“We’ve been searching for you, Rowan, and I’m so glad Colin found you,” he said kindly. “Your parents are waiting for you a few miles from here.”
Rowan moved her hands and squinted at the stranger through the leaves. He knelt in the dirt while he scratched Colin’s ear. Both the dog and the man grinned at her, and she noticed the dog wore an official-looking red harness with words on it.
“And Malcolm? Is he there too?” she asked. “He said he’d come back for me.”
The man’s smile faltered. “We’re still looking for him. We found you, so we’ll find him too.” He held out a gloved hand.
Rowan shook her head. “I can’t move. It hurts too bad.”
“What hurts?”
“My leg.”
The man inched closer and pushed a few branches out of the way to see her leg. He caught his breath and then pressed his lips together as he studied it. Rowan kept her gaze on the man, refusing to peek. She knew her leg was hideous. Below her knee the skin had a huge, weird lump. The tissue was black and blue and an ugly yellow brown. It’d been turning different colors for days. Malcolm had said it was broken.
“I’m going to lift you as carefully as I can,” the man said. “Wrap your arms around my neck, and we’ll get you to a doctor.”
Rowan nodded, steeling herself for the pain. Malcolm had said almost the exact same words.
He came close and gently scooped her up. She yelped as pain shot through her, making stars flash in her eyes. Rowan wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard. He stood and held perfectly still until she caught her breath. “Ready?”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her cheeks wet with tears.
“Let’s go see your parents.” He turned smoothly and set off through the brush, Colin darting before him.
Rowan looked over his shoulder and watched her hiding spot vanish, blending into the greens and browns of the woods.
Malcolm was never found.
2
Present day
Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton stepped into the small home in Bend, Oregon, and smelled death. Outside the house he’d passed four patrol units, ducked under crime scene tape, signed the log, and then slipped blue protective booties onto his feet before entering the murder scene. The distinctive scent made him pause, swallow hard, and tuck away his emotions so he could focus on his job.
An hour ago a neighbor had walked into twenty-four-year-old Summer Jensen’s home and found the young mother brutally beaten and dead on her kitchen floor.
Why are they always in the kitchen?
“First officer on scene had just cleared the home when the husband pulled up and parked in the driveway,” said the sergeant as he escorted Evan inside.
Evan had seen the husband sitting on the back seat of a patrol vehicle, the door open, his feet on the concrete and his head in his hands. Despair surrounded him. An officer stood close, one hand on the man’s shoulder as he comforted him in low tones. Evan hadn’t talked to the husband; he wanted to see the victim and scene.
First suspect to eliminate is always the spouse.
“Husband seemed genuinely freaked out,” the sergeant continued. “Took two officers to contain him. And once he realized his son was missing, he went ballistic.”
Evan would have done the same. “The boy is five, right?”
“Yeah. We’ve got a neighborhood door-to-door search going on, checking for the boy and asking who has camera views of the street.”
“K9s?”
“Our officer and his K9 are on their way, but he suggested we contact the local canine search and rescue to check the area for the boy. They train specifically for this sort of thing. Someone was available to come immediately.”
“They’re excellent at what they do,” Evan agreed. “We can’t have too many hands on deck with a kid missing. FBI been notified?”
“Yes. They’re sending an agent.”
“Good. What’s the boy’s name?”
“Wyatt.”
In the kitchen Evan found medical examiner Natasha Lockhart standing next to the body, writing on a clipboard. He studied the victim’s battered face and fought back a surge of emotion. The victim looked younger than he’d expected. Too young to have her life brutally taken away. A pair of medical gloves lay on the victim’s torso, and a forensic tech slowly paced around the kitchen, taking photographs. Natasha looked up from her clipboard. “Good morning, Detective.”
“What can you tell me, Natasha?” he asked. The gloves on the body indicated she’d finished her preliminary examination.