Page 147 of Everything She Feared

“Hi,” Ryan said. “Are you guys here for Sara Harmon?”

The TV people eyed him and nodded.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“Ryan Gardner. I’m a freelancer.”

“For who?”

“Mostly magazines.” He reached into his wallet for his old press ID. “Before that, I worked for theChicago Tribune.”

The woman studied Ryan’s ID.

“Got a second?” he said. “I’m just trying to catch up on this story. Can you bring me up to speed?”

The man slammed the tailgate shut, then said: “We got about two minutes, Ash. Then we gotta get to Ballard.”

“So, you know,” the woman said, “that KIRO reported that the case of the girl who fell taking a selfie in Sparrow Song is now a suspicious death?”

“Right.” That was about the extent of what Ryan knew. “And Sara Harmon’s connected?”

“Kids were in the park on an outing organized by the Sunny Days community group. Anna Shaw, the teen who died, was there with Sara Harmon’s nine-year-old daughter, Katie. Anna was Katie’s babysitter.”

Ryan nodded.

“Rumors and speculation are flying,” the woman said, “that Katie pushed her babysitter to get her necklace, and police have questioned Katie.”

“Really?”

“Those are the rumors that most of the Sunny Days parents are floating. They’re the ones who put us on to her home here.”

“Ashley.” The man was now behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Look, our organization’s being careful. There’s no evidence, no proof, no charges,” the woman said. “And with our policy, we won’t name or show the faces of Sara or Katie, because she’s a minor. We’d blur them.”

“Right, that’s standard practice,” Ryan said. “Did you get an interview?”

“Nope. She didn’t talk to anyone yesterday and she’s not talking to anyone today. Everyone’s struck out and moving on to other stories.” The woman got into the passenger seat, buckled up and lowered her window.

“Wait,” Ryan said. “One last thing. What can you tell me about Sara Harmon’s background?”

“Not much. We heard she’s a single mom, works at a diner.”

“What do you know about her family history?”

The woman shook her head.

“I think her mom is in a seniors’ home.”

“Which seniors’ home?”

“Pal—” the man leaned toward Ryan “—she’s told you enough. We gotta go.”

“I don’t know which home,” the woman said, reaching into her pocket and giving Ryan her card before they drove off.

He turned to the house.

He stood there, rooted staring at the door, struggling to grasp that he was on the cusp of an entirely new dimension.

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