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Boxes stacked floor to ceiling left little room in which to maneuver. She hadn’t remembered it being quite so crowded. But when it became clear that her mother wasn’t coming back, Claire had insisted that everything Alana owned, down to the razor she’d been using in the shower, be preserved. The sheriff’s department had confiscated the contents of Alana’s desk, her computer, any recent letters she’d written or received, the photos she’d snapped in the months prior to her disappearance, her journal, the things left in her car—anything they thought might help them find her. Claire and Leanne had taken possession of any sentimental items that remained. And the rest had been packed up and stored here years ago, just after Claire graduated from high school and moved out—and her stepfather and his wife bought the luxurious home they currently enjoyed, the home they’d bought with the inheritance Alana had received when her parents died in a plane crash only a year before she disappeared.
Riddled with guilt for even thinking that her mother’s misfortune had provided such a spectacular living for the woman who’d replaced her, Claire steered her mind away from that direction. She liked her stepmother. It wasn’t Roni’s fault that Alana was no longer around.
But it bothered Claire that Roni acted as if Alana had never existed. Tug and Leanne preferred to handle the situation the same way. They’d both asked Claire to forget the past. Learning what happened wouldn’t bring Alana back, they said. And it was true. It was also true that Leanne seemed to do better if she didn’t have to be reminded of that fateful day. Which was why, after pleading for the new sheriff to reopen the case a couple of years ago, Claire had gone back to call him off. Her family had been too upset about the questions he was asking. They couldn’t tolerate the assumptions and suspicions that were inevitable in such a small community.
Claire respected their position. But she couldn’t stop digging entirely. She needed resolution as much as they needed to forget.
What she was hoping to accomplish by coming here tonight, however, she didn’t know. She’d been through all this stuff so many times. Her stepfather, his wife and Leanne had seen it, too. The three of them had packed it together.
But Claire couldn’t help hoping that she’d see something she’d missed before, that some clue would emerge and solve the mystery. That happened all the time on those forensics shows.
Squeezing through the narrow pathway, she moved toward a box that contained her mother’s childhood memorabilia—Alana’s report cards, her early journals, pictures of her family and friends. Claire loved looking through that box because it made her feel closer to the woman she missed so terribly. And it was as good a place to begin as any. She planned on going through every last box, even if that meant frequent trips to the studio over the next few weeks.
She bent to lift it, then saw some boxes that had been packed much more recently. They stood out because they were labeled in her own handwriting. David’s Clothes, David’s Things, David’s Yearbooks.
Her hand flew to her chest as if she could stop that familiar lump from growing in her throat, but she couldn’t. What were her late husband’s personal belongings doing here? She hadn’t expected to find them, wasn’t ready for such a powerful reminder.
One day several months ago, her mother-in-law had come over and packed up everything of David’s, insisting it all be taken from the house. She said that Claire couldn’t get over his death if she was living with his ghost, still sleeping in his T-shirt and crying over the fact that it was beginning to smell more like her than him.
Claire had assumed those things of David’s, except the few she’d managed to retain, had gone into his parents’ garage, but Rosemary must’ve asked Claire’s stepfather to put them here. The two often talked, usually about their concern for her and how she was or wasn’t “coping.”
No one had mentioned that David’s belongings had been moved to this attic, but Claire supposed it was understandable that they would be. Rosemary had a large family and a crowded house. She probably didn’t want to encounter her dead son’s possessions every time she retrieved the holiday decorations. The studio already held what remained of Alana’s life, and nobody ever used it. This must have seemed like the perfect solution.
Closing her eyes, Claire reached out for the warm presence she’d occasionally felt since David’s death. She wasn’t a superstitious person, certainly didn’t believe in ghosts that rattled chains and haunted people, but she did have faith in the power of love to create a bridge between this world and the next. She’d felt some comfort since he died. It was almost as if he visited her now and then to make sure she was all right.
She wished she could feel him now, but the pain was too sudden and too acute. Grappling with it required all her focus.
