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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

Before I head in for the trail, I knock on the door. At my feet are two purple and one dark blue Croc, the world’s most hideous shoe.

I knock harder.

A dark blue Croc, I know, was found not far from where Ida Wheaton’s burned body was found in the pickup truck.

“Amy!” I call out, leaning toward the door. “Regina! Is there anyone home?”

I don’t hear anything, but for a flash I thought I sensed a vibration on the porch.

I knock one last time, thinking of that Croc. Has Merritt been holed up here? I’m worried about the women. Something feels funny. I make a mental note to call into the office when I get in cell range. Deputies need to swing by here for a welfare check. I’ll pull records on both women later.

As I move down the trail it feels as though I’m entering in a tunnel. So dark in places. Every once in a while a sharp blade of light lacerates the space. The path is wider than a deer trail, though not by much. It snakes through the forest and begins to rise about a hundred yards in.

I have the wrong clothes for such an endeavor and definitely the wrong shoes.

Should have borrowed the ugly Crocs, I think. At least no one would have seen me in them. Maybe a squirrel but I could live with that.

I remove my jacket and fold it neatly to carry the rest of the way. I can’t show up looking like some derelict at Mrs. Wheaton’s memorial. For all I know, Bernie notified the media.

I had no idea they were coming. Really, I’m just as shocked as you are.

The trail leads me to the exact spot where the truck went down. A deep cut in the earth shows where the tow truck driver dragged it up to the road, where a flatbed had been brought to take it for processing at the same crime lab—only to tell us that an accelerant had been used and the VIN hadn’t been completely removed. The last three digits and one of the middle letters were still legible.

The truck was indeed Merritt Wheaton’s.

When I get back to the Torrance house, I try the door one more time. Again, no answer.

Twenty-Seven

Crime scene tape makes for an unsettling memorial decoration. It flaps in the breeze over by the barn and around the Quonset hut. I look at my phone, but of course, no word on the blood and hair evidence that Mindy collected yesterday. A half dozen cars are lined up in the field adjacent to the small apple orchard. I park behind Sheriff.

Before I shut my door, I smell wintergreen.