I hear the crushing noise of gravel under car tires, rumbling, nearly like thunder somewhere in the foothills above Snow Creek. Sheriff Gray and Mindy Newsom have arrived. She’s following his vehicle in her white van—the same one she uses for flower arrangement deliveries. I’ve known Mindy for years. We used to go out drinking when I first moved to Port Townsend. She was Mindy Scott back then. She’d just graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in forensic science. Our connection was immediate. I was new and so was she. At the time she had the office next door to me, and Sheriff Gray converted one of the old conference rooms to a lab. He had big dreams then. So did she. Mindy was certified by the state and put everything she had into being a skillful criminalist. She didn’t know it would be a part-time job.

Yet that’s how it turned out.

Seems that Jefferson County crimes with the need of her tools of the trade are few and far between. Mindy got married, had a baby, went on family leave, and opened up a flower shop downtown.

She brightens when she sees me.

“It’s been eons, Megan.”

I give her a hug. I’ve missed our friendship. I’m not really close to any other women. Not many men either.

“Far too long,” I say.

We talk about her daughter, and she asks if I’ve met anyone. My mind flashes to Dan Anderson, but that thought is fleeting and completely idiotic. I give her the bag with the hammer, and she puts it in a red and white camping cooler in the back of her van.

“You got me on a good day,” she says. “No weddings this coming weekend.”

I tell the two of them what I know so far. I watch as Mindy eyes the house and shakes her head at the tragedy that has befallen the occupants of the pretty house in the middle of nowhere. It was worse than a tornado. A fire. A devastating earthquake. It was a decisive kind of evil from within the walls of the house itself.

“Not that it will do much good,” she says, indicating the barn, the workshop and the two deputies. “I brought a couple of clean suits.”

She looks at the sheriff.

“Sorry,” she says, “I don’t have one that’ll fit you.”

He pats his belly. “Now my size is interfering with my work. My wife’s going to kill me.”

“I hope she doesn’t,” Mindy says. “You’d have to get a new criminalist because there’s no way that I would ever want to process your scene. Especially if she shoots you in the shower.”

He scratches his head and makes a face. “Yeah, she’s a neat freak. She’d probably do something like that.”