vance stepped down into the mud. He had lost his hat in the fire, his uniform shirt was charred along the collar, and his eyes carried the dead, unblinking focus of a man who knew he was out of options. In his right hand, he held his service revolver, held loosely at his side, unaffected by the driving rain.

"End of the line, Sarah!" Vance’s voice cut through the sound of the raging water. "Nobody's leaving this holler. You think anyone's going to listen to a girl who's been buried for six years? Or an arsonist brother with a prison record?"

Sarah stepped down from the tractor, handing the baby to Ruth. "Stay low, Ruth. Keep his head covered."

Sarah walked into the beam of Vance’s headlights, her hands raised, her voice calm despite the terror freezing her blood. "You killed Clara’s father, didn't you, Vance? When he found out what you were skimming from the county timber sales. That's why you ran her off the bridge. You couldn't afford to have her talk."

Vance chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Her daddy was a thief just like the rest of you. Clara just didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. Just like you."

From the cabin porch, the wooden door creaked open. A woman stepped out onto the porch, leaning heavily against the doorframe. She was pale, dressed in an oversized gray sweater, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped tight around her midsection. Her dark hair was plastered against her face, but there was no mistaking the features: Clara Miller was alive.

"Vance," Clara called out, her voice trembling but clear over the water. "I still have the ledger. I buried it under the cornerstone of the town hall the night I ran."