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  “Get a close-up here,” she said, pointing.

  Tim’s digital camera clicked with the sounds of old SLR—for effect, of course. Lindsay thought it was silly for new technology to mimic the analog world. She had told Alan more than once that his old-school ringtone—an actual ring—gave away his age as plainly as his pleated slacks.

  He had poked her back about her penchant for energy drinks and mindless scrolling on her phone.

  The woman appeared to be in her twenties, maybe younger. She’d been dead a day or two; rigor had come and gone. Her skin was pale. Her body was thin but not malnourished. No tattoos. No defining marks other than the abrasions that had caused the striping on her back. Lindsay wondered if those injuries had been a result of the fall. Or maybe from before. All questions of what had happened when would be determined by the coroner in her office, forty minutes away, in Bellingham.

  “No tracks,” Tim said after examining the victim’s arms.

  “Yeah,” Lindsay said. “Looks pretty healthy. Fit. Hair’s been trimmed recently. Not a single split end.”

  One of the officers called down from above and said he’d recovered some cigarette butts and some trash.

  “No clothing,” he said.

  “No shit,” Tam said.

  The officer’s face went red.

  “I meant up here,” he said.

  Mist dampened the victim’s shoulder-length hair, and Lindsay moved it away from her neck, exposing bruising that indicated strangulation as a possible cause of death—providing the victim was dead before she hit the rocks at the bottom of the chasm.

  She called up, “Pull your search back from the immediate trail and see what you can find.”

  Tam pulled Lindsay aside.

  “We still can’t believe it about Alan. We all know you were close. We’re here if you need us, Linds.”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  What could she say?

  After almost ten years, this would be Lindsay’s first solo case. Alan Sharpe had always been there, initially as a mentor, then a partner, then a close friend. And then, finally, a pseudo father figure. They had been yin and yang, yet never really to the point of any measurable friction. She knew as she looked down at the body that Alan would have been suggesting a zillion theories about what might have happened to Jane Doe. They’d have been the same scenarios that she’d already run through her head, but she would have let him list them because it was something he had liked to do. He hadn’t been a show-off. Not really. It had been his MO. His way of processing a scene.

  She supervised as the techs finished, and the coroner’s unmarked white van carried Jane Doe’s body to the county morgue.

  Lindsay was the last to leave. She surveyed the parking lot and glanced over at the trail to the falls. It had been years since she’d been there. Serenity punctuated by the sound of rushing water from a distance, a natural white noise. Lindsay could think of no scenario that would have a woman wind her way naked along the trail to jump. No clothes had been found anywhere nearby. No car had been left behind.

  Someone had carried her there, unconscious or dead.

  And tossed her like garbage onto the mossy rocks below.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tuesday, September 17, 2019

  Deming, Washington

  The stone chapel in Deming, built in 1933, had been restored recently by a group of citizens convinced that if the old building wasn’t repaired, it would become a hangout for drug addicts and teens with nothing better to do than spray-paint some colorful nonsense on its walls. Even a whiff of degradation would be picked up by those who sought the pleasure of destruction, and before one knew it, it would be gone.

  That afternoon, the parking spaces and the shoulder alongside the road were filled with law enforcement cars from all over Washington. Alan hadn’t died in the line of duty, but he’d taught a yearly class at the academy south of Seattle on working with all resources to stem the meth epidemic that was ruining so many little towns and rural outposts. His sudden death brought out a good number of the millennials he’d taught over the years.

  Lindsay and her ex-husband, Jack, sat in the second row, just behind Alan’s wife, Patty, and their son, Paul. Lieutenant Madison and his long-suffering wife, Peg, sat at the end of the same row, close enough that the smell of smoke wafted from him every time he exhaled.

