The rock, location of the body, and note she supposedly wrote to Sam saying she was leaving all pointed to murder. I added the missing art and supplies to that conclusion. What about the bounced check?

This search of the cabin was brief. No checkbook.

The dogs began barking. I braced myself. The earthquake caused the logs to shift and rumble and dust to fly. The door of the stove rattled free. This time the barking kept up. Not good. What did they call this? An earthquake swarm?

Still bracing for the next quake, I stared at the stove. If I wanted to get rid of art and checkbooks, I could burn them . . . I drew closer, then peered inside. A lump of something was just inside the door. I reached inside.

Warm.

I snatched my hand out and jerked upright. A woman dead six months didn’t need a fire. Who’d been staying here?

The dogs’ barking became high-pitched. The last time they’d carried on like this we’d had a major quake. The roof of this building already sagged.

I charged from the house, pausing only when I was clear of the structure. The dogs faced me, hackles raised, barking frantically.

No. They weren’t barking at me. They were barking at something behind me.

I started to turn. Something smashed into my head.

Chapter 23

I opened my eyes, then closed them. Nothing changed. I was in absolute blackness.

Night. Dark. Black. No! No! No!

I can’t remember. Not again. Ground yourself in the present . . . I couldn’t stop the PTSD flashback. The sealed section of my memory opened, returning me to that day in Skagit County five years earlier.

“This was the surprise?” I leaned across to see the house better. My dear, sweet husband, Jim Carson, put his truck into park, turned off the engine, then turned to me.

“Are you buying it?” I scrunched my face as if smelling something bad. “Tearing it down? Maybe arresting someone here? I rather thought we were going to go look at horses. Horse. Not house. That little mare isn’t going to be on the market long—”

“We are.” He pointed up a small rise to the modest white rancher surrounded by looming evergreens. “But first, the humble abode of Kirt Walter Daday.” Yellow crime scene tape fluttered around the front yard. Jim rolled down his window. The rain-tinged mountain air filled the cab, and the screeching caw of a raven broke the silence. “You worked so hard on this case, Darby. Every so often you should get the chance to actually see more than words on a piece of paper.”

“News flash. Words are my thing. Forensic linguists love words.” I touched his face. “But thank you.”

He grabbed my hand, rotating it so the emerald solitaire on my wedding ring caught the light. “Like you, the rarest and most priceless stone on earth.” He leaned over and kissed me.