Rivers hadn’t gotten much more from Olga Marsden, either, a woman near eighty who had been out walking her dog on the night Megan disappeared. Gray-haired and thin, Mrs. Marsden was a widow and sharp as a tack, her dark eyes bright behind big blue-rimmed glasses. She had taken her little Scottie dog for a walk through Riggs Crossing that night, just as, she said, she did every night. “We leave the house just after seven and get home before eight so I can catch up on my shows. I tape Wheel and Jeopardy, you know, after the news,” she’d informed Rivers. “I always walk Bitsy then. He’s a Scottie, you know, the fifth one I’ve owned, and it’s been my experience they all like their routines. Bitsy for sure. He doesn’t like his routine changed. Puts him in a bad mood.”

Though she hadn’t been sure, Olga Marsden had thought a woman was behind the wheel of the dark car. “She was driving like a bat out of hell! Just a few blocks from Main Street, if you can believe that. Oh, boy! I signaled for her to slow down, you know, patted the air like this.” She mimicked the movement. “But she didn’t even notice. Just kept right on going. In fact,” the old woman had confided, lifting a “tsking” finger, “I think she actually sped up, if you can believe that.”

When Rivers had asked if the driver had been alone in the car, Mrs. Marsden had thought hard, her face screwing up beneath her cap of gray curls. “I think so, but I couldn’t swear to it. It happened so fast. I was too concerned about Bitsy, you know. Afraid he might run out into the street. He’s a love. Name’s short for Bitterroot’s Scion; he’s registered. Purebred. We just call him Bitsy.”

That had been the end of the interview.

Later, Mrs. Marsden’s story had been confirmed. Two cameras, one from a service station, another mounted over the parking area of a restaurant, caught glimpses of a dark Corolla hurtling past around the same time as the dog walker said she was out.