Chapter Nine

A BABY CRIES ON THEother side of the door. Chelsey checks her phone to make sure she has the correct address. The Tacoma detective had texted it to her an hour ago, saying SURE, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THE BARLOWE CASE. I'M ON MATERNITY LEAVE, YOU MIND COMING BY MY HOUSE?

After finding Gabrielle Barlowe in the MUPS directory, Chelsey called the lab tech. I need a rush on the blood samples from Ellie Black's sweatshirt. See if it's a match against Gabrielle Barlowe. Case number… Then she'd called the detective in charge of Gabrielle's case in Tacoma, only to learn he'd retired. A junior detective had inherited Gabrielle, and here Chelsey is, on her front doorstep.

She raises her hand and knocks sharp and loud. A dog barks. The door opens. A woman answers in a tank top, open flannel shirt, sweatpants, and a burp cloth slung over her shoulder. A perky golden retriever noses his way past her, spins a circle around Chelsey's legs, then prances back inside.

"Hi." She smiles. Her face is plain, makeup-free, her complexion ruddy. "You must be Detective Calhoun. I'm Detective Ross."

"Call me Chelsey." Chelsey sticks out a hand.

"Brielle." She shakes Chelsey's hand and swings the door open. "Come on in. Thanks for agreeing to visit me at home. I'm technically on maternity leave, but you know the job…" She trails off and peers over her shoulder. "Would you mind… your shoes?"

Chelsey toes off her boots. Her socks are Noah's, too big with gray toes and heels. Brielle shows Chelsey into the living room. Some sort of contraption is moving up and down in a slow, steady motion, and inside it is a swaddled baby that resembles an old man. "Cute," Chelsey says.

"Yeah, I think I'll keep her." Brielle smiles in the way all moms do when talking about their children. "You got kids?" Brielle slumps down into a large armchair and gestures for Chelsey to sit. The golden retriever settles at her feet, resting his head on his paws.

"Nope." Chelsey posts herself on the edge of a lumpy couch. There is a breast pump on the coffee table, yellow with tubes and suction cups, an alien-looking device.

"Well, my only advice is not to have one until you're ready. And even when you feel like you're ready, you're not ready. Oh, and make sure you have some sort of help lined up. I don't know what I'd do without my mom and sisters."

Chelsey smiles uncomfortably. She doesn't think much of having children. She's discussed it with Noah before but in a far-off, distant future sort of way. She's made no plans. No promises. Lydia had been the one who wanted children.

Time erodes, and Chelsey is lying in bed with Lydia. Lydia is eight. Chelsey is seven. Down the stairs, their parents have guests over for the New Year. It's merry, but there is an undercurrent of dread. Y2K. Chelsey's dad doesn't believe it, but her mother made him buy a survival kit. Just in case. But Chelsey and Lydia are oblivious. They huddle together under Lydia's Barbie sheets. It doesn't matter Chelsey was adopted or Lydia was the Calhouns' biological child. They were like twins, absolutely enchanted with each other. It is the only time, besides being held by her mother, Chelsey has ever felt perfectly loved. In the dark, under a canopy bed, they whispered their dreams to each other. Lydia's dream was to get married and have kids young. Like Mom and Dad, she said with a soft, expectant smile, confident the world would be hers. Later, the dream changed. I hate Coldwell, she announced at thirteen. I can't wait to get out of here.

"Coldwell PD, huh?" Brielle's question cuts through Chelsey's thoughts.

"I've been a detective there two years now." She keeps her voice low for the sleeping baby.

"You don't have to whisper." Brielle smiles. "She'll sleep through anything—vacuums, dogs barking, you name it." She sighs. "When I entered the force, I imagined I might be a sergeant someday." She smiles. "But now I'm not sure. I have the baby and am one of four women in the precinct. And two are front office staff."

Chelsey softens a fraction. She understands what it is like. To be a woman and considered defective. How often has she been told by a fellow officer they'd rather have a 240-pound man watching their back than a slight woman? It did not matter Chelsey could shoot better than most. Or that she was smart, too. She was a liability. "I'm the only woman in my precinct. I mostly keep to myself." She liked her sergeant fine. In some ways Abbott reminded Chelsey of her father. Stoic, inflexible.

"I don't know why I stay."

"My dad was an officer," Chelsey volunteers, and she's not sure why.

"It's in your blood, then."

Chelsey does not correct Brielle. She just nods politely. It is something thicker than blood, she thinks, though. Her father had been dubious about his children in law enforcement. But then Lydia was killed, and everything changed. Her father had passed her the baton. Do not let what happened to Lydia happen to you. Do not let what happened to Lydia happen to any other girls. There had been pride in his eyes when she graduated from the academy. He'd patted her back right between the shoulder blades. Sometimes she could still feel it. The thwamp-thwamp-thwamp. Everything was illuminated in that bright moment.