  A portrait that had been taken for the newspaper when Alan was honored for his work with young people was on an easel in front. Enlarged, rendered in black and white, the image that presided over the mourners captured his spirit completely. His silver hair. The flinty sparks from his eyes. And the smile. It was the kind of grin that dared a person not to smile back. His arms were folded across his chest, the obligatory hero pose that looked silly on local real estate signs, but on Alan, it worked.

  Paul Sharpe put his arm across his mother’s shoulders as she melted into the pew.

  Lindsay reached for a tissue as the pastor, a tall man with oval-shaped wire-framed glasses, talked about the mysteries of depression and hidden pain and how the love that had surrounded Alan was never going to be enough to save him.

  “Some tragedies are readily apparent as to cause and effect,” the pastor said. “A terrible car crash, for example. It happened, we say. It was an accident. It is heartbreaking, but there is seldom the word why attached to such things.”

  Paul bolstered his mother as each word came at her.

  Alan Sharpe wasn’t a religious man, although his wife certainly skewed that direction. Patty had been brought up in the Lutheran faith but switched to an evangelical congregation years ago in hopes her husband would attend. Which he did, but only very occasionally. Patty had selected a middle-ground church for her husband’s service, partly because she didn’t want to face the questions that came with it in front of people she knew, but also because she knew that the old stone church held some appeal to him.

  They’d been there for a wedding the year before.

  “This is nice,” he’d said. “A church with a little age and historical significance seems a lot more authentic than the modern, guitar-playing kind we attend.”

  Patty only smiled.

  As she sat there with her grown son and they listened to the pastor talk about a man he didn’t know as if they had been close friends, she did the same thing she imagined Lindsay Jackman did. She streamed the morning of his death in her mind.

  It was a movie she couldn’t stop watching.

  Monday, September 9, 2019

  Ferndale, Washington

  Patty reached over and felt the emptiness in the bed. Strange. She’d been the first one up with very few exceptions from the day she and Alan had gotten married. She put her feet on the floor, slipped on the ridiculously pink robe Paul had given her for Christmas the previous year, and padded her way to the kitchen, thinking Alan would be there, poring over the paper with a K-Cup of coffee.

  It was just after 5:00 a.m.

  “Alan?” she called out.

  No answer.

  She placed a coffee pod in the machine and snapped down the lid. As the rumbling water forced its way through the coffee grounds, she tried to remember if he’d had an early appointment that day. Yes, coffee with Lindsay. But it was very early. No one had an appointment at that hour. He’d come late to bed last night. She asked if he was okay, and he nuzzled up against her, saying everything was fine.

  “Just couldn’t sleep.”

  “You’re freezing,” she said.

  “Sorry. Sorry about that, too.”

  Only now did it occur to her to think about those words. Really, only one of the words.

  Too.

  What exactly did that mean? Too?

  The coffee steamed in the cup, and Patty sipped. Too hot. Looking around, she noticed the sink was empty. Alan hadn’t made a morning cup and left it there, rinsed and ready for the dishwasher. That had been almost a game with them. She couldn’t understand why her husband didn’t go the extra step and pu
t it in the dishwasher. Maybe he did. She opened it, and no, it was completely empty.

  Alan couldn’t make a move in the morning without a decent dose of caffeine.

  Their house wasn’t large, and she’d passed his empty office on the way to the kitchen. She paused in the living room a beat. A sound was coming from the garage.

  A running engine.

  Oh, she thought, he’s leaving just now.

  When she flung open the door to the garage, a stinking fog poured inside. Her coffee fell to the floor, burning her leg, and she screamed. Oh no! Alan must have had a heart attack or something. She turned her head away from the car exhaust and felt for the opener. Got it. As the door began to rise and the exhaust leaked from the space, Patty knew that it had been no accident.

  A dark-green garden hose led from the tailpipe to a passenger’s-side window, crimped tightly to hold it in place.

  She screamed a second time and ran for the driver’s-side door, where she could make out the shape of Alan’s head leaning against the steering wheel.

  “Oh God no,” she said. “Alan, what did you do?”

