The Last Sister (Columbia River)(23)

Years ago, after Chet Carlson was put away for her father’s murder, someone had cut down the tree. She’d never known who. She’d never asked, and no one ever brought it up. The destruction felt justified, and no doubt it had been a healing moment for someone. She’d long suspected one of her great-aunts had cut down the tree.

But seeing the stump was always a shock.

She passed the stump and walked into the firs. Wind rustled through their branches, making the colossal trees gently sway. The ground was soaked. Weeks of continual rain had turned this entire tip of the state into a sodden site. She stopped and rested a hand on a trunk, feeling the vibrations in the bark as it swayed. Out of habit she scanned the ground around the trees, looking for cracks, signs the wind had loosened the root ball of one of the giant trees. It was rare for one of the trees to fall, but a strong windstorm after weeks of rain could cause a disaster.

She’d seen homes crushed by the immense trees. Her mother had always worried about falling firs when they lived in the little house. She’d often walked the woods, looking for cracks after heavy rains and wind.

Firs hadn’t been the end of the home.

Her throat grew thick, and she couldn’t swallow. Tears threatened, and she let them roll. No one was here to see her. No prying eyes or pointed questions to answer. She leaned against a fir and allowed herself to feel. Feel the pain and loss and rage at the destruction of her family. It erupted, swamping her, and she bent at the waist, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. She’d lost her father and her home, and then Tara, and then her mother. A domino effect that had started with her father’s violent death.

Fifteen seconds later, the avalanche of emotions was gone, leaving her drained, with sweat at her temples and gasping for air. A headache threatened at the base of her skull, and her legs felt like weak twigs. This wasn’t the first time she’d fallen apart in this place.

It was one of the reasons she stayed away.

She shuddered and looked about, spotting the stump through the firs.

The rest of the forest faded away as she stared at the blemish among the wild growth.

Something happened here, the stump said.

Something deadly. Something final. Something irrevocable.

Chet Carlson had received a life sentence for her father’s murder, and the punishment was a small bandage on her damaged heart. It helped. But it didn’t heal.

There was no one to punish for her mother’s suicide. Emily blamed Chet Carlson, but she knew her mother and the adults who had claimed to love her mother shared a bit of the fault too. The passage of time had applied tentative protection around her pain. Sometimes the protection held fast; other times it let pain seep through.

Right now the pain seeped, inflamed by the sight of the home’s pathetic remains.

And the resurgent memory of Tara’s betrayal.





11

A phone call from Seth Rutledge, the medical examiner, delayed Zander’s plans to pay a visit to the Osburne brothers.

Dr. Rutledge caught Zander in the parking lot of Patrick’s Place. He said he had preliminary findings from the autopsies of Sean and Lindsay Fitch. Zander joined Sheriff Greer in his county SUV, squeezing under the computer and monitor that stuck out over half of the passenger seat—a typical annoyance for the front of a law enforcement vehicle—and put his phone on speaker.

“Go ahead, Seth. Sheriff Greer is here too.”

“Morning, guys.” Dr. Rutledge’s voice filled the vehicle.

“Don’t tell me you’re done already,” Greer said.

“I start early,” answered Dr. Rutledge. “A typical autopsy takes me about two hours. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

“I trust you were extra thorough with this couple,” said the sheriff.

“I’m thorough with each body.”

Zander bit the inside of his cheek at Seth’s pointed comeback. “We just found out that Sean was in a bar fight the night he was killed—or the night before he was killed, depending on your time of death,” he told Seth. “The bartender witnessed kicks to his stomach and some blows to his face. I assume you found supporting evidence?”

“Definitely. And that answers a question of mine,” answered Dr. Rutledge. “At first I’d assumed Sean’s abrasions and scrapes were from fighting with his attackers. Then I got his preliminary blood results.”

Zander and the sheriff exchanged a glance.

“Both Sean and Lindsay had large doses of GHB in their system. I doubt he was conscious enough to fight his attackers. It makes sense if he received the injuries in an earlier fight.”

“What’s GHB?” asked Zander.

“The type I found in the Fitches is basically homemade Ecstasy. There’s a euphoric high and then a crash, making people sleep heavily—or die. The homemade stuff can vary in potency, especially when the makers get sloppy. It’s flat-out dangerous.”

“Holy shit,” muttered the sheriff.

Zander was stunned. Had the couple taken the drug themselves? Or had they been drugged to facilitate the attack? “Did the forensics techs say they’d found drugs in the house?” he asked the sheriff. Greer slowly shook his head, his countenance grim.

“We’ll notify forensics to watch for it in the evidence they took from the home,” Zander told Dr. Rutledge. “What would they be looking for, Doc? Pills? Liquid?”