“You mean like they weren’t getting along and he’s a liar?”

Now I give Montrose a look. “I mean just what I said. I don’t know the why. You don’t, either.”

The sole bathroom in the cabin is surprisingly spacious for something built in the 1920s. A claw-foot tub commands the space against the interior wall; a toilet and shower take up the rest of the space. Sophie’s cosmetics bag is open next to the sink. A pair of pristine white towels, damp to the touch, hang on brass hooks next to the door.

On our way out, Montrose pokes his head through a doorway that I assumed was a closet.

“Nice,” he says. “A sauna.”

“Not a fan,” I say.

“Hot tub too,” he points out. “Might just want to stay here myself.”

I give him a nod. “We might be here a lot, but we won’t be in the hot tub or the sauna.”

Montrose looks in my direction. I can see the twinkle in his eyes behind his wire frames. I wait for it, but it doesn’t come. I am certain that my partner will make some crack about Adam Warner being in hot water or the fact that we’re going to need to apply some heat here.

But he doesn’t. And I’m grateful for that.

CHAPTER THREE

LEE

Teresa Dibley offers coffee or soda, but I decline. She’s grandmotherly, because that’s what she is, but immediately I learn she’s more than that. At sixty-two, she’s raising her son’s children—Clark, twelve, and Destiny, seven—because her son and daughter-in-law would rather use drugs than parent. We stand on the deck of the Chrysanthemum and watch as the kids play with Aubrey by the rope swing. Destiny is blond and very shy.

“Destiny doesn’t really know her mom, and frankly, I hope to keep it that way. Not that my son is any better. But I can tolerate him, I guess, because I have no choice.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I picked up Destiny from the hospital when she was four days old. The only trace of her mother on the girl is the ridiculous name she gave her. Hope to change that someday. I’m just biding my time until the state of Washington gives me the final stamp of approval. It’s stupid; it’s cruel, but that’s the way it is.”

Teresa is slender and fit in shorts and walking shoes. Her sleeveless T-shirt is emblazoned with the logo of the Hama Hama Oyster Saloon, just past Lilliwaup. Her hair is pewter with streaks of black, and she wears it pulled back from her face.

“You weren’t here when Sophie vanished?” Montrose redirects the conversation, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses with a handkerchief pulled from his pants pocket.

“No. Kids and I spent the morning going up Staircase.”

I nod, thinking of the times I’d scaled it. “Nice hike.”

“Yes,” she says. “Destiny got tired, but she’s a pretty good sport. Didn’t cry or anything. Even so, we came home early. Clark insisted. Wanted to gather oysters at low tide this afternoon anyway.”