“Why’d you leave me?” she whispered. The tears that rolled down her cheeks were nothing new. She cursed them, wished she could get beyond them, but the senselessness of his death, the fact that she’d lost David so soon and couldn’t imagine ever loving someone else in quite the same way, didn’t help.
She almost shoved his boxes out of sight, pushed them to the back so she wouldn’t have to see the thick black letters that seared her to the bone: David’s. They were only inanimate objects he’d once owned. As badly as she wanted him, David wasn’t here anymore, and he never would be.
But she didn’t push the boxes away; she pulled them closer. She’d spotted something that struck her as odd. On a two-foot-by-two-foot box, third from the bottom, David had scrawled his own name. She recognized his writing—but not this particular box, which she would’ve noticed since it was white and all the ones she’d used were brown.
Why had she never seen this before? She was positive it hadn’t come from her house....
Once she opened the flaps, she knew why. He must’ve stored this above his parents’ garage before he went to college. If she had her guess, it’d been brought here in an effort to keep all his possessions together.
Fresh longing filled her as she touched the soccer and basketball trophies, the varsity letters he’d never sewn on a jacket, a pen set he’d made in wood shop. Then there were the cards she’d given him when they first started dating. They’d gone to high school together, were an item for two years before he left for college, so she had the same homecoming and prom pictures.
Unable to spend any more time with those memories for fear she’d undo the progress she’d made in the past few months, she began to close the box when she decided to see what was inside a fat accordion-style file folder tucked between some old sweaters. It looked far too businesslike for the seventeen-year-old David who’d packed up the rest of these things....
When she opened it, she realized why. This folder wasn’t from that early period. It was from after they were married. And what it contained shocked her so badly, she had to put her head between her knees so she wouldn’t faint.
Jeremy Salter hung back in the trees, watching. It was pitch-black, but that didn’t matter. The night- vision goggles his father had given him for Christmas worked beautifully. He’d also received a Swiss Army knife—he loved collecting things that would help him survive in the wilderness. He imagined himself as the next Rambo.
But Claire had no survival skills. She didn’t belong out here, especially after dark. If she wasn’t careful, a bear or a pack of wolves could attack her. Or even a man. Men were by far the most dangerous animals on earth.
His father used to say that; his father had also proved it.
She must like it here, he mused. She came often enough. But not so much lately. Not once David was killed. Since David’s death, she didn’t do much of anything, except cut hair all day. Then she’d curl up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. But he usually got the impression that she wasn’t watching the program. She’d stare at the screen without blinking and soon the tears would start.
She missed David and didn’t know how to go on without him.
Jeremy understood how that felt.
So what was she doing in her mother’s old studio? Trying to get herself into the same trouble David had? Didn’t she know that some secrets should be buried and forgotten?
She’d be fine if only she’d let the past go. Then he’d be fine, too.
Sometimes he wished he could tell her that. Promise her that everything would get better if she could just go on her way. She was so beautiful and smart and nice. Everything a woman should be. Any guy would love to be with her.
Including him. Especially him. Not that he’d ever have a chance. He was too…different. He’d always been different.
Her flashlight had made it possible for him to track her movements to the loft, but then the light disappeared.
Had she turned it off? Was she sitting on the floor, crying? Missing her mother the way she missed David?
Or did she have some other reason for being here? She’d slipped away from the park so cautiously, it’d certainly felt as if she had a purpose.
He needed to get inside the cabin to find out. But he hesitated to go that close. What if she caught him?
That could be dangerous. For both of them.
But if he was quiet enough, she’d never have to know. He’d been watching her for years, hadn’t he? And she’d never caught him yet.
2
David had a copy of the case files on her mother. Everything was here, from the missing-persons report to the last interview. Claire had seen some of this before, but even she hadn’t been privy to all of it. How had he come by this much information?
He must’ve gotten it from Sheriff King. Either that or he’d called in a favor from his old hunting buddy, Rusty Clegg. Rusty had been a deputy for the past six or seven years. It helped to have a friend on the force.
But what felt so strange about finding this was that David had made his own notations on many of the reports and interviews. It was almost as if he’d picked up the investigation where the sheriff had left off.
