Chapter 28
THE TWO PEOPLE AT HER front door look sad and exhausted, and it takes Barb a second to find her voice. She’s just emailed Greg her short article identifying the Legacy Sands victim as Ingrid Larsen, and the young woman’s parents are the last people she expected to find standing on her front porch.
“Hello,” she says to the Larsens as Dexter winds himself between her legs, tail swishing. “Can I . . . help you?”
Neither parent speaks right away, but Ingrid’s father immediately takes off his baseball cap, revealing a full head of messy hair that looks like it’s long overdue for a haircut. Two months overdue, most likely.
Ingrid’s mother elbows her husband.
“Barb Bonifacio?” Mr. Larsen finally says, and Barb nods. “We’re so sorry to bother you here at your home. I’m Axel Larsen, and this is my wife, Patricia. We saw you at the press conference earlier, and were hoping you had a few minutes to speak with us.”
Barb opens the door wider. “Did you want to come in?”
“If . . . if it’s not too much trouble.” Mr. Larsen steps in, Mrs. Larsen following behind. They both notice Barb’s bare feet and remove their shoes. “We won’t stay long. Oh, wow, is this your cat? He’s huge. Honey, look, she has a Maine coon.”
Mrs. Larsen bends down and attempts to pet Dexter’s head, but the cat ducks away from her hand.
“I’m sorry, but how did you know where I live?” Barb asks, leading them into the living room.
“We, uh, we followed you.” Mr. Larsen looks guilty.
“We saw you talking with the police chief, and we just wanted to know if you can tell us any thing that the police aren’t sharing with us.
It feels like since Ingrid went missing, there are just more questions than answers, and it’s been . . . frustrating.”
Shit. This is exactly why Jonathan Burrows didn’t want Barb speculating.
She now has Ingrid Larsen’s grieving parents in her home, asking her for information about their dead daughter that she doesn’t have.
All Barb has are theories, and theories are the last thing the Larsens need.
Theories aren’t answers; they only ask more questions.
“Please, sit,” Barb says. “Anywhere is fine.”
Patricia Larsen attempts to brush away the layer of fur covering the sofa cushion, but after a few seconds, she gives up and sits down. Her husband takes a seat beside her.
“I can guess why you’re here, and I need to apologize to you, because I should never have said what I said today.
” Barb takes the chair across from them.
“Jonathan—Chief Burrows—is correct in that it’s too early in the investigation to know if there’s any connection between your daughter and the other woman’s disappearance. I spoke out of turn.”
“This other woman, Kylie Kahl . . . we googled her on the way here,” Mr. Larsen says.
“We hadn’t heard of her before, and we never watched her show, but we agree with you that there are similarities to Ingrid.
For instance, they were both hiking when they went missing.
Ingrid always takes Penelope—that’s her pug—out for a walk when she gets home from work, on a trail near our house.
It’s a very safe trail, but we don’t like her to go at night.
But Ingrid got stuck at work, and so usually one of us would walk Penelope, but Patty had just had surgery and I’d been having some trouble with my hip.
And of course the dog doesn’t like to go in the backyard.
” He forces a smile. “She’s a bit of a princess that way. ”
He pauses, and Mrs. Larsen nudges him again.
“They left around seven thirty and it was just getting dark,” Mr. Larsen says.
“When she wasn’t home an hour later, we texted her, but there was no reply.
So we called her, but no answer. We started to worry, wondering if she’d gotten injured on the trail.
There’s a rocky area near the creek, but we couldn’t imagine Ingrid would take that route at night. ”
Barb nods.
“I went out to look for her, but all I found was Penelope,” he says.
“She was with a man who said he found the dog wandering on the trail, and that’s when I knew something bad had to have happened.
Ingrid never lets Penelope off leash on the trail, ever.
Too many coyotes. I called Patty, and she called the police. ”
“The man who had her dog, who was he?” Barb asks.
“Said his name was Nathan, very nice fellow,” Mr. Larsen says.
“He helped me look for Ingrid while we waited for the officers to arrive. My brother and nephews came to the trail to help, and we searched the whole night while Patty worked the phone from home. She reached out to all of Ingrid’s friends and coworkers to see if anyone had heard from her in the last couple of hours.
And then all the neighbors came down to the trail.
We had maybe fifty people in our search party, but all we found was her phone. ”
Mr. Larsen pauses again, and this time, his wife reaches for his hand. Barb has already read the missing person report, but it’s different hearing it in person. When Mr. Larsen speaks again, his voice is trembling.
“Two months she was missing,” he says. “Two months we looked for her. We put up signs everywhere. We were in the local news. We offered a reward. We even hired a private investigator. We didn’t give up.
Because it didn’t feel like she was dead, you know?
I feel like we would have felt it somehow.
But I never felt anything. And then we got the call . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” Barb says.
“We drove up to identify her body, and they were only going to show us a photo of her face.” Mr. Larsen’s voice is soft. “But my wife wanted—”
“I wanted to see her,” Mrs. Larsen says suddenly, and it’s the first time she’s spoken since they arrived at Barb’s. “All of her. She’s my daughter. They wouldn’t bring me into the room, but I was able to see her on a screen.”
“I couldn’t do it,” Mr. Larsen says. “I couldn’t bring myself to look. I’m sorry, hon,” he says to his wife, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry I made you do it alone.” He puts his head in his hands and chokes back a sob.
“I’m so sorry,” Barb says again, because there’s nothing else she can say in this moment.
Their grief is filling every corner of the room, and no words will take their pain away.
Over time, perhaps the pain will lessen, become bearable, something they can function alongside.
