Page 37 of Silent Ridge

“I just sent you the picture from the article,” she says.

I pull the picture up. It’s Michael Rader all right. I came across the same picture years ago after Monique told me about him.

“Good work, Ronnie. I talked to Gabrielle. She remembered her mom said Michael had a brother named Alex Rader. He’s a cop. Can you add that to your research list?”

“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning. I’m going to have drinks with Marley and I’ll find out what the crime lab is doing.”

I thank Ronnie and end the call. I’ve lied to her before but I hate that I do it with such ease.

The tapes with all my secrets call to me and I select one regarding Shannon Blume’s murder. I hope to find some answers in the past. If nothing else they help me think of who I was and who I’ve become. I slot the cassette, refill my wine and wait for the tape to begin.

Dr. A: Why were you in Kent? Staying at a Best Western, you said.

Me: Yes. I wanted to find out what happened to Leanne, Shannon, and Megan. I found a story in the paper about Shannon Blume’s murder with a picture of the Blumes’ home. A homeless guy named Steve Jones was arrested and convicted for Shannon’s murder, but I knew it wasn’t him. It was my bio-father.

I remember finding the Blumes’ home and how it looked just like it did in the online newspaper article. It was a single-story rambler with white shutters and matching window boxes. In front was a monkey puzzle tree that had grown nearly as tall as the roofline.

Me: There was a photo of Don and Debra Blume in the story. I found the house easily and peered through the window of the garage. Two cars were there. One was a Ford Focus, like the one I was driving. My mother had taught me how to manipulate people. To be what they needed me to be. I thought I would act as though I loved my car or hated it, depending on whatever they said about theirs.

The tape goes silent. I’m thinking of what I want to reveal.

Dr. A: Take your time.

Me: Mrs. Blume answers the door with a wary but kind smile. I tell her I’m with theNorth Bend Couriernewspaper. I ask if she had heard about our series on Marilee Watson who was murdered last year. I tell her my editor wants me to do a new series about how people cope after a tragedy and ask if I can talk to her and Mr. Blume.

She said, “You can’t cope after a tragedy, Miss?…” She searches her memory for my name, and I hand her a business card I’ve stolen from the newspaper office.

I say, “I’m Tracy Lee. That’s the point of my article. My aunt Ginger was killed in a car wreck and I know it’s not the same as what happened to Shannon, but my mom has never gotten over it, either. I’m including my thoughts about that in the article too. But it can’t be about me.”

I wonder if I remind her of her own daughter. If she thinks I’m too young for the job. If she’s just having a bad day. Maybe every day after you lose a child to murder is a bad day.

She says, “It was a long time ago. We really don’t like reliving it. I’m sure you can understand that.” Of course I did. I hate that I’m opening old, never-really-healed wounds, but I have no choice. I told her it wasn’t my intent to hurt her again.

I stop the tape. I have to revisit the Blumes. If they still live in Burien, they would be in their mid- to late sixties by now. Retired. Hopefully at home.

Thirty-Four

Wide awake at 4:00 in the morning. I try to go to sleep again but my mind is churning, working the case. I feel like I didn’t sleep but only lay completely still with my eyes shut. I give up and take my .45 out from under the pillow on the other side of the bed. I’ve taken to sleeping in jeans and T-shirt, boots beside the bed at the ready. The stalker started this. The killer has only made it worse. I get up and pad, sock-footed, to my desk.

I left the tape player out, ready to go. I know this is the tape that covers my conversation—interrogation really—with the Blumes about the disappearance and murder of their daughter, Shannon. I don’t have to play it. I remember it all like it was yesterday.

Dr. Albright had asked me if it was understandable that Mrs. Blume was hesitant to let me in. I said yes, I understood, but I had to talk to her. I told Mrs. Blume that it was important people learn the truth. And that some hurt never goes away. That others have gone through what she has and she’s not alone in her pain.

What I said must have had the desired effect. Mrs. Blume had looked at me and said, “All right,” and invited me inside. I felt a tremendous relief. I also felt a little sick for lying to someone about something so tragic, so important.

I remember feeling horrible even relating the story to Dr. Albright.

I lied to Mrs. Blume and said I would have called but with cell phones these days, no one has a landline anymore. Her house was neat, clean, frozen in time. The furnishings, the décor—even the air—felt old. The foyer was devoid of anything personal. A Boston fern the size of a Mini Cooper filled most of the space.

Mrs. Blume said she was making pizza and asked if I wanted to stay for some lunch. Her eyes were very kind.

I was still a little sick from the last food I ate but I said I was starving. That I hadn’t eaten all day. And I told her thank you. I’d been there all of two minutes and had already lied to this nice woman five or six times. I had no choice, of course. If I had told her the truth, she probably would have laughed at me and called the police. That would have ruined my plans and have gotten my mother killed.

Dr. Albright asked: “So you continued to lie?”

I told her I wasn’t proud of it, but, yeah. I remembered Donald Blume came into the room. He was older than his wife, but he had a nice smile and I liked him right away.

He said, “Doing a story about our little girl.” He sat down, sinking into what I assumed was “his” chair, a big leather club chair.

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