I know that the deal is contingent on Ellie’s disclosure on a matter related to the case. I also know that she’s going to do time in our system for the assault on her accomplice, Joshua Wheaton, and threatening an officer. And yes, the murders of the Wheatons. She’s tangled up in that too.

“We have evidence that proves she wasn’t there when the Wheatons were killed, but that’s not what we need to tell you.”

“You don’t need to tell me anything, Mr. Scott.”

“No. I don’t. But in exchange for the information I’m going to tell you, the prosecutor has agreed to lesser charges and an immediate extradition to Clallam County, where they will charge my client with the second-degree murder of her parents.”

None of this surprises me. Girls like Ellie always manage to land on their feet.

“Okay, fine,” I say through slightly clenched teeth. “Testifying against Joshua Wheaton isn’t exactly a surprise to me. I figured she’d flip the second she had her fingers and palms scanned and had a mug shot taken.”

Clifton Scott gives me a condescending half smile manifested out of reasonably natural veneers. Laurna pats Ellie on the shoulder, wind chimes tinkling. Ellie shrugs and her belly chains rattle the table.

The lawyer speaks up. “Ellie has agreed to give you the name of Mrs. Wheaton’s killer.”

I crinkle my brow. “We know who that is already. What we don’t know is the location of Sarah’s body.”

“I’m prepared to tell you both, Detective.”

The drive to Leavenworth, Washington, is among the most beautiful in a state known for its scenery. The highway cuts up and through the Cascades, with drifts of snow and conifers stunted by altitude and ice.

Before leaving, Sheriff told me to contact local law enforcement and asked if I needed backup from here. I told him I’d already made the call and that I was fine.

“Bring me back a murderer,” he said.

“Will do.”

“And one of those German pretzels too.”

“That goes without saying.”

Leavenworth is distinctly an American oddity. Nestled in the Cascades along tumbling Icicle Creek, it bills itself as a Bavarian village, a gamble to save the town from dying by mandating a makeover. It worked. It’s a town dripping in gingerbread, beer steins; women in dirndls and men in lederhosen. Every business from the grocer to one of the countless cuckoo clock purveyors is required to adopt the Bavarian theme in signage and architecture. Whether it makes sense or not.

Hence, Der Kentucky Fried Chicken.