Chapter Fifteen

"YOU WANT ME TO PULLevery available unit I have and put in calls to Thurston and Lewis Counties to look for a blue station wagon?" Sergeant Abbott cuts an elegant shape as he leans back in his chair. Today he is dressed in a suit and tie, badge hanging around his neck. His skin is pale, near translucent, and his cheeks dusted pink, salmon colored. His office is sparse. A single clock on a bare wall, five minutes past eight and ticking. A file cabinet with a frame on top. The sergeant, as a younger man, on his boat—because everyone in Coldwell has one—the Good Fortune, named for his then-wife, who eventually changed both her monikers, first and last, after she left, after she peeled the skin of Coldwell from her body.

Chelsey is standing and leans down, fingers splaying on top of the sergeant's desk. "Thurston, Lewis, and Grays Harbor," she qualifies. In front of Abbott are two black-and-white photographs from Ellie Black's and Gabrielle Barlowe's missing person files—the lot full of cars where Ellie was abducted, a red circle around a station wagon, and the CCTV footage of the same station wagon following Gabrielle's car.

She straightens and notices Abbott's lips twitch at something above her shoulder. Glancing back through the window, she sees a television on in the bullpen. They can't hear the sound. Abbott's door is closed. It's a newsreel of Governor Pike. Previously Mrs. Abbott. She charted a meteoric rise from councilwoman to mayor to governor and has been outspoken about her private life. Her lousy marriage, hinting at domestic abuse, with no choice but to flee with nothing. Even leaving behind her children, who sided with their father.

"Sir?" Chelsey prompts.

Abbott's attention returns to Chelsey. The salmon of his cheeks a shade darker. She remembers that precinct picnic again. How Abbott had been there with his wife, the now-governor, and their kids. Before Doug asked Chelsey if she came in a bento box. Before the watermelon had been sliced. Before the deviled eggs had been consumed. Abbott had been sipping from a Gatorade bottle, his breath and skin reeking of cinnamon.

He stopped drinking around the time Lydia was murdered. Her death had sobered up the entire town. The chief's daughter killed by Coldwell's golden boy. How could this have happened? His wife had left him by then, and he'd showed up on the Calhouns' doorstep with a casserole from the frozen aisle at Ray's two days after Lydia had been found.

I'm so sorry, kid, he'd told Chelsey while she stood on the doorstep, blank and empty. Her father and mother would not come to the door. Could not handle the stream of constant visitors. It had been up to fourteen-year-old Chelsey to field the calls. To make the funeral arrangements. To insist on peonies, Lydia's favorite flower. To accept hugs from strangers. This never should have happened. You let your parents know I stopped by? That I send my condolences?

Since, he'd turned his life around. It had been a slow thawing with a few spots of relapse. A few years back, Chelsey was working late, and she found him in his office, smelling of cinnamon again. Turns out he liked Goldschl?ger. This was around the time his ex-wife announced her run for governor. She was the love of my life, he'd blubbered to Chelsey.

Let me take you home, sir, she'd offered.

He'd waved her off. And the next day, he'd been sober and told Chelsey he was leaving early to go to a meeting. They never spoke of it again. But Chelsey respected Abbott. He was trying. He'd been a drunk, Chelsey thinks, but an abuser?

Now, he regards her with a frown. "Thurston, Lewis, and Grays Harbor. That's a lot of manpower."

She keeps her voice from wavering, though her insides are buzzing. "It is."

The muscle in his right cheek flexes. "Where are we with the other evidence, the blood on the shirt? You get a match on that to Barlowe?" Even if the blood is Gabby's, it wouldn't be much in terms of a lead, Chelsey thinks. It would only solidify that Gabby and Ellie may have been taken by the same person, strengthening the tie binding the two girls together. Chelsey needs the wagon. "It's not in yet. The wagon—"

He stands, cutting her off. "It's not enough, Chelsey. It's too much of a coincidence. Bring me something more solid, and I'll go to bat for you." His tone is not angry. It is matter-of-fact.

Chelsey's jaw locks. "I strongly disagree. The wagon is our best lead." In truth, Ellie was their best lead, but she's no longer an option. Chelsey flashes back to the expression on Kat's face when Ellie vomited upon hearing Gabby's name. A lioness protecting her cub.

"Noted," Abbott says, rounding the desk and tucking his keys into his fist. He stops in front of Chelsey and smiles patronizingly. Sometimes Abbott makes her feel like a child. Like they're still standing on the stoop of her parents' house, when he'd offered her a casserole and called her kid. It rankles even more that she wants his approval. To see his eyes glint at a job well done. "I'm on your side here."

