The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(34)

Malcolm didn’t know what to do. He was terrified and hopeful and confused. He crushed the rest of the cinnamon roll in his grip, knowing something was very, very wrong.

“You should see your face!” The bearded man grinned at him as if Malcolm were his best friend.

I don’t think I am.

“You must be the most stupid boy in the world.” He coughed, and an evil gleam appeared in his eyes. “Did you really think I would send her home?”

Malcolm looked down again, fighting to keep the roll in his churning stomach. The strong cinnamon smell made it worse.

“There’s no point in sending her home. Your parents aren’t looking for you two anymore. They finished a while ago.”

He’s lying.

Malcolm met his gaze, searching for the truth. But he saw no hint that the man lied. The man actually looked sorry for him now. Hate flooded Malcolm, burning through his limbs. Lowering his head brought the linoleum back in his gaze, but he felt as if he were looking through a tube. His vision narrowed, and he felt light-headed. Malcolm abruptly sat on the floor and pulled up his knees, burying his face in them.

The only positive was that Rowan didn’t expect to leave. Malcolm was thankful he hadn’t told her.

“I know the news about your parents is a shock, boy. But I’m not surprised. It’s very hard to keep searching for a missing child. It feels better to give up and move on. I heard your family is moving out of state. They don’t want to keep living in the place their children vanished, and they want a fresh start.”

He’s lying. My parents would never give up.

Or would they?

His mom had been tired all the time from taking care of the twins. His and Rowan’s absence must be causing her so much more stress.

Maybe the family needed to move on to protect his mom.

“I’ll figure out something else to do with your sister. You win most of the competitions and are much stronger and faster. You’ve told me how much you hate her, so I’ll think on it. I know you want her gone.”

Malcolm’s muscles went cold at his words. He couldn’t move.

What will he do with Rowan?

“Unless she starts performing better. She’s always so much slower than you.”

Malcolm lifted his head, anger returning. “She’s little. She’s a girl. She can’t help it,” he said.

The bearded man turned around to look at the other man for the first time. “See,” he told him. “I said he’s not ready. Close, though. I can fix that.”

I have no idea what he is talking about.





18


“Detective Bolton!”

Evan turned at the voice. He’d been crossing the parking lot, headed into the sheriff’s department’s building at the ass crack of dawn. He tensed when he saw a tall man thirty feet away but relaxed a bit as he noticed the pure-white hair under the cowboy hat and how the man lurched as he walked, favoring a hip. Something about him felt familiar.

The lanky man held out a hand, huffing slightly. “Sam Durette.”

The name rang a bell, and Evan shook his hand. “You’re a retired detective.”

“I am,” Sam said proudly. “I did twenty-five years in that building right there. I know every broken floor tile and stained ceiling square.”

“Like above the fridge—”

“In the rear break room,” Sam finished.

“Nice to meet you,” Evan said, remembering he’d heard that Sam had been well respected. Sam Durette was tall, with wide shoulders that were now a bit hunched. His icy blue gaze skewered Evan, making him feel like a target. “Were you waiting for me?”

“I was. Been sitting in my car for a good half hour. I figured you for an early bird like me. Don’t need as much sleep as I used to, and when something’s on my mind, I gotta address it before it eats away at me.”

“I know the feeling.” Evan grimaced. He’d had about four hours of sleep the night before, autopsy and skeletal remains images appearing every time he closed his eyes. The best way to get rid of them was to solve the cases.

Which was why he was at work at 5:30 a.m.

“What can I do for you?” Evan asked, itching to get in the building, but making himself give the detective the respect he deserved.

“I heard about those young women’s murders you’ve got on your desk.” Sam’s stare continued to bore through him. “Sound an awful lot like cases I had way back. Three young women. Blonde. Nude. Dumped. Strangled. Sound familiar?”

Sam now had Evan’s full attention. “How long ago? Were the cases closed?”

“It’s been about twenty-five years. We made an arrest. He’s doing time in Salem.”

Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem.

Sam scowled. “You weren’t aware of those cases? They didn’t come up in your research?”

“No,” Evan said shortly. “I didn’t look at closed cases from twenty-five years ago.” He was ready to end the conversation.

“They were found in the same general area as the woman and skeletal remains you looked at yesterday.”

Evan went still. “Your man could be responsible for the buried remains?”

“Could be.”

“Let’s move this inside.” Evan’s skin tingled, curiosity energizing his nerves.