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 doesn’t seem to care. “They are going to find out, Joshua. They are going to find out that our father was a piece of shit. We know it. Mom knew it. I was surprised that Aunt Ruth showed up here. He’d told her that she was going to rot in hell for the way she treated her husband. Running around. Slutty like a common whore. He called her a Mary Magdalene reject. His favorite was calling Mom Ida-Ho or Ida-Whore. When Mom pushed back, he just laughed and said he’d cut off another toe.”
I’m glad I’m sitting. Bernie, on the other hand, looks like she’s at her own birthday party.
“I thought it was a mowing accident.”
Joshua’s eyes are riveted to his sister. “Don’t do this, Sarah.”
“Josh,” she says. “We have to. Dad killed Mom. You know it. Detective Carpenter knows it.”
“Please,” he says. “Don’t.”
She looks at him with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Too late, brother. I already did.”
Twenty-Three
The judge was very specific, as he or she must be. I’m a stickler for following the rules of law. I don’t want to be the person who screws things up on a technicality. We asked for a broader search of the property, the Chevy, of course, but the mention of the hammer keeps our focus on where tools might be found.
I lead the deputies, armed with cameras, into the barn. It’s a peculiar space because it doesn’t appear that it is in much use for an off-the-grid family. There’s a single stall with a milk cow and a few Sussex chickens. One is a broody hen and she stays put on her clutch of eggs as we pass by.
“This isn’t a one bite of the apple, guys,” I say. “I want to wallpaper our office with of all the photos you take. We might see something later that we miss right now. It happens.”
“We got it, Detective Carpenter,” Deputy Copsey says.
It enters my mind just then how much I like the sound of that. There’s no sarcasm, no phoniness in his voice. I am a detective. I am going to solve this case.
My eyes are lasers. I absolutely will not miss anything.
“Davis,” I say, looking up at the hayloft, “check out every square inch. Run your fingertips through the straw up there. Be careful. Tell yourself that you will be the man who solves this case.”
Davis is younger than me. He has black hair and a mustache that screams Seventies porn star or cop. Cop, I think. His gut hangs over his belt. He’s earnest and a total pleaser.
“Yes, ma’am. On it right now.”
I give Copsey a smile. He gets it. At least, I think so. I’m too young to be a ma’am.