Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
EVERETT
After my shift, during my drive to Linden’s, I use the ten minutes of quiet to put my rampant thoughts into the vault for the night.
Though I used the conference room to spread out both Michelle’s and Marin’s case files this afternoon, it only brought up more questions. Marin had been communicating with someone in secret before she was killed. He was using a burner phone, which are notoriously difficult to crack into. And without the content of the messages she was sending, there was no way to prove he was the killer.
It's been a thorn in my side since.
And though we obtained Marin’s cell phone records, without her actual phone, the content of the text messages she exchanged with the burner was not available. Most cell phone carriers don’t log text message data for long, and retrieving it is often impossible.
We scoured Marin’s social media accounts, but there was little besides her change in relationship status a month before her murder. No pictures, no names.
Who was she talking to? Where did she meet him? Is he her killer or is he just another dead end ?
What drew Marin to Thrasher’s Corner that night? She never showed up at her classes earlier that afternoon. Never showed up at the bonfire party that night. Did she go to Thrasher’s to meet up with the guy she’d been secretly dating? Or did she get lured there somehow, and her killer was ready?
The fact that our unsub doesn’t harm his victims before killing them means to me that he knows them enough to get close to them. Did Marin’s killer pick her up at her vehicle, then drive her to that overlook? There’s also no sign of restraint, meaning he doesn’t tie them up. Is that because they trusted him, or does it mean that he killed them quickly, maybe taking them by surprise?
Yet if Marin was killed on top of that boulder, why didn’t we find more evidence?
Marin could have walked to the boulder overlook. It’s barely a mile from where her truck was parked. That seems less likely, given that a snowstorm was coming in, with freezing temps.
It’s most likely that Marin got into the killer’s car. Did he kill her there, then after completing his fucked-up ritual, he carried her up the boulder, then tossed her over the edge?
We know even less about Michelle. Like Marin, her phone disappeared with her. There were dozens of phone numbers in her records with no contact details assigned to them because Michelle had been organizing that rally, and it took us a week to sort it all out. By then, we’d lost all chance of obtaining data. We were forced to abandon that lead.
According to Michelle’s friends, she hadn’t been in a relationship. The two previous guys she’d dated both had solid alibis for that weekend. She went to that rally and wasn’t seen or heard from again.
Before I left for the day, I made my list of people from our department who could have known the detail about the key-shaped pendant on Marin’s neck. Besides me and Hutch, Sheriff Olson, Zach, and our crime scene tech, Walker Feldman, are the only others.
According to Hutch, some of the search and rescue volunteers who packaged Marin into the litter used to airlift her off that boulder field could have seen the pendant around her neck, but he says she was covered up first by his clothing, then by the body bag the coroner brought down.
But I added all their names to the list. It includes Captain Parker Greely—Ava’s dad, Linden and half of the fire department, even Dr. Boone, retired but still an active outdoorsman.
We need to start getting answers instead of just more questions.
When I turn up Lind’s driveway, a woman in a sporty coupe cruises past me heading down to the neighboring house. The place has been vacant for almost six months, but maybe it finally sold.
I climb up to the porch, my fourteen-year-old niece Greta’s laughter carrying from inside the house, followed by Linden’s hearty guffaw. I let the simple moment of family chaos sink in as I round the corner and peek inside the back doors.
Greta and Linden stand in the kitchen, both with pizza sauce on their noses. Logan’s on the other side of the counter, guzzling from a bottle of Gatorade, his eyes bright.
“Uncle Everett, tell Dad pineapple is too legit to quit,” Greta says as I walk in.
I glance at Linden for clues to what the hell she’s talking about, but he just shrugs. “Uh, pineapple’s pretty legit.”
“See?” Greta says, poking out her tongue at her dad, who attempts to grab it between his fingers. When he misses, Greta laughs again. So does Linden, and it’s so easy and full. It’s no secret being a dad has changed him for the better.
“You wanna stick around?” Linden asks. “We’ve got plenty of fixings.”
“Please?” Greta says, sliding off the stool. “I helped Logan with his geometry.”
I cock an eyebrow at my son.
“It’s true,” he says. “She’s got mad skills.”
“Then yeah, why not?”
“Yesss,” Logan says, pumping his fist in victory.
“Come see what we did today!” Greta scrambles off her stool. Logan joins her and they race up the stairs, chattering nonstop.
The narrow stairway opens to the middle of the second floor. To the left is the loft currently taken up by a futon couch and a hanging lounge chair. One of Linden’s first tasks was ripping up the plastic-laminate flooring and refinishing the oak planks below. He did a similar job on the fir beams by stripping off layers of old paint. It was a beast of a job, but now instead of it feeling like a cave, the space feels open and full of light. To the right, with a small window over the driveway, is Greta’s bedroom. Straight ahead is the bathroom. Though there’s a giant pile of rotten wood and chipped tile in the middle of the floor, the transformation is well underway. Linden has a gift for working with what’s already in place.
