Chapter Eighteen

CHELSEY FOLDS LEWIS SALT INTOthe back of a squad car, then shuts herself up front next to Montoya. The engine purrs to a start, and lights flash. Montoya glances back at Salt and says, "You like CCR?" Salt doesn't say anything. His hands are cuffed and pinned behind him. "Creedence Clearwater Revival? The greatest band of all time," he clarifies. "You a fan?"

"Not my first choice," Salt spits out, snot trailing from a nostril, hair hanging in his face.

"That's too bad. You're going away somewhere where you aren't going to have a lot of choices. Better get used to it now." He switches on "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?," adjusting the fade to blare on the back speakers. As they drive off, Chelsey grins to herself. Thrilled at her well-executed plan.

At the Olympia PD station, Chelsey eyes Lewis Salt through a two-way mirror.

"Still not talking?" Montoya stands beside her, a paper cup full of yellow liquid in his hand—he prefers Mountain Dew over coffee. He's changed out of his tactical gear and is back in his T-shirt and jeans, badge hanging from his neck by a chain. Chelsey is in her civilian clothes, too—a flannel shirt and jeans with her badge clipped to her waist.

"Hasn't said a word other than he didn't do anything." Chelsey crosses her arms. Her patience is wearing thin. It's been five hours. She wants a full confession. Nothing less will do.

"Well, I've got more bad news," Montoya says.

Chelsey glares at him. A muscle under her eye ticks. She is tired. That is all. "What?"

He sets his cup down and holds his phone out to Chelsey. "They didn't find anything after raiding the rest of Salt's property." Grainy body cam footage plays on his phone. The police sweep the dilapidated barn. A flashlight beam crosses a rotting hayloft, a dirt floor, and then settles on a trapdoor.

"Here," the officer shouts. Another officer comes into view and yanks the door open. Guns poised, the police rush down the dusty stairs into the room.

"Empty," the officer announces, camera spinning around. "Nothing down here except some shelves and an old jar of…" He picks it up. "… pickles. No evidence of human inhabitants." A pause. "Hey, Bo. I'll give you fifty bucks if you eat one of these pickles…" Montoya shuts off the phone.

"He could have cleaned it," Chelsey says. Might make sense. Ellie escapes; Salt is spooked, scrubs his property.

"He could have," says Montoya evenly. "Dogs are on their way. They'll pick up if your girls were there."

She reviews the evidence in her mind. The blue station wagon. The red bandana. The homestead in the middle of nowhere. "Salt could have a second piece of land. Somewhere else where he kept them," Chelsey thinks out loud.

"I'll see if I can dig up anything."

Chelsey tilts her head. Her instincts scream Salt is involved. It's a hunch. Like the one that cop followed two counties over. A three-year-old kid went missing from her mom's house. The parents were fighting over custody. They searched the dad's place. Nothing. But then… the cop noticed some floorboards that didn't seem to match the others. They'd found the little girl stashed under there, curled up with an iPad and headphones. "The DNA isn't in yet," she says. No point in folding now, not when Chelsey still has some cards to play.

"Welp." Montoya glances at the clock on the wall. "DNA will take a couple days. Your best hope right now is getting him to talk. We've got enough to hold him for forty-eight… scratch that—forty-three hours."

"Good." Chelsey lifts her chin at Salt through the glass. "I'm not done with him yet."

The defense attorney assigned to Lewis Salt doesn't show until five p.m. "Sorry," she says, buzzing into the precinct, introducing herself to Chelsey and handing off her card in a whirl. "Full day in court," she finishes. She wears ivory pearls in her ears, a simple brown blazer, a matching skirt, and nude heels. She stops at the two-way mirror and peers through it at Lewis Salt. "You have him in there this whole time?" She checks her watch. "The raid was at ten a.m. Seven hours in restraints?"

"We gave him some food and water and a bathroom break," Chelsey defends.

A frown. "What's the charge?"

"He was brought in on suspicion of kidnapping, rape, and murder…"

The attorney arches a carefully plucked eyebrow. "And?"

Chelsey sighs and scratches her forehead. She has to tell it all. "His property didn't turn up anything, but we did find a red bandana that matches descriptions from a vic. Plus his car, the make and model, are the same as the one seen on CCTV footage of the crime scenes."

"Coincidental," the attorney pushes out.

"Maybe." Chelsey shrugs. "Dogs are combing the property right now. And," she adds with emphasis, "we found DNA connected to a body found a year ago on a sweatshirt the victim was wearing. The DNA was a partial match for Salt's dad, who's serving time. We took a sample from Salt. The lab is running it right now. If it's a match…" Chelsey makes it sound like she's more confident than she is.

The defense attorney pinches her nose. They both know what will happen if the DNA comes in as Salt's. It's all pretty much a done deal—a trial with a guilty verdict, a lengthier sentence.

"You get him to talk and I'll put in a good word with the ADA," Chelsey says. She needs Salt to talk. This is true. And she will speak with the ADA if he does. Also true. But not for Salt. For Ellie. For Gabby's grandmother. If the DNA is a match, if the case is open and shut. Chelsey won't push for a courtroom; she'll push for a plea deal. To spare Ellie and Gabby's grandmother. Who don't want to relive it. Your girls, Montoya had said earlier. But he had it wrong. Ellie and Gabby do not belong to Chelsey. Chelsey belongs to Ellie and Gabby.