Why hadn’t he told her what he was doing? The dates on the log he’d kept correlated with the first year of their marriage and included a number of entries in the months leading up to his death. The last time he’d written anything was two days before the accident. She found detailed information on her stepfather and Leanne, plus her mother’s only sibling—a sister living in Portland, Oregon—and a complete chronology of Alana’s last movements.
Some of it Claire didn’t want to read. It brought back That Night, the longest night of her life, during which every adult she knew, including her stepfather, was out searching. She and Leanne hadn’t been allowed to leave the house. They’d waited for their mother, or some word of her, praying all the while for her safe return—to no avail. When the sun came up, their stepfather and one friend after another checked in with the bad news that they hadn’t been able to find any sign of her.
Reluctant yet determined, Claire’s eyes skimmed the handwritten log fastened to the left side of the thickest folder.
May 10: Spoke to Jason Freeman. Claims he saw Alana at the bakery between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. Watched her go in and come out carrying a bag of doughnuts while he drank a cup of coffee in the cab of Pete Newton’s truck. Jason says she got in the car with Tug and drove away. Tug confirms this in original interview. Other than Tug, Jason is the last person to see Alana.
May 12: Tried to reach Joe Kenyon.
Now there was a name, the one most often mentioned by those who theorized that Alana had been unhappy in her marriage and had gone looking for fulfillment in the arms of another man. If she’d had one affair, it was plausible she’d have more and might even have run off with whatever new lover she’d taken, right? That explained the mystery to some. But it explained nothing to Claire, who couldn’t believe her mother had ever cheated.
He wouldn’t open his door when I knocked, but Carly Ortega across the street told me Alana stopped at Joe’s house quite often. She even saw her car parked in his drive once, late at night.
Late? How could that be possible? Tug was always home at night. Alana would’ve had to slip out of bed without his noticing in order to leave the house. And why would she do that? Joe had come to cut down the diseased cottonwood tree that was about to fall onto their roof, but other than the few hours they’d spent together then, Claire couldn’t remember them ever speaking.
May 13: Tried again to get an audience with Joe Kenyon. Refused to speak to me. Prick.
David’s log went on for several pages. Figuring she’d read the rest at home, Claire switched to the other side of the folder and skimmed several interviews originally done by Sheriff Meade.
Carly wasn’t the only one who believed there was something going on between Joe Kenyon and Alana. Joe’s twin brother, Peter, thought they were involved. He insisted that he’d heard his brother take a call from Alana while they were at work one day. He said he couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could tell by the tone of Joe’s voice that it wasn’t a simple request for tree-trimming services.
Cringing, Claire dropped her flashlight in her lap. Did she really want to continue reading? This was making her sick, making her wonder if she’d really known her mother. Had Alana been leading a double life?
Claire didn’t want to suspect her, but…how much more about Joe, about Alana and Joe, could she endure?
That depended on how strongly she believed in Alana, didn’t it? Maybe Leanne had been a daddy’s girl from the moment Tug had come into their lives, during Leanne’s first year, but Claire had always preferred Alana. She trusted her mother more than to accept, on circumstantial evidence alone, that Alana was an adulteress.
Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Claire picked up the flashlight. “We’ll show them, Mom,” she promised. “We’ll show them all.”
Beneath the log, she ran across a list of typed “inconsistencies.” These didn’t appear to be written by David, but she was willing to bet he was the one who’d highlighted various passages. According to the date at the top, the list was Sheriff King’s summary after taking over from Sheriff Meade.
Tug said he was at work until he received Claire’s call. Concerned that Alana’s car was still in the drive and yet she was nowhere to be found, he left immediately.
The next part was highlighted.
Why would he be instantly worried? There’s never been a kidnapping or a murder in Pineview.
There’d been one murder since—Pat Stueben, the town Realtor—but that hadn’t yet occurred when this was written.
Unless she kept it to herself, Alana had never been threatened and wasn’t having problems with anyone. For all Tug knew, she’d walked down the block to talk to a neighbor and would be back any minute.
Was his reaction a bit too fast? There was always the threat of bears. They came around if people left out food. But no one in town, other than Isaac Morgan, who tracked and filmed wild animals for a living, had ever been attacked.
