Snow Creek(52)

I also wonder about someone who posts as “Tyra Whitcomb”. She’s the most active of Ellie’s friends, always commenting some sycophantic message of support. There are photos of the two of them, in RL, as they tend to say. She’s a pleasant-looking girl, a little heavier than her best friend, but with the same affinity for a theatrical flair with her cosmetics.

I click on her profile, though it’s set to private.

Whitcomb is not that common a surname. I search on our DMV database and find the one closest to the Burbank home; in fact it’s only three doors down.

Next, I dig up their phone number. That’s easy. Just a click away. I feel like I’m the best clicker in the world. That if there was a prize for that expertise, I’d be up for it.

I dial the number.

Troy Whitcomb answers, and I tell him I’m looking for his daughter. His voice is clipped, suggesting that he’s had similar call encounters with law enforcement.

“What has she done now? Do we need a lawyer?”

“Oh no,” I tell him. “Nothing at all. I’m looking into the Burbank case up here and I want to talk to her about Ellie.”

I hope he doesn’t know the geography of the state that well because Jefferson County has no jurisdiction in the Burbank drownings. That’s Clallam County’s domain. Most Seattle area residents don’t think beyond their immediate vicinity. Everything outside of Seattle is either the Olympic peninsula or the other two thirds of the state, eastern Washington.

“Oh that,” he sighs. “That was a tough one. Tyra and Ellie were very close.”

“That’s what I understand,” I say.

From Facebook, I don’t admit.

“I’m a couple hours away,” I say. “I have errands to run in Seattle. I thought I’d call ahead to see if she was available to meet. Tonight?”

I was lying about the errands. I just wanted Mr. Whitcomb to say yes, as though the need to see Tyra was merely a formality.

“To tie up loose ends,” I say, to fill the dead space on the line.

He’s thinking it over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think it would be a good idea. Tyra needs some closure. This has been eating at her for a long time. Not the same girl since it all happened.”

“How so?” I ask, before quickly adding, “Besides losing her best friend, of course.”

He sighs. “The usual. Kids today have so many more chances to screw up than in my day.”

“That’s for sure,” I say, looking at the time. I have a semi decent chance that I could make the ferry from Kingston to Edmonds, just north of Seattle. That’s no easy feat, to be sure. Puget Sound traffic is a nightmare that just gets worse and worse.

“I’ll be there around eight, Mr. Whitcomb. Will Tyra be available then?”

“She’d better be,” he tells me in that clipped voice of his. “Or she’s broken curfew for the very last time.”

I grab my keys and fly out of the office, telling Sheriff that I’m heading out to talk to a friend of the missing Burbank girl.

“Not our case,” he says.

“Could be,” I tell him.



The cars are moving when I reach the ferry. Thank God. We roll on one by one, thump, thump, thump. I stay in my car, roll the window down and feel the breeze on my face as we rumble across the water. The time Hayden and I spent the night on a ferry passes through my mind. I know it’s the tapes that are pulling me backwards into the time that I tried to forget.





Thirty-Four





The Whitcombs’ neighborhood is an eclectic mix of vintage Craftsman and brick Tudor homes, all impeccably maintained with crisp-cut hedges and perennials that have been deadheaded all summer. Except for one house. Even if I didn’t have the address, I’d know that was the Burbank place. It’s dark and the lawn has missed a mowing or two. I park on the street midway between the Burbank and the Whitcomb houses. The time on my phone: 7:46. Not bad. Instead of heading to the Whitcombs’, I backtrack to the Burbanks’ old place. And by the way it is: old. Probably more than a hundred years. However, outside of the neglected landscaping, it would be anyone’s dream house. White and gray siding with black shutters and a poppy red door. As I approach, I notice what I think is a sprinkling of potpourri in the flower bed next to the red door.

Dried flower blossoms, stems, and some curlicue ribbons of various colors.

Flowers left to memorialize the family.

I touch a card with my toe, shifting away the floral debris.

With Sympathy

We didn’t know you well, but we grieve for the loss of each of you, Carrie, Hudson and Ellie.

The Neighborhood Block Watch





It’s not much of a makeshift memorial, but that might have more to do with how insular the Burbanks were and not a reflection of bad character. I shine my mini Maglite into the front window, swiping through the dim space up and down. It’s mostly empty. A few pieces of furniture, but they’ve been moved aside.

The oak floor has been refinished.

Ellie’s aunt is getting ready to sell the place.

As I make my way around the house, a woman calls over from the backyard abutting the Burbank property.

“I’ll call the police,” she’s practically spitting her words at me. “You have no right to be here.”