In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(67)

“Until they died.”

“And he never expressed a desire to go and visit?”

“We had holidays at our house in Issaquah. Our home was bigger and could better accommodate the family. They could spend the night. His parents’ house wouldn’t have fit everyone. They were simple people. His father worked for city maintenance. They liked to come up here and see the kids.”

“What about to visit his high school friends? Did your husband ever see any of them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet them?”

“He said he wasn’t close to any of them.”

“So he didn’t communicate with any of them?”

“I’d never met them.”

“What about reunions?”

“He never went.”

Tracy found all of this odd, given that Sam Goldman had described Gallentine as one of the four conquering heroes who would have remained a minor celebrity in his hometown. In her experience, things like winning championships also could forge lifelong friendships.

“Did your husband ever mention to you that he won the state football championship his senior year?”

Martin’s face was blank. “I knew he played football. He never said anything about winning a state championship.”

“Does it strike you as odd that he wouldn’t mention that?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Sports weren’t really Darren’s thing. I mean, he liked to watch, go to an occasional game, but he wasn’t a fanatic.”

Tracy thought about that a second, which was a mistake, because it gave Martin a chance to look at the clock on the wall. “I need to go,” she said, standing quickly. “I have a conference call.”

“I’m assuming you were the personal representative of your husband’s estate,” Tracy said.

“I was.”

“You would have access to his counseling records.”

Martin shook her head. “I’m not going there, Detective.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to. If you could just get them—”

“For what—to possibly ruin my children’s recollection of their father more than it’s already been ruined? You don’t even know if there’s a connection. I’m not going to do that to my kids and grandchildren without good reason. Darren’s death was traumatic for them. They were just kids. I’m not taking them back there.”

Tracy was down to her final argument. “There’s another family to think about, Mrs. Martin. A family who didn’t get to see their daughter grow up, a family who is still without all the answers.”

“They’ll have to find their own closure, Detective, just like we did. It’s a horrible thing, and I’m sorry, but I won’t do that to my daughters and to my grandchildren. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m out of time. I’ll walk you out.”




Tracy left Martin a business card and drove back to the Justice Center. Foremost on Tracy’s mind was Martin’s statement that Darren Gallentine had never mentioned winning the state football championship, though they’d met just a few years after that historic feat, and at a time when Tracy would have thought it would remain a bragging point in any young, testosterone-driven athlete’s life. Darren Gallentine wanted no part of it, apparently, and he wanted no part of Stoneridge, not even to visit his parents, and despite having departed a hero. Darren Gallentine’s mind seemed to have no room for glory-days reminiscing, too cluttered with whatever nightmares tormented his sleep, made him turn to the bottle, and eventually led him to take his own life. Tracy wondered if those nightmares had to do with what happened to Kimi Kanasket.

Tracy’s cell phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. Caller ID indicated it was Michael Melton at the crime lab.

“I just sent you my report,” he said. “I thought I’d give you the Reader’s Digest version.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The tire that made those impressions was a B.F. Goodrich 35x12.50R15,” Melton said. “It was an all-terrain tire popular back then for trucks and off-road vehicles, so there were millions in circulation. Now, you want the bad news?”

“I thought that was the bad news. Let me guess—the make and model of the tire on the white truck in the photographs is different than the tires that made the impression,” Tracy said.

“We were able to work with the negatives you provided for the truck,” Melton said, “but I could only get a partial on the model, nothing on the make.”

“What can you tell from the partial?”

“The size of the tire on the truck matches the size of the tire that made the impression, but there wasn’t enough to determine the make or the model.”

“So we don’t know.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be more definitive.”




Kins turned from his computer the moment Tracy stepped into the bull pen, stood, and handed her two sheets of paper.

“Bingo,” he said, pointing to the first of two e-mails. “Angela Collins was talking to a real estate agent about selling the house. He e-mailed her appraisals.”

“When was this?” Tracy asked, searching for the date of the e-mail.

“The same week she bought a gun.”