He gives me a shrug. “Others like to gossip. Gossip sometimes becomes a reality for some.”

“I’ll deal with that if it comes up, Montrose,” I tell him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “Something else we need to deal with.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting Adam Warner in here for a real talk. Like today, ideally. You want to call him, or you want me to?”

“I’ll do it,” I say. “No problem. Anything else?”

Before he answers, I pull out the Warner file.

“Let’s get down to business,” I say.

“Lab’s got a backlog,” I tell him. “Dr. Collier thinks it will take a while. A Mason County murder doesn’t appear to be a priority.”

“Should be,” he says.

As I go through my list with Montrose, I feel the air lighten in the room. The tension of what transpired between us fades. We’re focusing on what will move us forward.

“Let’s see here,” I say, running my index finger down my hastily scribbled list. “Oh yes, I have a call I’m supposed to return. Multiple calls, actually. All from Linda London.”

Montrose makes a face. “Don’t you do it,” he says.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll toss her over to PIO and let them deal. Obviously,” I add, “we’re not giving any interviews yet.”

The yet was important, a major lesson learned. I gave an interview to the Olympian early in the Cathy Rinehart case. It was a huge mistake. In the interview, I said I’d told the family that I was certain we’d solve their daughter’s murder. I knew better. Never make a prediction about what you cannot truly control. That case file sits atop the otherwise perfectly ordered credenza behind me. It will never leave there until justice is served. It both mocks and haunts me every morning when I hang up my jacket or stow my purse.

We are a small staff at the Mason County Sheriff’s Office. Our county is vast, with a sparse population tucked here and there among some of the most stunning Northwest scenery one could imagine. Truly postcard stuff. Whenever we can, Montrose and I work together on a major case. We separate for our own tasks, though. Like right now, he’s off following up on Jim Coyle, our best bet for the case—and I’m making my “no problem” call to Adam, and returning the call of Frank Flynn, the bane of my existence. It’s a measure of how much I’m dreading calling Adam that I choose to lock horns with his father-in-law first.

“I’d like a call back right away when I call,” Frank barks, right out of the gate. “There’s something really wrong with law enforcement that forgets the families of the victim.”

“Hello, Mr. Flynn.”

He’s baiting me, but I ignore it.