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
Sarah is picking blueberries, and Joshua is burning trash in a burn barrel: a practice the county has prohibited for a decade or more. The folks of Snow Creek do what they need to do to get by. Going to the dump or, God forbid, having trash pickup doesn’t cross their minds.
Joshua looks over and joins his sister as they approach the car.
“You know something, Detective?” he says.
Sarah sends silent tears down her cheeks.
“I’m afraid we do,” I say.
I turn to Bernie and introduce her.
“She’s here to help you. We both are.”
“What do you know?” Joshua repeats.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, nudging them toward the front door.
My words unleash Sarah’s tears.
“Mom’s dead,” she says. “Dad killed her. Didn’t he?”
“We don’t know what happened,” I tell her, looking over at the world’s worst victims’ advocate. She isn’t saying anything. Just standing there letting me deliver the bad news. Seriously, I think. This is how you answer your calling? Really? Like a statue?
We take seats at the table Merritt made.
“I’m really sorry, but the DNA samples we collected confirm that it was your mother who was out on Puget Sound logging road north of here.”
Joshua stays stoic. Sarah not so much.
“How did she die?” he asks.
“We’ve only started our investigation, Joshua. In fact, we have a warrant to search the property,” I reply.
I hand the paper over to Joshua and he skims it.
“You think our mom was killed here at home?” He touches his sister’s shoulder. “We’d have heard something, right?”
Sarah, still sobbing, doesn’t respond.
“The search warrant is for your father’s workshop,” I say.
Joshua gets up from the table. “I’ll show it to you.”
Sarah, who has been silent, save for her tears, speaks up.
“Our father was an asshole, Detective,” she says. “If Mom was murdered it was he who did it.”
Her out-of-nowhere candor startles me.
I prod for more. “What do you mean?”
Sarah dries her eyes on her shirt sleeve and pushes her long braid over her shoulder. “Our dad wasn’t the man he pretended to be. He was an abuser. He was the kind of man who thought love meant hurting someone. Our mother lived with it. We all did. She never fought back. Not really.”
Joshua shoots darts at his sister.