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
“Definitely not today,” the clerk says in a clipped, cold manner. “Maybe tomorrow. Call this afternoon. We are very, very busy.”
I don’t say it, but I think it: Yes, I know. Every time we ask for something you tell us that.
I return back to my desk to get my purse and jacket. Since the sheriff is out doing something, I don’t even need to make up an excuse. I slip out the back door and start my trip back to the Torrance place.
Thirty-One
Record searches—criminal and civil—turned up nothing of value on the Torrances. At least, nothing that would provide any insight. Regina had a DUI fifteen years ago and Amy was cited a couple of times for minor traffic violations. All cases were King County, where they lived prior to Snow Creek. I look at the DMV photos of the women, taken in Seattle more than a decade ago. Both licenses had lapsed. Regina’s eyes were blue. Amy’s brown. Regina was nearly a foot taller, fifty pounds heavier than Amy.
I stand on their front porch looking at a now very familiar note. I highly doubt there’s a Jared. I haven’t found one after a multitude of tries.
I study the handwriting once more: it’s bold and strong.
It passes through my mind that Merritt wrote it as a ruse.
I knock; as before, nothing.
“Regina? Amy?”
I try the knob and this time it’s unlocked. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I draw my gun from my side holster and swing the door open. I’m assaulted by the odor coming at me. The smell is worse than the cat lady’s house down the road. The air is a sweet and heavy mask, an overdose of Febreze and balsam fir scented candles. I wince. Underneath the scent is the unmistakable acrid odor of death.
Damn, I’m too late, I think, as I try to breathe from my mouth.
Merritt has been here.
I move methodically through the front room. Its tidy collection of furnishings and photos of whom based on the old DMV photos I presume to be Amy and Regina are undisturbed: Regina is sturdy and quiet pretty; Amy, the smaller, had a sweet smile and beautiful hair. Next, I sweep the kitchen. Everything is put away. The sink sparkles. A toy goat activated by the sun bobs its head up and down. I look toward the hall.
My gun is a divining rod in search of evil.
“Anyone home?” I ask. “This is the Jefferson County Sheriff. We need to talk to you.”
No response.
I make my way down the narrow, dark hall and nudge the only door open. The stench comes at me in full force. I continue to breathe through my mouth.
It doesn’t help.
I can taste something dead.