Chapters (87)
- TITLE PAGE
- COPYRIGHT
- DEDICATION
- CONTENTS
- START READING
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FORTY
- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
- CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
- CHAPTER FIFTY
- CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
- CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
- CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
- CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
- CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
- CHAPTER SIXTY
- CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
- CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
- CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
- CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
- CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
- CHAPTER SEVENTY
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER EIGHTY
- EPILOGUE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I process her words. “And two steaks?” I ask.
She gives me a nod. “Yeah. Both of them were still in there. It made me wonder when I read the news story. It didn’t seem to add up.”
She is right. It doesn’t.
“The sandwiches were from IGA in Hoodsport,” she continues. “I think that’s probably where the steaks came from too.”
I ask if there was anything else that seemed unusual.
“I know Mrs. Warner was drinking wine when she was taken. The bottle was in the refrigerator. It was a sauvignon blanc, a screw-top. I used it last night to make some steamers the kids and I dug down the beach.”
“Is the trash still in the cabin?” I ask, hoping to fix what I know now is a lapse in the investigation. The idea of a mistake makes me sick to my stomach. Teresa Dibley sees the switch in my demeanor from interested to concern, but she doesn’t remark on it, and I’m grateful for that. I’m starting to sweat too.
She shakes her head and sets down her now-empty glass and motions that Clark is taking his sister too far from shore.
“One more thing,” she says, getting up. “The wastebaskets and the trash can under the kitchen sink were all empty. Liners gone too. I thought that was strange. Why take the trash with you if you’re going to leave the food behind?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LEE
Montrose and I are eating our lunch and playing bingo with the sex offender registry, parole records, and notes on recent LE contact with locals as we try to find who might have taken and assaulted Sophie Warner. There are four nearby whose crimes include rape. Two of those used a weapon. Only one of those held a woman captive.
According to the reports, Jim Coyle, forty-nine, lives barely two miles from the cabins in Lilliwaup. He is a truck driver for a small freight line based out of Port Townsend in nearby Jefferson County. He was arrested for kidnapping when he was twenty and sentenced to seven years. The incident involved a longtime girlfriend who had just broken up with him. He wanted one more chance, but she refused. He held her at gunpoint for more than four hours before releasing her. He claimed their sexual relations the day before had been consensual, but the young woman insisted otherwise.
At least at first.
Coyle pleaded guilty and served his time. Two years after his release, however, his victim appeared on national TV and told the world that she was sorry. She’d found God and wanted to make amends.
“He didn’t hurt me,” she told a chubby, bald TV psychologist. “It was partly my sin too.”
Semiexonerated or not, we decide to pay him a visit.