But the loss of their daughter will never not be there, shaping every part of their lives in a different way going forward, creating a new lens through which they see the world.
Nothing will ever be the same for them again.
Barb doesn’t have to be a parent to understand this.
When someone finally speaks, it’s Ingrid’s mother.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Larsen says, accepting the tissue that Barb offers them. She hands it to her husband. “I don’t regret looking at her, but obviously . . . obviously that’s not how I want to remember her. But I did notice something that struck me as odd.”
“What’s that?” Barb asks.
“Ingrid was wearing a ring on her middle finger.”
“Is that unusual for her?” Barb asks, recalling the autopsy photos that Alice Chu sent her, not that she’ll ever admit to Ingrid’s parents that she’s seen them. The ring—thin silver band, light green gem, delicate and pretty—had caught her eye as well, because something about it had felt familiar.
“Unusual, yes, because she wasn’t a jewelry person.
She was just never very interested, and so she hardly wore any.
Except, of course, that monstrosity of an engagement ring she got on Happily Ever After.
” Mrs. Larsen shudders. “She hated that ring, said it was heavy. They made her give it back when the engagement to the fake earl ended.”
“They should have let her keep it as a consolation prize for making her go through that ordeal,” Mr. Larsen says, his voice hoarse. “She could have sold it and bought a new car.”
“I did mention to the police that the ring wasn’t Ingrid’s, but I don’t know how seriously they took it,” Mrs. Larsen says.
“It’s been bothering me, though. Why would she be wearing a ring?
We know she didn’t buy it. We’ve checked all her transactions, and none of her accounts have been used since she disappeared.
And the light green stone in the ring is a peridot.
That seemed weird to me, too. It’s not even her birthstone. ”
A tingle goes up Barb’s spine. “Mr. Larsen, what else do you remember about the man who found Ingrid’s dog? You mentioned he was nice?”
“Nathan? He was very concerned, very helpful. I didn’t really get a good look at him—it was dark and he was wearing a baseball cap—but he was very tall, six-five, maybe six-six.
” Mr. Larsen looks at Barb. “I know what you’re thinking.
Maybe it was him who did something to her, right?
But he told me that he and his partner just moved into the neighborhood a few weeks earlier.
I remember he specifically used the word partner, and then I found out the next day that her name is Rebecca. ”
He seems to be waiting for Barb to react to this, but she isn’t sure what he’s driving at.
“Axel assumed he was gay,” Mrs. Larsen explains, rolling her eyes. “Because Nathan referred to Rebecca as his ‘partner.’ ”
“What’s wrong with saying wife or girlfriend ?” Mr. Larsen frowns. “I don’t get the point of being so unspecific—”
“So you met Nathan’s ‘partner’?” Barb asks, using air quotes just to make Mr. Larsen happy. Personally she liked the word partner, but this was not the time for a debate on nongendered wording.
“Yes, she joined the search party the next day,” Mr. Larsen says. “Nice young woman, but she seemed freaked out by it all. They just moved into the neighborhood, and then a woman disappears on the trail? She was worried that the area wasn’t safe. But it is.” He pauses. “Or was.”
“It was lovely of them to help,” Mrs. Larsen says. “It was actually Rebecca that found Ingrid’s phone, about a half mile from where Nathan found Penelope.”
Barb takes a moment to absorb this. The man who found Ingrid’s dog is “partners” with the woman who found Ingrid’s phone? What were the odds of that?
“Would it be okay if I reached out to Nathan and Rebecca?” Barb asks, the tingle in her spine growing more intense. “I’m sure they’ve already talked to the police, but they might recall something now that they didn’t think of then.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Larsen says. “I’ll get you their contact information right away. Does this mean . . . does this mean you’ll help us figure out what happened to Ingrid?”
Inwardly Barb smacks herself. By asking questions about their daughter’s case, she’s now given them hope that she might find answers that the police didn’t, as if she’s some kind of fucking superhero.
She should have kept her mouth shut at the press conference.
She should be keeping her mouth shut now.
But then again, it was the Larsens who came to her. Ingrid’s parents have showed up at her door, asking for her help.
“Mr. and Mrs. Larsen—” she begins.
“Patty and Axel, please.”
“Patty and Axel,” Barb repeats with a sympathetic smile. “I understand why you came to me, but I honestly spoke out of turn at the press conference. I really don’t know that I can help.”
“But you said there were similarities—” Mrs. Larsen says.
“I think there are,” Barb assures her. “But it’s just my opinion. Obviously the police don’t agree.”
“We don’t have a lot of faith in the police right now.” Mr. Larsen’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “And we watch a lot of crime shows. Sometimes it’s the pesky journalist that solves the case.”
“She’s not pesky,” Mrs. Larsen says, frowning at her husband. “She’s persistent, I’m sure.”
“Either way, I’ve been called worse,” Barb says with a small smile.
“I’ll help as much as a civilian can, but I’m not a detective.
I’m just a journalist who has questions, like you.
And I neglected to say this properly before, but I am so sorry.
About Ingrid. From everything I’ve read about her, she was a beautiful, kind person. ”
“Then help us,” Mrs. Larsen says. “Please.”
A short silence fills the living room.
“We should go, Patty,” Mr. Larsen finally says. “I’m sure Barb would like to get back to her day.”
Barb walks them back to the front door. Before they leave, Mrs. Larsen turns to her and suddenly wraps her in a hug.
“Even if you don’t find anything, thank you for listening,” she says to Barb. “But I imagine a case like this would be nagging at you, too. I mean, how many young women turn up dead in Seaside? This is such a small town.”
Barb doesn’t respond to that. They wouldn’t like the answer.
Dead girls show up in Seaside all the time.