Page 2 of Silent Ridge

I get up and close my laptop.

“Can I come along?” she asks. I knew she would.

“Not this time. You’re on light duty. If something happens and you get injured, it will be the sheriff’s ass on the line.”And mine for bringing you, I don’t say.

Her disappointment is as clear as the shock of the news was on my face. “I need you here,” I say. “Maybe later if the sheriff agrees.” She’s not satisfied but I don’t expect her to be. She has good instincts most of the time. But it still didn’t stop her from opening her door to a stranger and getting kidnapped.

Three

There are two marked Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office vehicles parked in the yard, two white panel vans, and an unmarked Jeep when I arrive. One marked vehicle is Sheriff Gray’s; the other belongs to Deputy Copsey, who is standing at the front door of a two-story pre-Victorian home. The Chevy panel vans and the Jeep Cherokee are parked closer to the house. One van has a flower shop logo and belongs to my friend and forensic consultant, Mindy Newsom. The other van is Jerry Larsen’s; Jerry is our coroner. The back doors of the coroner’s van are swung wide open. The Jeep belongs to the crime scene unit.

I don’t remember coming to this particular part of town before. But this is in Port Townsend, my town, not two miles from my place. The house is nice, in a nice area, with a good view of the bay and the forest behind, but it’s a step down from the last place I saw Monique.

I’m unsure if we were friends or what. What I know is that we were bound together by murder.

Her daughter, Leanne Delmont, was sixteen when, along with my mother, she became one of my biological dad’s victims. My bio-dad is, or was, Alex Rader, policeman by trade, serial killer by choice. Leanne died helping my mom escape from that psychotic bastard.

When I first met Monique, I pretended to be a reporter writing an article about how murder affects families.

I lied to Monique about who I was and what I was doing, but she finally figured it out. When I really needed help, she was there for me. She helped me get into Portland State University even though I hadn’t graduated high school. She helped me with money and paid for a place to stay. I trusted her. But in truth I put her in danger by doing so. Now the danger has come back with a vengeance.

She should be at home in Tacoma. Why did she come here? My stomach sinks. This is my fault. I can feel it.

Sheriff Gray sees me pull over and comes down the steps and across the yard. The look on his face is grave. This is going to be very bad.

“Megan,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. I don’t like to be touched, but I allow it from him. He’s probably my best friend. He knows things about my past that no one else does. Not everything, but most.

“Did Ronnie give you the victim’s name?”

He can’t know I have a connection with the victim. If it is her. But he knows something because he’s watching me closely for a reaction. I nod and wait for him to say more.

“You don’t have to work this one,” he says. “I can assign it to another detective. In fact, I probably should. But I think you should see something in either case.” Sheriff Gray takes out his phone and pulls up a picture.

I brace myself, thinking there will be pictures of the body and it will be her. Stabbed or shot. Hanged or having died some other horrible death. But what he shows me is only a digital picture of a photograph. The image is not very good, so I know Tony has taken it. He still hasn’t embraced tech. But it’s good enough that I can see it’s a snapshot of me coming out of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office and walking toward my car. The picture looks like it was taken recently. That’s a guess because I don’t have a wide variety of clothes. But I do recognize the look. It isn’t anger. It’s pain. I was shot twice in the chest while wearing body armor. I’m still bruised and have some trouble breathing or moving at times. Right now is one of those movements. My breath catches in my throat.

“What’s this about?” he asks.

Good question. And I don’t have a clue. “How long has the victim been?…”

“Larsen thinks maybe two days.”

“That would make it Saturday.”

Tony puts the phone back in his pocket. “Hard to say for sure. The heat was cranked all the way up. It’s like a furnace in there.”

I see the sweat stains under his arms and around his collar. He looks like he needs to sit with an ice pack. He’s waiting for an answer but I have the right to remain silent and I use it.

“Megan?” The look he gives me brooks no argument.

I don’t mean to, but I do the one thing that shows I’m about to lie.I look away before I speak. “I really don’t have a clue, Tony.”

His mouth sets in that way it does when he is struggling with something.

“Sorry, Sheriff. I don’t know what’s going on.” This sounds sincere. And this is partially true. I recover enough to think before I speak, but before I can tell another lie, he takes a small plastic evidence baggie from his back pocket. He holds it out but I don’t take it. Inside is a laminated photo that I instantly recognize as my South Kitsap High School yearbook picture. I was sixteen when it was taken. It is the same photo that was in the Port Orchard paper when I was on the run. The headline was about my murdered stepfather, my missing mother, my missing brother and myself. I was wanted by the police as a suspect. There is no name under the picture. No caption of any kind. Not even where the photo is from. I breathe easier, but I’m still on edge.

“Look, Megan, I got here first and found this and the other picture in the bedroom. I took a photo of one and I bagged this one before anyone else got here. No one has seen it but the two of us.”

I avoid his eyes and deflect. “How did you get the run here?”

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