All it took was one lie for Jim Coyle to transition from person of interest to murder suspect. It was more than that, of course. Coyle had a criminal record that included violence against a woman. He lied to his employer about his whereabouts. He lived within minutes of where Sophie had been taken. There was more. All circumstantial, obviously. Coyle had a truck that matched what Sheila Simmons—the crime-scene Facebook poster—had said she’d seen on the highway directly above the Wisteria, Chrysanthemum, and Lily cabins around the time of Sophie’s disappearance.

What’s more, I noted in my report after our first contact with Coyle at his property that the back bumper of his truck had reeds stuck to it that appeared to me—not that I’m a botanist—like what I’d seen where the kayakers had found Sophie’s body.

Armed with a search warrant, Montrose and I arrive at Coyle’s mobile home. His truck is missing, and the minute we get out of the car we hear his dog yapping. I love all animals. I love my cat. But the truth is, I don’t care much for the incessant yapping of any dog, which, I am sure, is owing to the fact that my neighbors have a Chihuahua with the lung capacity of a Saint Bernard.

“He’s not here,” I say.

“The damn Pomeranian is.”

I smile. Montrose and I are a match on something besides espresso and beer.

I knock on the door; its thin aluminum sheeting reverberates like a snare drum.

“James Coyle,” I call out with some volume, to ensure that my words are heard over the barking Pomeranian, which by now has gone completely berserk. “Mason County detectives Husemann and Montrose here. We’re here to execute a warrant on these premises.”

Montrose and I look at each other while we wait a moment.

I check the door and, surprisingly, find it unlocked.

We look at each other again.

“Maybe he’ll shut up if we let him out,” Montrose says.

“God, I hope so.”

The puffball with teeth is yapping, and we need to find Jim Coyle. So we go inside. The dog makes a break for it, and we let it scoot itself out into the yard.

“Oops,” Montrose says.

Coyle’s house is small and reasonably tidy for a single guy. Even the throw pillows on the sofa are squared up against the armrest. It’s clean but not very homey. The walls are barren except for a canvas print of a big blue Pacific octopus. Its arms reach out over the edge of the frame. I look closer, and I notice the figure of a woman bound by one of the animal’s eight legs. It’s creepy, and I motion to Montrose to take a shot of it with his phone.