Page 38 of See How They Hide

“Hello, ma’am,” Sloane said. “Beautiful mare you have there.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, but her eyes showed concern as they darted toward the house.

“This is a police investigation,” Sloane said. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around.”

“Is something wrong? Is Chris okay?”

“Do you know the owner?”

“Of course. I’ve known Chris Crossman since he moved here.”

“Where do you live?”

“Up the mountain about a mile, then turn left and it’s the end of the road.”

“Your name?”

“Abigail Schafer.”

“Ms. Schafer, I regret to inform you that Mr. Crossman was killed last weekend. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

She stared at Sloane in disbelief. “Chris is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I just came home yesterday,” she said. “I was showing my horses in Texas. I saw the cars on the main road and came up, surprised because Chris doesn’t usually have so many guests.”

“You knew him well?”

“I suppose. I mean, we’re not close friends—I’m very social, Chris is quite reserved. But sometimes he would come riding with me. He loved horses, was really good with them. He’d been raised with horses.”

This woman could be a good source of information.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Sloane asked. “We’re investigating his death and you may be able to fill in some blanks.” She didn’t want to be too specific, but she also didn’t want to lose this potential witness.

“Anything I can do to help. Let me get down.”

Abigail expertly dismounted, patted her horse, and held the reins loosely in her hands. She pulled a bottle of water out of the saddlebag and drank. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He was murdered on the Atalaya Trail,” Sloane said.

“Oh, my God, he was murdered? That’s—awful. This is a safe community. Chris hikes all the time. I ride most of these trails, often alone. I can’t believe it.”

Sloane asked for her identification, wrote down her name, address, and license number. Best to double-check the identity of a neighbor, especially one who showed up at the victim’s house. Her ID verified her address, and she happily gave Sloane her phone number.

“You said you’ve known Chris since he moved here? How long ago?”

“Ten years next month. He saw me riding down on the road, came out and asked me about the horse—not Bella, here, I was training a stallion that day for a friend. I invited him to come riding—he took me up on it.”

“How often did you go riding together?”

“Oh, maybe four, five times a year? He was busy, and like I said, very private. If I was in a group or teaching—I give horseback riding lessons—he didn’t join. But we make plans fairly regularly. Last year I had a death in the family, and my usual caretaker couldn’t come out to care for my horses. Chris stayed at my place for a week, did an amazing job looking after them. Like I said, he grew up with horses.”

“Do you know where he grew up?”

“In—well, gosh, I don’t think he ever told me. He said a ranch, maybe? But there must have been mountain trails, because he was a natural.”

That was a start. “Do you know if he had any family? We can’t find his next of kin.”

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