“You and Logan did all this today?” I ask, my eyes drawn up the slanted A-frame wall to the skylight Linden and Greta put in this summer. To the left, where they ripped out the rotten wood paneling that lined the shower, is new drywall, new tile flooring, and a new shower basin. The new glass shower doors lean against the wall, ready for installation. A tiny sink basin and a new toilet fill in the right side.
“Like it?” Linden asks.
I nod. “Is that for the tub?” I point at the empty space beneath the skylight.
Greta bounces into the alcove and gazes up. “I’ll be able to see the moon when I’m taking a bath!”
“Not sure how I’m getting it up here, but yeah.” Linden’s eyes soften as he watches his daughter showing off more of their work.
“You’ve got plenty of help,” I say as the kids rush past us and clatter down the stairs.
Linden nods, and we leave the bathroom.
“Check this out,” Linden says, slipping past me to Greta’s bedroom. He flicks on the light switch, filling the triangular-shaped room with soft light.
“You finished the trim.”
He gazes up, taking in the high A joined above us. “And the cross beams.”
I follow his focus, taking it all in. “It looks so good.”
Logan and Greta’s voices rise up from the kitchen. Their laughter and joking around is slowly thawing the lingering chill from being in that mine today.
“I was hoping to put off the new roof until next summer, but I found a pretty big leak.”
“It’s supposed to storm this weekend.”
“I know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve got it patched for now, but next weekend if the weather’s good, Greta and I might need to get it done.”
Greta’s been his right-hand man since she was old enough to swing a hammer.
“How’s Kelly feel about Greta up on the roof?”
He gives a one-shoulder shrug, but his dark eyes simmer with frustration. “She can feel all she wants. When Greta’s with me, she learns skills and self-reliance. I don’t want her thinking she’s gotta rely on some dude. Ever.”
Unless that dude is Linden, of course, because he will never fail to show up for her.
We leave the bedroom, the scent of the pizzas cooking below making my mouth water.
“What are you guys doing for Logan’s birthday?” he asks.
“He wants to go paintballing with his crew. Then pizza and arcade games.” I lead us to the stairs.
“Any word from her?” Linden asks in a low tone. By her , he means Teresa.
“She’s back inside,” I reply.
Linden huffs a hard breath. “No surprise, but… that sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“I hear you were forty feet down in some mine shaft this morning.” He shoots me a pointed look as we round the bottom of the stairs. “You okay?”
A humming in my chest reminds me to inhale a slow breath and let it out. Linden’s the only person who understands my aversion to dark places, and we don’t talk about it.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s shoot some hoops before you split,” he says, catching my eye.
Basketball is Linden’s way of showing affection. The only person Linden hugs is Greta, and for a time, Kelly, until she blew his heart to shreds by sleeping around.
“So I can kick your ass like I always do?” I tease.
He gives me a raucous grin. “We’ll see about that.”
Through the big glass windows that overlook his deck, a flash of movement from the house next door catches my eye. It’s the woman I saw driving the coupe, carrying a glass of what looks like wine and a thick paperback novel to an Adirondack chair that faces the lake. Her hair is gathered in a messy bun on top of her head, and she’s changed her clothes from the crisp suit to a loose floral dress.
“New neighbor?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
His lips tense. “Recently divorced flight attendant.”
“Why are you scowling? Have you managed to piss her off already?”
“Affirmative.”
I cross my arms. “What did you do?”
“I guess I was running power tools past her bedtime.”
I don’t remember a complaint coming in about power tools, but I’m not on nights right now. “Did you work it out?”
“I tried. She’s cranky as hell.”
“Getting divorced tends to make people cranky.”
He sighs. “Don’t I know it. ”
Dinner is the usual rowdy but in the best way, and I catch myself wishing Vivian was part of it. The thought catches me off-guard, but the more I turn it over in my mind, the more it feels true.
She needs to trust someone.
And that someone is you, huh?
Why couldn’t it be me? Yes, I have good reason to be cautious of her, if not downright wary. I thought I’d learned my lesson with Teresa, who hid her addiction from me during those weeks we were hooking up, then went right back to it the minute Logan was born, and then I failed to heed the warning signs with Shawna, who lied about her ex being abusive in order to manipulate me into her version of a love triangle.
I don’t think Vivian is anything like either women, but I’ve been epically wrong before.
Am I destined to fall for women I have a deep desire to fix but who wreck me instead?