Chelsey forces the corners of her mouth up. "I know you are," she says.

"Let me know when the blood is in," he says, the door swinging shut behind him.

It is strangely quiet at the Blacks' house as Chelsey parks alongside the curb. The reporters have fled, off to chase a new story. All that's left are muddy teddy bears, wilting flowers, and soggy cards on the Blacks' front porch. Chelsey thinks about the girl inside. What are you afraid of, Ellie Black? What are you hiding? Chelsey frowns at the question. At the inference she's making. That Ellie may be willfully concealing something. She shakes it off. And yet…

The front door opens, and Kat emerges with her purse tucked under her arm.

Chelsey swings open her car door. "Kat," she calls out, flagging her down and jogging across the street.

"I'm on my way to the grocery store," Kat says, rounding the hood and opening the driver's door. Kat has never given Chelsey the brush-off. She has never been cold.

"How's Ellie?" Chelsey's voice curves with concern. "She okay?"

Kat's eyes skip to the house. Chelsey glances over her shoulder, and one of the curtains swishes in the window. Ellie. She's watching again.

A siren wails. Every first Monday of the month, there is a tsunami drill. Chelsey looks to the sky, waiting for it to pass. As soon as it does, she says, "I'm sorry about what happened the other day. I pushed Ellie too hard. I know that now." Chelsey draws a little closer to Kat. All she wants to do is help. Why can't Kat see they are on the same team? "But I know you know what it's like. Those two years, wondering what had happened to Ellie. Remember when Jim would come to my office?"

Kat startles. "Jimmy came to your office?"

Chelsey's brow furrows. Jimmy never told Kat? Why? "Yeah. He'd come and bring the precinct donuts, ask to go through the evidence."

The keys jingle in Kat's hand. "I didn't know."

"There's another family," Chelsey presses, sensing an opening. "Gabrielle Barlowe's." Her grandmother, Althea, might not want to know the details, but she wanted justice. Chelsey does, too. There isn't anything she wants more. She will spend her whole life pursuing redemption. "Gabrielle is dead, and Ellie is our best lead to finding out what happened to her, to catching this guy. Anything you can tell me about Ellie, anything she shares…" She stops, voice suddenly choked with emotion.

Kat heaves a deep sigh. "She barely talks, but I'll let you know if anything comes up that feels relevant." Kat clutches the edge of the car door, ready to go, but then she pauses, looks at Chelsey, and thinks for a minute. "Danny came over last night. Snuck in through her window." Her face changes and turns wistful. "I recognized his voice through the walls. Maybe she said something to him."

Chelsey backs up and nods gratefully. "Thank you." She watches from the sidewalk as Kat drives away.

Late that afternoon, Chelsey moseys into the Fishtrap and steers herself toward the bar. There are a few scattered patrons, the die-hard daytime drinkers. A row of slot machines sits against the back wall. Chelsey recognizes Charlie immediately, a regular in the drunk tank, feeding dollar bills into one. Danny is behind the bar, a white towel slung over his shoulder. Her muscles tighten as if readying for a fight. She takes a seat, and Danny's jaw flexes when he lays eyes on her.

"Cup of coffee, please," she says.

Danny grunts and pours her one. Sliding the mug in front of her, he says, "That'll be twelve bucks."

Chelsey sucks in her cheeks. "Must be a good cup of coffee."

"It's about eight hours old," he deadpans. Above him is a sign that says: NO ASSHOLES. Along with another that advertises the special tonight: RIBEYE, TWO FOR ONE.

Chelsey isn't surprised by Danny's chilly demeanor. She thinks back to the first time she met him when Ellie was reported missing. When she was busy chasing down every possible lead. Camera footage from the motel showed Danny's car entering the lot. He'd lied about being at home when Ellie disappeared.

Chelsey had hauled him down to the station, courtesy of a cop car, and made him sweat it out in a box for an hour before interviewing him.

Do you have a temper, Danny?She hovered over him while he fidgeted. Ellie was a bitch that day, wasn't she? I totally understand. She made you feel like shit because you had to work. She'd laid into him, until he quaked uncontrollably and slammed his fists on the table.