Claire’s arms and legs tingled with apprehension. Tug was normally the last person to assume the worst. Why had he reacted so quickly?
She tried to remember every word of the conversation that had passed between them when she’d called that day.
What do you mean she’s gone? she’d asked the minute she told him.
I’ve searched the whole house.
Did you check the bathrooms?
Of course.
She didn’t leave a note?
Not that I can find. You haven’t heard from her?
No. Stay there. I’m on my way.
At that point, it hadn’t occurred to Claire that her mother could be in danger. She’d expected him to say something like, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” But he hadn’t. And once he reached the house, he’d acted so tense, the same fear began to percolate through Claire. That was the first inkling she’d had that they were facing a major tragedy, and she’d taken her cue from her stepfather.
Had he already known what was wrong? Had he and Alana argued earlier, maybe when he came home for lunch? Possibly about Joe Kenyon? And had that argument gotten out of hand?
As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew things like that happened....
Chilled by the thought, she ran her free hand over the goose bumps on her arm. But it didn’t help because she found Sheriff King’s next point equally disturbing.
On the day Alana disappeared, she picked Leanne up at school at 11:15 a.m. for reason of “illness,” but someone who didn’t come to the office took her back shortly before two. The sign-in/sign-out log in the attendance office reflects this partial absence but Leanne has never mentioned that she was home for a portion of the day. And she has never said whether or not her mother was with her during that time.
“Impossible,” Claire muttered. After all the years of searching and questioning, how was it that Leanne had never spoken of missing school? Why would she keep it to herself?
There had to be a reason. Hoping it might become apparent, Claire kept reading.
If she was sick, how did she recuperate so fast?
Exactly!
At 2:00 p.m. she brought a note to the office excusing her absence and signed herself in. The attendance lady didn’t keep the note and doesn’t remember who wrote it—mother or father—but she stands by her log. When asked if she could’ve gotten the date wrong, she insists it would be almost impossible. “If that’s wrong, all the dates before it would have to be wrong, as well as the dates after.”
Another highlighted part.
All the days are accounted for and run Monday through Friday, as they should.
Stunned, Claire sat staring at the yellow circle her flashlight created on the page. What did this mean? Why had the sheriff or his deputies even thought to check with the school? At sixteen, she could be considered a suspect. Everyone close to the missing person had to be ruled out. But Leanne? She hadn’t yet had the sledding accident that broke her back, but she’d only been thirteen. What could she have done to Alana?
The discomfort of the hard floor and the scrabbling of some rodent in the corner began to bother Claire. It was too difficult to read for an extended period sitting in such an unfriendly spot, holding a heavy flashlight and trying to ignore the pack rats.
It was time to take the files home, where she could scour every interview, every note, at her leisure. No doubt David had been trying to find her mother for her. He was that kind of man. He probably hadn’t told her in case he didn’t come any closer than anyone else. He wouldn’t want to raise her hopes, only to see them dashed. Probably a smart move. He certainly seemed to have run into more questions than answers. But she loved him for making the attempt.
Relieved to be going, she closed the files. But just as she slid them into the accordion folder, a noise from below brought her head up.
What was that?
Movement? If so, whoever or whatever made that noise was definitely bigger than a rat.
She’d thought she heard footsteps when she first arrived—and there’d been no one here.
Irritated that she kept spooking herself, she climbed down the ladder. She’d just set foot on the stairs heading to the ground floor when a draft of cool air, smelling distinctly of smoke from the fireworks, swept up to meet her.
Fresh air. From outside…
“Hello?” she called.
No answer. No corresponding rustle, either.
She angled her flashlight in every direction to illuminate the dark recesses below, but the beam would only reach so far. “Anybody there?”
Silence.
Her mind conjured up the gruesome images that sometimes came to her in nightmares, images of her mother being tortured and strangled by some crazed psychopath. Most people were killed by someone in their circle of family and friends. But not all. Murders committed by strangers were among the most difficult to solve.
Was that why no one could figure out what had happened? Was her mother’s killer lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to move closer?
