Chapters (57)
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Hear More from Gregg
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- A Letter from Gregg
- Acknowledgements
“She’s my sister’s child. I don’t have any of my own. Surely you can understand that every young person’s life is worth fighting for.”
I want to tell her she’s right, the kind of PC remark that fills Twitter when people are outraged.
I don’t.
“Take care, Laurna,” I say, hanging up.
Good luck with that, I think.
Forty-Two
At 11 p.m. my phone pings on my nightstand.
I think I was asleep, but I’m not sure. I’m in that state somewhere between thinking about the events of that day and revisiting old wounds by facing things that I thought better forgotten.
It’s Marley Yang from the crime lab.
“Detective Carpenter, my techs got the Burbank girl’s phone opened. Tons there. Sending what I have now. Want to go over it in person. More work to do. Need direction. I’ll be at your office at 7:30.”
I resist calling him back right then. He’s got small kids and a wife that can only be so understanding. Work at the crime lab is never a nine to five.
At least it shouldn’t be when there is so much at stake.
I open the first of several folders and plow through the content as quickly as I can. I read the texts between Ellie and Joshua as fast as possible. I’m no longer tired. I’m energized. Morning can’t come quick enough.
Finding out the truth is the shot of adrenalin that keeps detectives going where others never tread.
Truth, it turns out, is our drug of choice.
Marley Yang is sitting in a state vehicle in our parking lot when I arrive at seven. He swings open his door, lugs a big black briefcase and hurries to greet me. He’s short and compact, a wisp of facial hair on his chin and a head of hair that anyone—man or woman—would envy. Longish, black, luxurious, thick with bunched up locks in the back that indicates he wears it in a ponytail or, God forbid, a man bun.
He’s also carrying a tray of coffees.
I smile at the balancing act.
“Your files kept me up half the night. Coffee is not only appreciated, but desperately needed, Marley.”
He indicates a clear envelope nestled in the coffee tray. Inside, a flash drive.
“Champagne might be in order.”
“I like champagne. Sheriff does too.”
Sheriff meets us inside and we head to a darkened conference room while Marley sets up the zip and turns on the projector. He opens his briefcase and sets out a stack of printouts. It’s thick. More than three hundred pages. Details of what he’ll be showing. He told me one time that if he could do anything other than working for the state crime lab, he’d be a professional poker player.
He loves holding his cards to his vest before the big laydown.
I don’t mind.