In pitch darkness, Shea worked the tumblers on the cabin’s back door. Her fingers were stiff from the freezing rain. Winter came earlier up here in the north Georgia mountains. Even with the heavy coat and balaclava, she felt like a human popsicle, which didn’t make picking the lock any easier.
She’d spent two months following up on the lead that Hudson had given her. In that time, she’d learned that Nathan Curtis Bennett was born Dmitriy Ivanovich Turgenev, the only son of Russian immigrants.
He had been the leader of an independent evangelical church in Pittsburgh until a fire had wiped out nearly the entire congregation during an evening prayer service.
No one could explain why the doors had been locked, or why Turgenev had been one of the few to escape. A hung jury had resulted in a