On the way home, I work up the nerve to talk about Teresa with Logan, but the minute we’re out of the driveway, he asks, “What would you say if I wanted to change my name?”
I glance in the rearview. “I’d want to know why.”
He shrugs and looks out the window, but it’s dark, so I know it’s not to admire the view. “I mean, it’s so similar to Linden’s. Wouldn’t it be easier if mine was different?”
I didn’t get the opportunity to help choose my kid’s name or I would have voted for something different for this same reason. “We’re all pretty used to it by now. You wanna tell me the other reason driving this?”
“Greta’s best friend is changing hers to Cedar.”
Linden’s shared this with me already because Cedar isn’t the only thing her friend is changing, and it rattled Greta pretty hard. As if being a teenager isn’t challenging enough these days, they have to navigate so many choices.
“Would it be harder for Mom to find me?” Logan’s softened tone makes me wince .
“Is that what’s behind this?”
He nods. “She emailed me.”
Heat flares up my chest. “She probably got a hold of someone at the school.” Fuck. Is this why Shawna was so chipper the other day? She’s been enabling my ex and thinks it evens some score between us? “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Giving out student contact information to anyone not authorized would get her fired. Would she be that stupid? I shake my head because I know the answer. Yes. I add this little chore to my ever-growing to-do list.
“She’s in jail again, isn’t she?” Logan asks.
“Yeah.”
He gives a tortured groan, his face twisting in the kind of agony that shreds my soul. “I hate it. Some of the other kids know.”
“I’m sorry.”
His expression hardens. Is this the source of the anger that got him fighting a pair of eight graders?
I make eye contact with him. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
“Mad.” He huffs another half-sigh, half-groan. “Why can’t she just quit? Why can’t she be normal?”
In other words, betrayed. Abandoned. “It hurts. I know.”
He huffs another sigh and focuses on the window again.
I’ve given him the clinical explanation of why it’s not easy for Teresa to stay out of trouble, but I don’t think Logan’s ready for empathy. Truthfully, I’m not either, but I can pretend when I need to.
I pull into our driveway and coast to a stop in front of our gate. The porch light flicks on, bathing the front of the house with a welcoming glow.
Logan steps out of the car, dragging his backpack from the seat with him.
I meet him at the front of the car and draw him into a hug. He hugs me back with a pathetic squeeze but at least he’s letting me try .
“I don’t want to see her again,” he says.
I step back and lock eyes with him. “Understood.”
We step through the gate and climb the steps. “What name would you pick, if you were going to change it?”
“Something one syllable, like Fox, or Cade.”
My breath tightens in my throat. If he’s serious, I’m going to need to figure out how to be supportive. But what’s coming up right now is something heavy, and complicated. Like grief.
Single parenting is not for the weak, that’s for sure. One minute I think I have a handle on things, and the next, here comes a curveball.
“Do we still have time to read tonight?” Logan asks when we shuffle inside the house.
“Depends on how fast you can get ready for bed,” I reply, toeing off my boots in our small entryway. Last night, the story’s hero, a thirteen-year-old boy named Brian who is the only survivor in a plane crash in the Canadian wilderness, was about to face off with a bear.
“Five minutes.” He sets his backpack in the adjoining living room.
“Make it three.”
He dashes up the stairs and disappears into the bathroom, giving me time to carry Marin and Michelle’s murder books into my tiny office at the back of the house.
Though I need to catch up to Logan, I open Michelle’s binder. The crime scene chrono—a list of every step of the investigation, starting with the time she was first reported missing—stares back at me. The questions I put aside when I left the station earlier begin to unfurl one after the other.
How can this new discovery of the pendant help us bring in her killer?
After reading and tucking Logan in, I return back to the office, but instead of tackling another run-through of Michelle’s case files, I pull up the notes I took from interviewing Vivian’s neighbors instead. So far, I am getting nowhere with the investigation.
Her neighbors are mostly elderly folks, though there are two sisters living in a double unit in the first row, both in their fifties, and a thirty-four-year-old female and her toddler in the back corner unit. Vivian’s closest neighbor is hearing impaired. Ted Graham noticed her door ajar, but nothing else of use. I haven’t been able to talk with the woman who lives across from Vivian, Beverly Ovenell. Apparently she’s having some sort of medical procedure done in Boise and isn’t due back until Monday, so it’s entirely possible my interview will be irrelevant because nobody seems to know when she left. Still nothing from our crime scene team. If they don’t find prints that aren’t Vivian’s or Matty’s, I’m going to hit a wall.
Vivian said her source in L.A. is rock-solid. So, if Kent didn’t turn her place upside down, who did?
And will they be back?