Chapter 6
Hattie
Many law enforcement officers I met saw value in my work, but quite a few also looked down on it.
I understood the reasons and prejudices behind their views.
Media in general could easily backfire on officers, and they knew that all too well.
They treated us all with extreme caution, especially these days when everyone had a phone in their pocket and technology was moving at the speed of light.
There was enormous pressure in the law enforcement field, and I’d always respected the job (mostly). Sure, I encountered plenty of jerks in the field, but when aren’t there bad apples in any profession?
My voice was supposed to level the playing field for the people who were forgotten.
I really tried to pick my cases carefully.
Either because they were cold and the local cops had already done their best, which meant they’d work with me, or they were cases police didn’t care about at all.
Sometimes I chose them because I thought that if I found something, they might reconsider.
But it was a catch-22.
Police hated it when someone said they were ‘investigating’ something that had already been checked by a professional, and I understood. But that didn’t mean justice ended when they decided their case was closed or that they moved on.
The J & J Hour funded itself. Advertisements and streams covered gas, food, and housing costs.
It wasn’t exactly profitable, and it didn’t pay me a salary.
Thankfully, I had solid investments from my previous career, and I also took on marketing work on the side.
The podcast was a passion project, and even though both of my parents hated it, I wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
There were times when the toll was high. Emotionally and physically.
Right now, I forced myself to add a little extra sway to my walk as I left Kipp and acted as if I didn’t care at all.
If I’d had a regular job, then our coffee date might ended with a kiss, or maybe he’d ask for my phone number.
My eyes pricked with tears, and that pissed me off.
There had been disapproval in every line of his face, and it was hard to even unpack why it bothered me so much.
Back at my car, I booked a cabin through the sleek website and was impressed when I received an instant email with a ‘Welcome’ message.
Snorting to myself after meeting Kipp and Sage, it was easy to see who had set it up.
The message included a list of what was at the cabin, a door code, a map, and a very cute virtual click-on map of Wildwood Meadows.
There was even a link to suggested activities and hiking trails. Adorable.
The cabins were about twenty minutes out of town, which meant that I had plenty of time to call my mother. She’d been leaving me increasingly agitated phone calls in the last few days. Our relationship since we’d lost Jane had been strained to say the least.
Angling my car out of town toward where the valley narrowed, and the trees started to thicken, I followed the ribbon of pavement that squeezed between the walls of green while dialing my mother.
“Josephine Harriet Harper, where the hell have you been?” she demanded on the first ring.
I winced a little at the use of my full name.
My mother had never taken to the idea of calling me Hattie.
She’d been a huge proponent of calling my sister and me only by our given names.
When we were little, Jane called me Jo Jo until we got into kindergarten, and then kids started calling us J & J.
She didn’t like that. My twin was everything to me, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for her, even switching to a variation of my middle name.
Hattie wasn’t a problem. I liked it better anyway, even if my mother didn’t approve.
“Working, Mom. How are you?”
This was my mother’s cue to start her litany of tasks she’d completed in the past week, from having lunch with her neighbor to getting a pedicure.
Then she began talking about all the recent doctor visits she had been to or had scheduled.
I let her words wash over me as I watched the directions pop up on the GPS.
Murmuring in the right spots so that she didn’t stop was key in these conversations.
I’d learned the hard way what happened if I didn’t give any indication that I was paying appropriate attention.
While my mother might now be uncomfortable seeing me in person, that didn’t mean she wasn’t always striving to connect with me.
That’s what my online therapist had told me in the early years, anyway. “She’s trying to reach out to you in her own way, Hattie.”
“Where are you at right now? I’m assuming you’re moving to your next case. You know I don’t listen, but I check the updates at least.”
“I just got to Oregon today. I’ll be staying at these adorable little cabins outside a town called Wildwood Meadows.
” Overall, she was uneasy with my chosen profession, and it made her feel better to know exactly where I was.
Since she’d already lost one daughter, I tried hard not to let it bother me that she only paid me half-hearted attention at best. “It’s a super cute place with so many shops that you’d like.
I’m probably going to lose service in a few minutes, but I’ll send you some pictures when I can. ”
It was another piece of wisdom someone had given me: “Meet your mother where she’s at. If you force the issue, then you’ll lose her forever.” That was something I couldn’t risk when it felt like I’d lost so much already.
We talked for a few more minutes before saying our ‘I love yous’ and ‘goodbyes’.
My mother, essentially simple in her needs, didn’t want to hear any details about what I was doing, and I didn’t have anything else to offer.
Our relationship had fractured beyond repair years ago.
She loved me the best she could now. There was no letting go, but there was also no going back.
Now, she just wanted the comfort of talking to me about trivial, superficial things like what I ate for lunch.
She didn’t want to hear if I was lonely or sad.
There would be no talk of the aching hole in our hearts, or of our grief the size of the Mariana Trench.
There was a long list that I’d love to talk to her about, how I missed my sister, my wish to have a family, and how I missed her.
