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Back Snow Creek Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Books by Gregg Olsen
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Hear More from Gregg
  55. Books by Gregg Olsen
  56. A Letter from Gregg
  57. Acknowledgements

I’m dizzy from the wine or the memories that have bombarded me. It’s hard to know which. Wine, I hope. I want to think of myself as a strong person. That’s what makes me good at my job. I look down. My hands are shaking. I know why. The tape has sparked so many memories of Hayden. I miss my brother so much as I think of him as that little boy back in Port Orchard. Everything that happened after he found our father was my doing. He was a little kid. I dragged him along on my odyssey and dropped him off the first chance I had.

He didn’t deserve that.

I pad down the hall to a second bedroom that I use for an office. The scene there is chaotic. I’ve turned an entire room into the proverbial junk drawer. Little things, big things. Nothing put where it belongs. Most of the stuff is junk, yet because I have so little of my early years, I keep it all—a necklace I wore the day we left the house, vintage Foster Grant sunglasses, my ASB card from South Kitsap.

And a news clipping I tore from an old bound edition of the Oregonian from Portland State University archives.

My laptop beckons from the desk.

I slide into the chair and open my email account. Nothing but the usual offers from stores that I was stupid enough to give my email address. I’d rather not have ten percent off anything if it means you’ll spam me every single day of my life.

Even though risk always looms with any technology, especially the use of email, I start typing, keeping things vague and free of details that could hurt either one of us. It is my only hope to reach him.

Hayden,

You don’t have to answer. Please read all the way to the end. Please don’t let this email bounce back because you’ve blocked me or relegated me to your SPAM folder. I’m missing you so much right now. I just wanted to let you know that I’m doing okay. You’d like Port Townsend so much. It’s got some cool old architecture like Wallace. Lots of restaurants and bars too. I have a spare room. When your deployment ends maybe you can come here and stay awhile. Like I said, you don’t have to answer.

I love you,

Rylee

I reread the email. I note where I tell him—no less than twice—that no response is required. That’s really not for him, but for me. I doubt he will reply. I write those words so I don’t check my email obsessively. Even though I will.

I put my fingertip on SEND and go back to bed knowing that I’ll check my email first thing in the morning.

Thirteen