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
I think of Joshua and Sarah and how they’ll have to start over their lives. Just like Hayden and I did. Depending on how the family court judge rules, it is possible that Sarah will go into foster care until more permanent arrangements can be made. Among the list of things that Hayden hated me for was how he had to, as he said, “serve time” in foster care. I was out there somewhere, and he was alone with strangers. It was my doing. I left him. He didn’t know why.
Not then.
Nineteen
The night had been a rough one. I doubt I slept more than two or three hours. I tossed and turned and struggled to find the cool side of my pillow. I dreamed of cats and Hayden. I pick up my phone and open my email. Nothing but a bunch of spam offering me things I don’t need and don’t want. Nothing from my brother. I remind myself, as I put my feet on the floor and head to the bathroom, that someday he’ll write me back. He has to. He’s my blood. He’s all I have.
I put a pod in the coffeemaker and wait while it pushes hot water through the ground coffee. My phone pings and my heart skips a beat.
Hayden?
I look down. It’s not my brother. It’s an update from the crime lab.
We will run the samples this morning. Expect a call after lunch.
I finish my coffee, take a quick shower and dress for work. My first stop is at the community planning office where I’ll ask for a printout of the property owners closest to the Wheatons, before heading out to Snow Creek.
The printout is scant in information. There are only four property owners—Maxine and Earl Jacobson, Ida and Merritt Wheaton, Regina and Amy Torrance, and Daniel Anderson. The house with the sweet potato vine is a ghost on the page. A squatter, I think. A squatter who’d been there for what seems to have been a long time. A notation indicates that the previous owners had left the area before we went digital. They owed back taxes to the tune of $2,024 and apparently felt the tax bill didn’t justify the reality of what they had.
I completely agree.
As I get up to leave for Snow Creek, Sheriff appears in my doorway.
“Want some company?” he asks.
I smile.
“Sure. I’ll even let you drive.”
As we drive, I tell him about Maxine and her cats.
“Seriously? More than a hundred?”
“I didn’t exactly count them, but that’s my guess.”
“Wife and I are more dog people.”