A Skagit sheriff’s deputy said the homeowner, later identified as Franklin Olsen, killed two members of the county forensic unit who were conducting a follow-up investigation on Kirt Walter Daday, dubbed the Butcher of Sedro-Woolley . . .

Bram clicked on another article written a couple of days later. Darby Carson was described as a forensic linguist working for the state crime lab and had been with the lead detective on the day of the shooting.

He jotted down forensic linguist. He’d never heard of it.

The second article mentioned the incident wasn’t discovered until a motorist driving down the road near midnight stopped to check out what appeared to be an abandoned vehicle.

The next series of essays was brutal. Mistaken identity, careless investigation, real serial killer free to murder a final time before shootout.

Harsh finger-pointing came next, including accusations about Darby’s work on the case that had bungled the correct identification. Apparently Franklin Olsen, the real Butcher of Sedro-Woolley, had asked Daday to write the notes for him as Olsen was functionally illiterate. The word choice and phrasing came from Daday, half brother to Olsen, and had led to Daday’s mistaken identity.

Bram leaned back in his chair. Darby wasn’t to blame if anyone really thought about it, but she’d been smeared just the same. He’d just caught a glimpse of Darby’s nightmare.

*  *  *

After leaving the gift shop, I strolled outside toward the kitchen’s exterior door, hoping to score some bones for the dogs. A variety of delicious aromas escaped the screen door, and the low hum of a generator came from a fenced-in area behind the building. Cookie answered my knock. “Miz Graham! Welcome.”

“Please, call me Darby. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Come in, Darby. Nope. Just working out the menu and schedules.” Her grin made her long, thin face quite attractive. The kitchen was far from primitive. All the latest commercial-grade appliances gleamed with polished perfection.

“I thought there wasn’t any electricity,” I said.

“For the guests. Way too crazy to try and cook five-star meals on a cookstove. So let me guess why you’re here. Perhaps for bones for two hero dogs?”

“So you heard about the bear.”

“Yup. And the dead raccoon.” Cookie turned and waved at one of the kitchen helpers. “Would you pull a couple of beef bones out, Maja?”

The woman nodded and opened a walk-in cooler.

“Gossip, rumors, and small talk are an art form around here,” Cookie said. “We’ve even started a betting pool as to who will get enough nerve to ask you on a date first: Bram or Wyatt.”

My face burned. “Oh no. That’s . . . what . . . I’m not . . .”

Cookie patted my arm with a callused hand. “Now, sweetie, don’t get upset.”

“Why would you all even think that?”