The Wrong Bones (Widow's Island #10)(5)

“What do we do now?”

“Go to the station to research missing teenagers. Hopefully, someone reported this girl missing.” Tessa stepped into her vehicle.

Logan drove his Range Rover to the satellite station, which was barely bigger than a double-wide, with two desks and a holding cell the size of an elevator. In the corner, a microwave and coffee machine were stacked on a minifridge.

Tessa dusted the shovel handle for fingerprints, then photographed them before lifting the prints with tape. “I’ll send the digital prints to the fingerprint examiner so he can run them through IAFIS in the morning.” The FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System contained tens of millions of fingerprints. She leaned back in her chair and pressed the ice pack to the side of her face.

Logan made two cups of coffee. “Most brides would be very upset with a bruised face a week before their wedding.”

Tessa shrugged. “The wedding will be fun. Why obsess about things I can’t control? Allowing little things to make me crazy would take away from the enjoyment. I have enough responsibilities. I refuse to turn our wedding into another chore.” Tessa’s mother suffered from dementia. In addition to caring for her mother, Tessa had taken over parenting responsibilities for her teenage sister. She tilted her head. “Does it bother you that I’m not worried about the wedding? Am I too practical?”

Logan handed her a cup, then kissed her. “I love every inch of your practicality.”

She kissed him back. “I love every inch of you too.”

“You know how I feel. We already live together.” Logan had moved in to help Tessa manage her mother and sister. “As long as I get to spend the rest of my life with you, I’m good.”

They shared another, slower kiss. Tessa closed her eyes, and Logan felt the tension in his body loosen. She really was all he needed.

Her eyes fluttered open. “We’d better get back to work.” She pointed to a white bag on the counter. “I snagged a couple of blueberry fritters from the bakery before my shift. My brain needs sugar.”

Logan brought her a fritter and a napkin. He ate his in three bites.

“Take the second computer.” Tessa pointed to the desk next to hers. “I’ll search for similar crimes in NCIC.” The National Crime Information Center database was a clearinghouse where law enforcement agencies across the country shared crime details. “Would you start with NamUs?” The National Missing and Unidentified Persons System kept information on both missing persons and unidentified remains.

Logan switched on the computer. While sipping his coffee, he entered his initial search parameters: females who went missing between the ages of twelve and eighteen in the state of Washington. He could always broaden the search if he didn’t get results that matched their bones. There were sixty-three missing females between the ages of twelve and eighteen in the state of Washington. Logan entered an approximate height of five feet two to five feet six to narrow the search, returning thirty-six possible results. He opened each record and scrolled down to distinctive physical features. Hopefully, whoever had reported their Jane Doe missing had given the police the information about her broken arm and the surgical repair.

Two hours later, Logan was nearly at the bottom of the list and considering including records from neighboring states. The majority of records contained appallingly little information, as if no one had cared enough about them to bother entering much data. He opened the file for Alyssa Collins. Someone had cared about Alyssa. Her file contained plenty of details.

Logan scrolled down to the physical description. In the box for distinctive physical features, the text read: Scar on left forearm, bone plate and screw in left ulna. There couldn’t be two missing girls with identical injuries.

“I think I found her.” Logan moved to the Circumstances of Disappearance box and read aloud: “Seventeen-year-old Alyssa Collins lived on Bainbridge Island. She disappeared from her bedroom in the middle of the night nine months ago. She took a backpack of clothes and possibly ran away to meet someone she communicated with online.”

Logan stared at the girl’s photo. Alyssa had been a pretty young girl, with long dark hair and brown eyes. Her smile was full of straight teeth. Was it really Alyssa? It had to be. How many missing girls had a bone plate on their left arm?

“Is a law enforcement contact listed?” Tessa asked.

“Yes.” Logan wrote down the name and number of the detective in charge of the case. He checked the time. “I need to be at the park in the morning. There’s a youth group coming in for an overnight. I’ll need to check them in.”

“I can’t make calls or knock on doors until a civilized hour anyway,” Tessa said. “I’ll wait until later to phone the detective for case details. Once we make contact, Henry can confirm the girl’s ID with medical records, but for now, I think we can assume the body is Alyssa. It isn’t likely there are two missing girls who had bone plates on their forearms.”

“Who will perform the death notification?” Logan asked.

Tessa turned up a palm. “Probably the detective in charge of the missing person case. It should be done in person. That isn’t news anyone should receive over the phone.”

“No. I shouldn’t be relieved we won’t have to do it.” Guilt washed over Logan.

Tessa shook her head. “It’s a terrible responsibility.”