  Frantically, she tried to open the door, but it was locked. She circled the car, trying all doors. She felt woozy, and she coughed out fits of carbon monoxide. She ran back into the house and grabbed her phone and the extra key fob from the rack by the refrigerator.

  As she gave her name, coughing into the phone, 911 recorded her call.

  Patty: This is Patty Sharpe. Help me. I think my husband is badly injured or maybe dead. God, please hurry. I’m at 589 Semiahmoo Way. He’s Ferndale Police Detective Alan Sharpe. Hurry!

  911: Stay calm, Patty. An ambulance is on the way. Four minutes out. Tell me what happened.

  Patty: I found him in the garage with the car running. A hose . . . [Coughs and cries, the beep of a key fob.] Alan, God, no . . .

  911: Patty? Patty?

  [A muffled noise.]

  Patty: [Coughs.] I’m here.

  911: I need you to get out of the garage, Patty. Right away. Carbon monoxide can make you very sick. Do you understand?

  Patty: Yes. I do. I don’t understand anything else. Oh God, Alan. Why has this happened? Why?

  [The sound of an ambulance siren.]

  911: Patty, help is there now. Stay on the phone until you see them. I hope your husband will be okay. Take care, Patty.

  Patty: Thank you.

  Tuesday, September 17, 2019

  As she sat in the church pew, remembering, Patty Sharpe wondered how much she should say about that morning. How it would hurt. How it might invite questions she didn’t want to answer.

  It was a movie.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, September 17, 2019

  Ferndale, Washington

  The Sharpe family’s backyard was set up with picnic tables covered in pale-pink tablecloths—not because the hue was Alan’s favorite, but because the linens were leftovers from a baby shower Patty had hosted for a church member a week ago.

  After arriving from the memorial service, mourners filed past Patty and Paul as they thanked everyone for coming.

  Paul did the talking. His mother stood next to him, her arms folded around her trembling body.

  “My mom and I really appreciate it,” he said, his voice breaking. “Never forget to tell people you love them. You don’t know when there will never be another chance to say those words.”

  The house became a moving mass of memories and condolences that expanded and contracted each time the doors opened. There were two distinct groups of mourners. The first was those who waited in the receiving line to say something kind to the widow and her son. They stood, silent and immobile, racking their brains for something to say that might ease the pain. The other group hovered around the dining table, a classic Danish modern piece blanketed with room-temperature cold cuts and solidifying casseroles sharing the same sad DNA—post-memorial-service fare.

  Later, Lindsay found Patty in the kitchen. She’d spilled something on her pale-blue dress and was trying to remove the spot. She was a compact woman, under five feet, with a decidedly old-school approach to life. She wore an apron when cooking and clipped coupons—not to save money, but because it was like muscle memory from a meager childhood. Alan brought extra coupons to the office every week.

  “Can I help you?” Lindsay asked.

  Patty finally looked up. Her eyes were puffy, and the makeup she had applied so carefully that morning had rubbed off onto a tissue.

  “No one can help me, Lindsay.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Right. You’re here.” Her tone was flat, maybe a little dismissive. “I know you mean well, Lindsay.”

  Patty’s words stung. It was confusing. Lindsay wondered if she’d meant to hurt her.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, moving closer.

  Patty took a step away. “Look,” she said, setting down the sponge she’d used to remove the stain. “I’m not angry at you.”

  By saying that, you are, Lindsay thought.

  “What is it? Let me help.”

  “Alan is gone. He killed himself. I don’t even have any idea why he would do that. I’m angry. And frankly, Lindsay, I’m jealous that you probably knew him better than I did.”

  “I don’t know why he did what he did,” Lindsay said. “I never saw anything that would point to this. Alan was happy. He loved you and Paul. This doesn’t make any sense to me, either.”

  “You spent more time with him than I did.”

  “He loved you, Patty. Is something going on?”

