Snow Creek(58)

“Easier than you think. Tyra knew her friend had no internet. No way of knowing there was nothing on the news. Her phone, her lifeline, was gone.”

Mindy looks up from her drink.

“That’s twisted, Megan.”

“As Sheriff says, ‘like a soft-serve cone’.”

I look down at my phone, and I hear his voice.

“Hey, Detective,” Dan says as he joins us.

“Hey,” I say. “This is my coworker, Mindy Newsom.”

He smiles. “We’ve met.”

“Yes,” she replies. “At the shop.”

“Didn’t know you worked there too, Megan.”

“She’s also a crime scene tech. And a damned good one.”

“If I were that good,” Mindy says as Dan folds his lean frame into the space next to me, “I’d be somewhere else digging up bodies instead of planting flowers.”

Dan’s wearing a lightweight quilted jacket over a T-shirt that stretches tightly across his chest. He smells a little like a campfire, but not in a bad way. He orders a local distillery’s Scotch.

I should have ordered one too. I drink wine at home only because it goes good with fish sticks or whatever I move from the freezer to the oven when I sit at my table.

Listening to my life unspool on the tapes.

We stay clear of the Wheaton and Burbank investigations and focus our conversation on other things.

Pleasant things. His farm. His woodcarving. Dan looks at me, expecting me to dive into my life. Mindy catches the look and throws me a lifeline and talks up her family and her so far less than successful quest to develop a hydrangea hybrid that will thrive in sunny spaces.

She doesn’t know my story. Not like Sheriff.

And certainly not what I disclosed to Dr. Albright.

“What about you, Detective?” Dan asks.

I shift in my chair. “Megan, please.”

“Okay. What’s your story?”

That question invites me to lie and I don’t want to lie anymore. And yet I do.

“Parents died in a car crash when I was a kid. No other family to take us in.”

He looks at me with eyes full of kindness.

“I’m sorry.”

I acknowledge his concern with a slight nod. I hate that I’ve lived a life of covering my tracks.

“Us?” he asks. “Do you have siblings?”

“A brother. He’s stationed overseas.”

And he hates me. Wants nothing to do with me. It’s my fault. All of it!

Awkwardness hangs over me, tightening my throat. Almost choking me. I don’t want to say any more. I glance over at Mindy.

She knows me. At least enough to be a lifeline.

“Yeah,” she says, touching my hand. “Megan has been through a lot, but she’s the best person I know.”

I feel like she’s selling me, but it puts a period on the conversation.

“Didn’t mean to pry,” Dan says.

“It’s fine.”

We move the subject to the next day and what each of us is doing. Mindy’s doing flowers for a funeral. Dan’s installing a front gate.

And me? I’ve got a killer to catch.

We pay our tabs and walk out to our respective cars. Gulls perched behind the bar disperse overhead as the moon sends a path of light over the black water of the bay. It’s a golden trail from Port Townsend to somewhere far away. Mindy heads to her van on the other side of the lot.

“I always park next to the road,” she told me one time, “because my van is a billboard.”

“Hey,” Dan says, lingering by my car, “I’m going to an art show on Saturday. You know, check out the competition. If you’re free, want to come, Megan?”

My Saturday is already planned as a day to catch up on bills and other things that have been set on the backburner since the start of the Wheaton investigation.

This time my lie isn’t about protecting me, but about putting me at risk. In a good way, I think.

“Totally free. Would love to go.”

Dan gives me his handsome smile.

“All right then. I’ll text you the details.”

“Good night, Dan,” I say.

“Night, Megan.”



When I turn the key in the ignition, the sound a phone makes when charging gets my attention. It’s a soft buzz. I instinctively reach for it; it’s tucked in between the seat and the console. It’s not my phone. In my haste to meet with Dan I’d completely forgotten about the phone recovered in Chantelle’s backyard. It’s a terrible lapse and I know it immediately. I should have logged it when I got into the office. I fish it out by pulling on the cord. It’s powered up. I stare at the illuminated screen. The wallpaper is of a face, though covered by a multitude of apps.

And yet I know who it is.

It’s a familiar face.





Thirty-Eight





Sheriff is in his duct-tape upholstered chair reading the Leader. Country music plays softly from his radio. An oily fast food bag pokes up through the trash receptacle by his office door. Normally, I’d remark on it, though this time I don’t.

I don’t even say good morning.

“I need you to come with me out to the Wheaton place. I’ll fill you in on the way.”