Page 73 of Snow Creek

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.”

“I am the police,” I say. “Just following up on the Burbank case.”

She opens the gate and comes over to me. She’s in her fifties, with a slim build with brown hair cut in the ubiquitous Seattle bob. She’s wearing pale green garden gloves and carrying a small trowel.

“Let me see your ID,” she demands, her lips tight and her brown eyes looking me over as if I were a danger to the community.

I tell her who I am and show my detective’s shield.

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