The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(18)

“Detective Crosswhite, this is Glenn Hicks. I’m a district ranger with Mount Rainier National Park.”

“What can I do for you?” Tracy asked. She turned and looked south, where the mountain loomed ever large.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure.” Hicks gave a long sigh through the phone. Then he said, “But I think you might have found one of my corpses.”





CHAPTER 6


Marriage is bliss.

That’s what people say, anyway. I found it not all that different from being single, except for little things, like I had to clear space in the closet for Graham’s clothes, and there was twice as much laundry and twice as many dirty dishes. I hadn’t anticipated we’d live in my loft, which isn’t much bigger than a studio apartment, but Graham said it was less expensive than his apartment and we’d save money, plus we’d be living in the Pearl District and could walk to all the cool restaurants and stores.

Not that we ever do walk to all the cool restaurants and stores. It’s been six weeks since the big day—I did summit Mount Rainier, by the way, though Graham didn’t make it. He had to turn back at Disappointment Cleaver with altitude sickness. I thought he’d be happy I’d made it, but he was more upset with the guides, who he said didn’t prepare him well enough for the ascent.

Anyway, Graham has been working late—a lot. He has a big public offering for one of BSBT’s signature clients and says that if he pulls it off, there’s no way he can’t be made a firm partner. It’s okay with me he’s working so much. Like I said, I was used to living alone and it’s been an adjustment having someone else in the loft. I’ve never been much of a talker, but Graham likes to talk when he gets home, sometimes anyway. He has a lot of big ideas about companies he wants to someday start, though he says he hasn’t found “that magic fit” just yet.

Graham working late gives me more time to spend reading, though he keeps encouraging me to go back to the gym. That twenty pounds I lost training for and climbing Rainier? I found it. I should say, it found me. I certainly wasn’t looking for it. I think it’s genetics. I can remember my father saying to my mother that no matter how much he ate, or how far or how often he jogged, he could never get below 190 pounds.

Not that I’m 190 pounds!

Good God.

Still, I’m 135, which isn’t exactly lean and mean.

The sex has been less frequent than I expected. Graham says he’s tired after the long days, but I’m wondering if it has to do with those pounds. Before we got married, Graham used to say, “I like my women with a little meat on their bones.” Now he’ll say things like, “You should go to the gym when I’m working late, or go out for a walk. You don’t have to be cooped up in here all night.”

I like cooped up. I like my books. And I don’t mind the pounds. My wardrobe is built for it!

I was cooped up on a Wednesday night, reading The Nightingale, a book that had transported me back to 1940s Paris, when Nazis goose-stepped down the Avenue des Champs-élysées. I heard someone at the door. My loft is on the third floor of a converted warehouse. It’s the only loft on the floor and while you can access it by stairs or take an elevator, you have to punch in a four-digit security code to get in the front door and to get the elevator to ascend. My front door is also keyless. I think the landlord got tired of getting calls in the middle of the night from tenants who’d locked themselves out. I use the same four-digit code for the elevator and my door—the day and month of my birthday. Real sneaky, I know.

Anyway, we don’t get solicitors, so the sound of someone at the door that early in the evening surprised me. I glanced up at the clock on the wall near the windows that provided a partial view of the Willamette River and Broadway Bridge. Six thirty. I wasn’t expecting Graham that early. Lately, he had not been getting home until after ten.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in and giving me a quick glance before shutting the door and setting down his backpack.

“Hey,” I said, sensing something wrong. Graham’s moods could be hard to predict. When he was happy, he was a ball of fast-talking energy. He’d go on and on whether or not I participated in the conversation. Then he’d catch himself and say, “I’m sorry. I haven’t given you a chance to say anything.” But before I could say anything, he’d start talking again. Those were the good nights. The not-so-good nights were when Graham came home sullen, bordering on angry. The first few times I’d asked if he was all right, but I’d stopped after he’d said, “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I talk all day. Just give me some peace and quiet.”

Tonight he stood at the door, eyes seemingly searching the ceiling rafters. He looked disheveled, which was not like him. I’d had to give him more space in the closet for his clothes, which was fine since I didn’t have much in the wardrobe department. Remember—cubicle worker. Portland. Graham needed suits, and shirts and ties for work, which he only bought from Nordstrom. He had a personal shopper who knew his tastes, and Graham liked the way they tailored his clothes. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ. I usually looked like I’d rolled out of bed, thrown on the first thing I selected, and headed out the door without even bothering to put on mascara, which was exactly what I did most mornings.