Silence reigns. Then Brielle says, "So, you want to know about Gabrielle Barlowe?"

Chelsey nods. "A sweatshirt with her initials was discovered on a victim a day ago."

Brielle's mouth hitches up. "I've seen the news. Elizabeth Black, right?"

"I think she was wearing Gabrielle's sweatshirt. What can you tell me about the case?" Chelsey flips open a notepad.

She rubs her knees. "I'm not sure how much help I can be. After the detective originally assigned retired, I inherited the case two years ago, along with about forty others."

Indignation curls in Chelsey's abdomen. All these girls lost twice over. First, to unknown circumstances. And then, to the chain of command—to retirees, to shifting political landscapes, to budget cuts.

"Anything will help," Chelsey says, trying to hide her frustration.

"Gabrielle's parents weren't around. She lived with her maternal grandmother." Brielle pauses. "Grandma waited almost thirty-six hours before reporting her missing. The original detective thought the old woman might be good for it. Neighbors said they'd heard Gabby and her grandma fighting all the time—yelling, slamming doors, that kind of thing."

"But never anything physical?"

"Nothing reported. No calls to police for domestic disputes. No visits to hospitals. Teachers said Gabby was always clean and well taken care of. They dropped the grandma thread. Then they found Gabby's car on the side of the road. There was evidence of a struggle. The driver's-side window had been broken, and her blood was on some of the shards of glass found. There were marks in the dirt, too, like she'd been dragged to a vehicle." The baby's mouth opens in a mew of discontent, and Brielle's attention shifts. She turns away from Chelsey and leans down to change the setting on the contraption. Now it zigzags. The baby quiets. "This thing cost three hundred dollars, and it is the best money I have ever spent." She taps her thigh. "What else? What else?" She snaps her fingers. "CCTV footage caught a station wagon following Gabby but no license plate."

Chelsey's breath catches in her throat. "A station wagon." An image of the Pentecostal church's CCTV footage springs to Chelsey's mind. She remembers seeing a station wagon sandwiched between two semis.

"Yep," Brielle tells her. "The wagon followed her through a stoplight. But like I said, no license plate. The old detective tried to run it down but didn't have the manpower to check all the registrations. You know how it goes…" She trails off, letting Chelsey fill in the blanks. Unfortunately, Chelsey does know how it goes. All these dangling threads and not enough people to pull them. "Anyway, that's about it. All efforts to find Gabrielle were exhausted. The case had gone cold."

"Then her body was discovered?"

Brielle nods. "Near a popular equestrian trail. A horse bucked its owner, and they found the animal nudging at the body. She was naked. Had been strangled. No ligature marks. They used their hands." Chelsey flashes on Ellie. She'd been bruised, but not around the neck. Still, she could have escaped… or been left for dead. It tracks. Is that why Ellie is so frightened? She isn't supposed to be alive? Could she be scared her abductor will return to finish the job?

"Any fingerprints, DNA?" Chelsey asks, although she knows the answer.

Brielle's lips flatten. "Nope. The medical examiner said she'd been out there about a month. She wasn't killed there, though. It was clear she'd been dumped. We were lucky to determine the cause of death. The guy was smart and carefully timed when he got rid of the body. And he buried her deep, far from the trail. A flash flood came through and caused a landslide, washed Gabby up. Pure chance she was even found."

"What else?"

"There was wild game in Gabrielle's stomach. Deer. And Queen Anne's lace was found in her bloodstream."

"Queen Anne's lace?"

"A plant that looks like a weed. I pull it out of my garden every year. Gabrielle was probably eating it. Her teeth were bad, near rotten." Brielle stops and wrinkles her nose.

"That all?"

Brielle shakes her head. "There were bite marks on her bones, her legs."

Chelsey stills. "Could you tell what kind of animal?" She remembers Ellie mentioning hearing howling. The dog hairs found on her clothing.

"Canine, dogs specifically," Brielle confirms. "Lab says most likely inflicted before she died," Brielle says, and Chelsey shudders. She shakes her head. "It's hard to think about, especially after having kids. I'll have all the files forwarded to you, and you can see for yourself." She pulls herself from the chair. "If you want to confirm the sweatshirt, you'll need to talk to Gabrielle's grandmother."

"Okay if I contact her?" Detectives could be touchy about their cases. Possessive. Chelsey stands, too.

Brielle whips out her phone, and Chelsey's dings with an incoming text. "Here's the address. I spoke with her this morning. She's expecting you."