Gretchen sat at her desk well into the night. Two cups of coffee in and an ashtray full, her fingers hurt from typing.
In the international database, she’d typed the name Daniel Wynter and William Wynter a thousand times. But there was almost seven hundred in the state of Washington alone. And narrowing it down seemed to be impossible.
By definition of small-town didn’t seem to be helping. So, as she searched every small town in Washington, she only found one that’d make a perfect match.
A little town named Devil’s Horns seemed to be ideal. Small, remote, and a couple of hours from Seattle. And with a community college right there, Gretchen thought she’d hit the jackpot. But the Daniel Wynter in their database had never been arrested. And the only thing on him was that he lived th