  Patty looked down at the stain. “I just can’t get this damn spot out. Alan loved this dress. I wore it today for him, and now look at it.”

  Patty was deflecting.

  “Any club soda?” Lindsay asked.

  “No. Just 7Up.”

  Both women smiled and shook their heads.

  Lindsay put her arms around Patty. Alan’s wife, now his widow, smelled of a light woodsy perfume. Her neck was wrapped in a double strand of coral beads from their anniversary trip to Hawaii; its silver lobster claw clasp had inched its way to the front. On any other day, Lindsay would have mentioned it to her.

  Not today.

  Instead, she said, “I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

  “He thought of you like a daughter,” Patty said.

  “Thank you. And I’m so sorry.”

  After Patty pulled herself together, she sat outside picking at a plate of food, occasionally thanking people for coming when they presented themselves to her. She didn’t cry anymore. She knew that she’d have to find a way to accept the nightmare handed to her when Alan died.

  There had been moments of worry and depression, of course, but she had to dig a little to recall them. Alan had presented a happy-go-lucky persona to everyone, despite the dark nature of his work as a detective. He obsessed over it. Sometimes she’d see him in his office, looking at files with a clinking tumbler of Scotch that he’d filled more than once. He’d be poring over something and muttering. Slurring, sometimes. She knew better than to move close enough to see; she’d made that mistake one time. She could never erase that image of a little brown-haired Ferndale boy disfigured by his mother’s cigarettes in the pattern of the Little Dipper. She had let out a gasp, and Alan had swiveled his chair.

  “Honey,” he’d said, “don’t come closer. You don’t want to see any more of this.”

  “Alan,” she’d replied, moving back toward the door. “You’re right. I don’t. Tell me: Is he okay?” Her eyes had been fixed on the photograph and the boy’s upper thigh. He’d been burned in a place that no one could see.

  It was a hidden torture.

  “He’s in foster care,” Alan had said, shifting the folder from her view. “He’s going to be all right.”

  From her vantage point, she’d seen the notation, a date and a single word written on the top of the photo.

  Homicide.

  Lindsay had experienced her own sh
are of grief. Her mother had died of breast cancer shortly after Lindsay joined the Ferndale Police Department. It turned her world upside down, but it had been known to her that the day would come. She and her mom had had those moments in which they could muse about the future and laugh about the past. Patty and her son hadn’t had that kind of opportunity.

  Alan was here. Then he was gone.

  Lindsay found Paul standing in a corner, a small plate—like hers, barely touched—in his hands.

  “Dad never knew so many people loved him,” he said.

  Lindsay picked at a piece of salami and provolone rolled up tight like a cigarette. She wished she had a smoke. Drawing on a cigarette was a go-to move for thinking about what to say when you haven’t got a clue.

  “He was good,” she said. The blandest, most obvious thing to say. But it was all she had.

  Paul was twenty, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jawline. His eyes were dark like his father’s, and he was handsome like him, but in a different way. Lindsay thought about how men had become preening affectations of manhood in the past decade or so. Shaved. Muscled. Cocky.

  He was sweet.

  Sensitive.

  “I know I’ll never work with someone like your father again. I’ll miss him forever.”

  Paul nodded. “Yeah. He was a great man. Good heart.”

  Lindsay swallowed the last of her salami-and-cheese cigarette. “I just don’t get it,” she said, looking toward a table with his father’s photo, badge, and awards.

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  When a woman approached Paul to offer condolences, Lindsay slipped away.

  I would have helped you, Alan.

  CHAPTER 6

  That night, Lindsay shut the front door of her house on Alder Way and took in the empty feeling that greeted her. Silence filled the small bungalow, her share of the proceeds from her divorce. She was in her midthirties, single, and without children. She wouldn’t have said she was one of those people married to a job, but in reality, she lived and breathed everything crime related—TV, books, podcasts—and would be hard-pressed to name anything else approaching a hobby, much less a passion.