“Really?” Montrose asks.

Coyle folds his arms across his chest, pushing his tuft nearly to his chin. “I made a mistake a long time ago,” he says. “I met the wrong girl, and she set me up.”

“You held her at gunpoint,” I say.

“I pled guilty to that. Yeah, I sure did. But that bitch is a liar, and she proved it later when she decided to ask forgiveness. Called me. Harassed me. Said she was sorry. What am I supposed to do with that? Judge says nothing. Case stands. I am a goddamn rapist, and that’s why you’re here. Such bullshit.”

A yapping Pomeranian, one of my least favorite dogs, sweeps down from the trailer, and Jim scoops it up.

“Where were you yesterday?” I ask.

“I was running a load down to Longview. Got back here this morning.”

Montrose looks around. “Where’s your rig?”

Coyle shifts his dog up to his left shoulder. “At the lot in Chehalis. Brakes are a little sticky.”

“No one likes sticky brakes,” Montrose says.

I give my partner a bit of a side-eye. He always promises to rein in his immediate disgust for a person of interest with a criminal record, but he never seems to get there. When I look past Coyle, I see his pickup truck. It’s red. On the back bumper, I can make out the green fringe of some reeds.

If I can get a decent sample, I can find out if it is the same kind of plant material as on the shore at Octopus Hole where Sophie’s body was found.

“I don’t have to say anything more to you. I don’t have a lawyer, but I guess I could get one. Now we’re done here.”

“Let’s go,” I say to Montrose.

The man without the smile turns and heads back to the mobile home, and Montrose and I get back into the car.

“What got into you?” he asks.

“We need to come back,” I tell him. “But we need a warrant.”

“You were looking at something behind him. Did you at least see something useful?”

“The Ford,” I say. “It matches something I saw on Facebook.”

Montrose looks over and shakes his head. I know the look. God, I know it better than anything. I wait. Three. Two. One. Here it comes.

“‘Facebook’?” he asks. “Seriously? Now we’re using that piece of self-absorbed crap as an investigative tool? What’s wrong with your generation?”

“Nothing that we can’t fix once your generation is gone.” I snap this back at him with heat.

He stays silent until we’re back on the highway.

“Okay, now that our little tiff is over, tell me about the truck you read about on Facebook.”

I manage an embarrassed smile. “It’s more than what I read. Last night I was scrolling down the Mason County Crime Watch page, and someone posted that just before Sophie’s disappearance, they saw a red pickup truck parked on the road next to Canal View. There was no one in the truck. Poster shared it because he’d read on another thread that Adam Warner had told police that he ran after the man who was carrying his wife and he thought someone might have been waiting just off the road above the cabin.”