Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers join forces to track down a ruthless killer who will do whatever it takes to keep the past buried, in this latest thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author John Sandford. Doris Grandfelt, an employee at an accounting firm, was brutally stabbed to death . . . but nobody knew exactly where the crime took place. Her body was found the next night, dumped among a dense thicket of trees along the edge of an urban park, eight miles east of St. Paul, Minnesota. Despite her twin sister Lara Grandfelt’s persistent calls to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the killer was never found. Twenty years later, Lara has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Confronted with the possibility of her own death, she’s determined to find Doris’s killer once and for all. Finally taking matters into her own hands, she dumps the entire investigative file on every true-crime site in the world and offers a $5 million reward for information leading to the killer’s arrest. Dozens of true-crime bloggers show up looking for both new evidence and “clicks,” and Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers are called in to review anything that might be a new lead. When one of the bloggers locates the murder weapon, Lucas and Virgil begin to uncover vital details about the killer’s identity. But what they don’t know is the killer lurks in plain sight, and with the true-crime bloggers blasting every clue online, the killer can keep one step ahead. As the nation maneuvers the detectives closer to the truth, Lucas and Virgil will find that digging up Doris’s harrowing past might just get them buried instead. One of New York Post 's 30 Must-Read New Thrillers "A superlative police procedural paired with an outrageous serial-killer saga, enlivened by an array of quirky characters." — Wall Street Journal John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of thirty-four Prey novels; two Letty Davenport novels; four Kidd novels; twelve Virgil Flowers novels; three YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books. 1 Back in the Day-2003 Nine o'clock, a dazzling moon outside the window, a shrill whistle for a werewolf. Amanda Fisk stood by the door, listening, teeth bared. There was no doubt about it: the little bitch was getting it on with Timothy. She had tracked Timothy from his apartment-his ex had gotten the house-across St. Paul and downtown, right to Bee. She'd seen the blonde open the door, and her arms going up around Timothy's neck. They'd disappeared back toward the stairway. She'd given them some time, and followed, using her own key to get in the building. Now, with her mind clear and hard as a diamond, Fisk walked down to the cafeteria and through to the executive dining room. She felt as though she had a hand on her back, pushing her along. She got a knife from the serving cart, and as she was walking out, noticed the box of kitchen gloves. She took two, pulled them on, and continued back to her small office. As she walked, she got a whiff of . . . buttered popcorn? Was there somebody else in the building, somebody she didn't know about? She didn't think so, but she did a swift recon, looking for light, movement, sound. Nothing. She went back to her office. Smelled the popcorn again. Couldn't find the source, but it seemed to be lingering around an unoccupied copy room. Didn't actually worry her, but it seemed curious. She continued on. She had no plan, but then, as a law school graduate, she understood both the merits of meticulous planning and the merits of spontaneity. This was time for the latter; that was demonstrated by the serendipitous discovery of the nonslip latex gloves. In her office, she locked the door, sat in her office chair in the semi-dark, and tested the point of the knife. As expected, the knife was dull. No matter, she had the time. The ledge under the windowsill was rough red brick, and, whetting rapidly and with anger, she groomed the table knife to a fine murderous point. And she calculated. The lovebirds would not be leaving together. Timothy Carlson had arrived in his Porsche 911, and the bitch had her Subaru in the parking lot. When the knife was ready, Fisk walked back to the VP's outer office, where the pair had gone to use the soft leather couch. She waited two spaces down, inside an unlocked conference room, the door cracked open just enough to see. The anger clawed at her throat, and she struggled to control her breathing. Timothy didn't know it yet, but she was already planning the wedding. They'd been dating for a year, and an idiot blonde named Doris wasn't going to sidetrack her plans. There in the conference room, she didn't have to wait long. With Timothy, unfortunately, you never had to wait long. And Timothy, laughing, possibly a bit abashed, as he should be, left first, checked his fly, said goodbye through the open doorway one last time. He walked along the dark corridor