After we hung up, I focused on the road and the soft cloud of dust kicked up by my tires into the shimmering sunshine.
Usually, I researched my hotel choices more thoroughly, but today I rolled into town without a solid plan.
And I didn’t usually take references from strangers, but my guy had run a thorough check on Kipp Holt, and he was squeaky clean.
These days, anyone could be a serial killer, and there was no way I wasn’t checking him out.
In the background, I tuned into a rival podcast and let it play while I enjoyed the drive.
Market research was also a big part of my job, but I didn’t always enjoy it.
Everyone had their own style when presenting cases and their own intentions.
It was important to me to stay updated on the cases other teams or podcasters were covering, just so I was aware of the chatter …
but not all of us got along or agreed on how we worked.
Some of them focused on adding humor or on specific regions.
This one was a true crime episode about a woman who went missing in New Jersey.
The J & J Hour tended to focus only on female victims who had gone missing or had been killed.
It was a calling for me after Jane. I couldn’t say how long I’d keep doing it because while living on the road had its own rhythm and I’d gotten used to the hum of travel, it had gotten lonely.
Even the excitement and the pull of the unknown had started to drag on me.
When my sister disappeared, people told me to move on.
They told me that it would get easier to accept, but I just couldn’t.
She was my other half, and acceptance wasn’t in my nature.
Every case that I took on drove me to prove that I was at least honoring her memory, even if I hadn’t been able to bring her home.
When Allison’s case came up, and there was an abandoned car involved, I couldn’t help but jump on it.
That smallest similarity called to me like a siren.
The story was all over my feed for weeks: a young woman, a Honda Civic abandoned outside Briar Falls. The world paused for a moment to care, then went back to work. Allison was still gone.
But I cared. If there was one thing I was good at, it was stopping to at least give a voice to the missing. Maybe I couldn’t find them, but at least my platform could be a place where their stories were heard. That was something.
I muted the podcast that had been playing, and rolled down the windows so that I could hear the crunch of gravel under my tires and the buzz of the summer insects. Every curve of the forest felt more private, more intentional. After another half mile, the trees broke open to reveal a clearing.
A dozen A-frame cabins stood in a half circle, each one made of dark cedar and glass, with sunlight catching on the roofs.
They more than delivered on the pictures posted, and if anything, were even better.
From here, my guess was that there were all sorts of hiking trails to find, but it also seemed a great place to just relax. What a find.
Parking in front of Cabin Six, I killed my engine and stepped out.
It was remote, but so beautiful that it almost broke my heart.
The quiet out here would be great for recording, and maybe a little creepy at night.
Craning my neck to see if there were any cars, I couldn’t find any signs that there was anyone else here, but that didn’t bother me.
Hefting my duffle over my shoulder and lifting a bag of groceries, I approached the cabin that had been assigned.
It was smack dab in the half-circle, but it was gorgeous, and the view … damn.
The code worked fine on the keypad, and I was relieved to see a traditional lock on the inside.
It was as if Kipp had read my mind. Having a coded lock made me uneasy because it meant anyone with access to a keypad could get in, including the owner.
Manipulating keypads wasn’t that hard if you knew what you were doing.
Granted, windows and door egress weren’t that difficult either.
Safety was all just an illusion in the end. I’d learned that.
Inside, the cabin smelled of fresh lumber and that amaretto scent I remembered from my childhood, the smell of the oil my mother used on our dining table.
Sunlight spilled across the wood floors in fractured beams that made every grain stand out in sharp relief.
The interior was even more beautiful than the pictures.
I took a moment to tilt my head up into the vaulted space near the windows.
I could easily imagine how it would look during the changing seasons.
Magical. My fingers brushed the surfaces as I wandered, imagining the silence that would fill this place once the door was closed.
It would be perfect for recording. Everything was simple but crafted with quality, making me wonder if Kipp had built it himself. He seemed… handy.
Taking my time, I brought the rest of my things inside and unpacked.
The cabin had a cute little porch with a couple of chairs.
I could imagine working out here in the evening when it cooled off.
There were some outbuildings. The email mentioned a communal building, but I wasn’t very interested in that except for laundry.
And there was a fire ring that I could see in the distance, with some Adirondack chairs and some rough-cut hewn logs for bench seats, almost like some kind of summer camp. Cute.
It took me no time at all to stow my groceries and unpack my clothes.
This was the nicest place I’d stayed in a while, and I was planning to enjoy the hell out of it.
There was a small dinette table for me to work at, which was perfect for setting up my equipment and my computer, and after fiddling with everything, I was more than satisfied.
I spent a lot of time on the road, traveling from state to state and case to case.
In the latest one, I’d spent time in the Four Corners area doing a podcast about the disappearance of a young Native American woman.
I’d ended up living in shitty motels that were each sketchier than the last. This was cushy and safer than I’d been in a while. I was going to savor it.
Settling into the chair, I logged in and got to work. First, I’d review the background information, then I’d dive into all my research. Tomorrow, I’d be heading to Briar Falls to hit the ground running.