Snow Creek(35)

Joshua looks over and joins his sister as they approach the car.

“You know something, Detective?” he says.

Sarah sends silent tears down her cheeks.

“I’m afraid we do,” I say.

I turn to Bernie and introduce her.

“She’s here to help you. We both are.”

“What do you know?” Joshua repeats.

“Let’s go inside,” I say, nudging them toward the front door.

My words unleash Sarah’s tears.

“Mom’s dead,” she says. “Dad killed her. Didn’t he?”

“We don’t know what happened,” I tell her, looking over at the world’s worst victims’ advocate. She isn’t saying anything. Just standing there letting me deliver the bad news. Seriously, I think. This is how you answer your calling? Really? Like a statue?

We take seats at the table Merritt made.

“I’m really sorry, but the DNA samples we collected confirm that it was your mother who was out on Puget Sound logging road north of here.”

Joshua stays stoic. Sarah not so much.

“How did she die?” he asks.

“We’ve only started our investigation, Joshua. In fact, we have a warrant to search the property,” I reply.

I hand the paper over to Joshua and he skims it.

“You think our mom was killed here at home?” He touches his sister’s shoulder. “We’d have heard something, right?”

Sarah, still sobbing, doesn’t respond.

“The search warrant is for your father’s workshop,” I say.

Joshua gets up from the table. “I’ll show it to you.”

Sarah, who has been silent, save for her tears, speaks up.

“Our father was an asshole, Detective,” she says. “If Mom was murdered it was he who did it.”

Her out-of-nowhere candor startles me.

I prod for more. “What do you mean?”

Sarah dries her eyes on her shirt sleeve and pushes her long braid over her shoulder. “Our dad wasn’t the man he pretended to be. He was an abuser. He was the kind of man who thought love meant hurting someone. Our mother lived with it. We all did. She never fought back. Not really.”

Joshua shoots darts at his sister.

She doesn’t seem to care. “They are going to find out, Joshua. They are going to find out that our father was a piece of shit. We know it. Mom knew it. I was surprised that Aunt Ruth showed up here. He’d told her that she was going to rot in hell for the way she treated her husband. Running around. Slutty like a common whore. He called her a Mary Magdalene reject. His favorite was calling Mom Ida-Ho or Ida-Whore. When Mom pushed back, he just laughed and said he’d cut off another toe.”

I’m glad I’m sitting. Bernie, on the other hand, looks like she’s at her own birthday party.

“I thought it was a mowing accident.”

Joshua’s eyes are riveted to his sister. “Don’t do this, Sarah.”

“Josh,” she says. “We have to. Dad killed Mom. You know it. Detective Carpenter knows it.”

“Please,” he says. “Don’t.”

She looks at him with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Too late, brother. I already did.”





Twenty-Three





The judge was very specific, as he or she must be. I’m a stickler for following the rules of law. I don’t want to be the person who screws things up on a technicality. We asked for a broader search of the property, the Chevy, of course, but the mention of the hammer keeps our focus on where tools might be found.

I lead the deputies, armed with cameras, into the barn. It’s a peculiar space because it doesn’t appear that it is in much use for an off-the-grid family. There’s a single stall with a milk cow and a few Sussex chickens. One is a broody hen and she stays put on her clutch of eggs as we pass by.

“This isn’t a one bite of the apple, guys,” I say. “I want to wallpaper our office with of all the photos you take. We might see something later that we miss right now. It happens.”

“We got it, Detective Carpenter,” Deputy Copsey says.

It enters my mind just then how much I like the sound of that. There’s no sarcasm, no phoniness in his voice. I am a detective. I am going to solve this case.

My eyes are lasers. I absolutely will not miss anything.

“Davis,” I say, looking up at the hayloft, “check out every square inch. Run your fingertips through the straw up there. Be careful. Tell yourself that you will be the man who solves this case.”

Davis is younger than me. He has black hair and a mustache that screams Seventies porn star or cop. Cop, I think. His gut hangs over his belt. He’s earnest and a total pleaser.

“Yes, ma’am. On it right now.”

I give Copsey a smile. He gets it. At least, I think so. I’m too young to be a ma’am.

“While your partner is poking around up there,” I say, “let’s check out the shop.”

“Sounds good,” he says as we leave the barn. Copsey is older, hard to say how much. Maybe five years. No more than ten. He’s a strawberry blond with biceps that are barely contained by his uniform. He speaks with a slight lisp that I find charming.