I was there, he wildly spat out. I went to the motel. And you're right. She had picked a fight with me that day. I sat in the parking lot, got out of my car, got back in, and drove home. And I thought, fuck this, fuck her. He started crying and wiped the tears furiously away. Oh god, oh god, he'd hyperventilated, his whole body lost in a shudder. Forgive me. If she had been with me, none of this would have happened.

Chelsey had broken him that day. Ripped part of his boyhood away. And that's what he'd been. A kid. A confused, sorry kid who blamed himself. Still, she could not bring herself to apologize. In quieter moments, she had examined what drove her to such desperation, and the answer quickly became clear: Oscar Swann, Lydia's killer. Everyone thought Oscar was such a nice guy, that he couldn't harm a fly, that he couldn't be capable of such a heinous act.

Chelsey's eyes flick to Danny as she pours creamer into her cup. Yes, two years ago, she'd changed him. She deserves all of his ire. His blame. "Heard you saw Ellie last night."

"So?"

"So…" Chelsey repeats slowly, tapping the spoon against the cup. "I'm wondering if she said anything to you." She pauses. "And I'm wondering if you might be able to keep an eye on her for me."

"You want me to spy on her?" Danny snorts. "You're a piece of work, aren't you?" He settles his elbows on the bar until he's eye level with Chelsey. "I know all about you." He stares at her long and hard. "Your sister went missing when she was in high school." Usually, when people mention Lydia, their eyes glitter with pity and sympathy, but Danny's sharpen with anger. "Your parents offered a half-million-dollar reward. What was it like having all that money? All those resources? Precincts at your disposal?" He straightens, using his towel to dry some glasses behind the bar. "A statewide search? Helicopters canvassing the forests? A national press conference?"

Another stab of guilt. It is true. Lydia benefited from everything Ellie and other girls did not. Lydia had been young and white and well-off. Her father had set up a command center in his office, tugging on all his political connections to find Lydia. Money poured in from anonymous donors. News reporters created moving biopics of Lydia's life. Forty-eight hours of constant coverage ending in a helicopter hovering over the crash site. The story after that centered on Oscar Swann. The boy next door turned killer—how could no one have seen this coming? Ellie's case hadn't received one-tenth of the attention Lydia's did. No benefactors. No political favors.

Chelsey faces off with Danny, keeping her expression purposefully blank. Just then, her phone flashes with a text. It's Noah: I'M AT THE TOWNHOUSE. ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY?

Shit. Her promise to Noah. She'd forgotten. She taps out a quick text: I'M SORRY. COMING RIGHT NOW.

"You know, this coffee is terrible." Chelsey pushes the mug back toward Danny, liquid splashing over the rim.

"You still have to pay," Danny says, dumping the coffee into the sink behind the bar.

Chelsey's phone buzzes again. Not Noah, this time, but the lab. "I have to go." Chelsey pulls out a twenty and leaves it on the bar.

"Don't be afraid to be a stranger," Danny calls out.

"Detective Calhoun," she answers her phone, the wooden door of the Fishtrap swinging shut behind her.

"Detective Calhoun. Tech Kinsley here."

The coming evening is laden with cool, wet air. Main Street is quiet. A plastic bag blows down the sidewalk. "You got the blood DNA from the sweatshirt?" Chelsey pauses next to a maroon sedan with an old VOTE FOR PIKE election sticker on the back windshield.

"Yeah." The tech draws out the word. "A mixture of DNA was found, actually, male and female. Neither are a match for Gabrielle Barlowe."

"No?" Chelsey's mind spins. Not Gabby's blood. She'd been so sure. If not Gabby's, then whose? Another victim? Their abductor?

"Nope," Kinsley says. "But we got a hit on an inmate at Riverbank Correctional in Philadelphia. He's on year fifteen of a twenty-year sentence. His name is Timothy Salt."

"He's been in for fifteen years?" She's unable to conceal her distress. Her confusion. That the ground feels as if it's giving way beneath her. All these tiny earthquakes, and she cannot help but picture a pair of ghost hands holding Chelsey like a rag doll and shaking. If Timothy Salt has been incarcerated for fifteen years, he can't be responsible for Gabby's death, for Ellie's abduction.

"Yep, but it's only a partial match," Kinsley adds.

Someone related to him, then. "Send me the full report," Chelsey says, and hangs up. Family, Chelsey concludes. She needs to look at Salt's family.

She closes her eyes for a beat, letting her body reset, allowing the coldness of the air to recharge her. In her mind, the investigation shifts, a new form taking shape, another tunnel to be dug, another cavern to be explored. Noah will have to wait.