The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(3)

Making breakfast for Wyatt.

Slipping on gloves, Evan strode to the slider that led to the back patio and pulled on the handle. It slid open. “Was this unlocked when they cleared the house?” he asked.

“Yes. And the front door was ajar when the neighbor arrived,” said the sergeant, who’d been silently watching and listening.

“Why did the neighbor come over?”

“She and Summer always run together a few days a week at this time. She entered the house because the door was ajar and called 911 when she found the body. She lives two doors down. Good witness. Relatively calm. I sent an officer home with her, and she knows you’ll want to speak with her later.”

Evan nodded. “Where was the dad this morning?”

“At the gym.”

Evan made a mental note to check whether the gym had scanned a membership card and whether it had any video feeds. He stepped through the slider to the patio and took a deep breath of fresh air. The backyard was small and mostly lawn with a thin border of bark dust along the chain-link fence. The grass needed to be mowed. Evan let his gaze wander the yard, not liking that he could easily see into several neighbors’ yards through the fencing. He preferred a tall wood fence and privacy. A subtle shadow in the grass near the house caught his eye, and he squatted for a better angle.

From this lower perspective, he saw footprints had bent the tall blades of grass.

Wyatt.

The prints were too small and too close together to be an adult’s. They made a path that ran close to the house and disappeared around a corner. Careful not to damage the prints, Evan followed the faint path around the house and found a small gate with an easy latch. On the other side of the gate, the ground was covered in bark dust, and it was impossible to see prints in the rough pieces of wood.

Did the boy get away while his mother was being beaten?

Worst-case scenario was that whoever had killed Summer had taken the boy; best-case scenario was that the boy had hidden somewhere in the neighborhood, traumatized by what he’d seen. Evan refused to make any assumptions but knew that the footprints would make an excellent starting point for the search dog.

“Hey, Detective Bolton.”

Evan returned to the back of the house and saw the sergeant at the sliding door.

“Search dog is here. The handler wants some used clothing or a pillowcase or maybe a stuffed animal that the kid slept with for a scent article.” He held out a large plastic bag. “She said to put it in this but try not to touch it.”

“Got it.” Evan took the bag and followed the sergeant back into the house. He wandered down the only hall in the home, passing a small bathroom and a home office. He stopped at the doorway of what was clearly a young boy’s room. There were Star Wars sheets on the bed, with matching curtains, and toys were scattered across the floor. Evan spotted a pajama top and bottoms crumpled on the rug next to the bed. He pinched a corner of the bottoms with a gloved hand, dropped them in the bag, and sealed it.

That should work.

He took one last glance around the room and pushed the closet door farther open.

No boy.

He did a quick check of the parents’ bedroom, a guest bedroom, and another bathroom. Everything looked normal. The parents’ bed was unmade and the bathroom counter crowded with products. The guest bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been used in weeks. All the closets in every room were open. Probably opened by the officers as they cleared the house. Nothing indicated a struggle had taken place.

Except the body in the kitchen.

He clenched the bag and headed back down the hall and out the front door. On the sidewalk in front of the home, he spotted Rowan Wolff and her black German shepherd, Thor, as she spoke with one of the officers. The tall woman did a double take at the sight of Evan and then waved. Rowan had a stellar reputation for finding lost people. Evan had worked with her a few times, and there was no one he’d rather have on the case.

He joined her and the officer, holding out the bag. “Good to see you, Rowan.”

Her intense brown eyes were in work mode. “You too, Detective.” She immediately focused on the bag. “What did you choose?”

“Pajama bottoms from the floor near his bed.”

“Perfect.” She took the bag. “That the dad?” She nodded at the man still sitting in the back seat of the car. Now two officers were speaking with him, one crouched in front at eye level.

“Yes,” said Evan, taking a long look at the upset father. Geoff Jensen had salt-and-pepper hair and lines around his mouth. He looked at least twenty years older than the murdered young woman in the house. Once Rowan started her search, he planned to talk to the man. “There’s a path of child-sized footprints that lead from the back door of the home around to the gate on that side,” he told Rowan as he pointed to a corner of the garage. “Should be a good place to start.” He glanced up and down the street. Some neighbors were in their driveways, watching the scene. “I’m hoping Wyatt is somewhere in the neighborhood. The medical examiner says his mother has been dead less than four hours. I can’t see a five-year-old getting too far away.”

“You’d be surprised at the distance they can cover,” said Rowan. “But if he’s still close by, he’s most likely found a hidey-hole of some sort. All these strangers and police cars could be terrifying and stopping him from coming out.” A shadow crossed her eyes, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.