“Why the picture of Doe?” he asked quietly.
She understood his question. Of all the pieces they had of whatever was going on, the photo of his drowned sister was the one that jarred most, that didn’t seem to fit. “There has to be a reason. It’s not necessarily a logical reason.”
“To us.”
She nodded. “Exactly. This caller isn’t trying to help us find Chris’s killer.”
“No, he’s not. But we have to be sure, Abigail.”
“I’m sure. This creep is Chris’s killer.”
Saying the words felt unreal to her. She tried to stand back from them emotionally and pretend she was a homicide detective working a case, not the victim’s widow, not a woman who’d lived with questions and doubts about how her husband had died for seven long years. But how could she pretend she wasn’t involved? With the strange voice fresh in her mind, with the photos, the cut on her leg, the memories of last night, objectivity was elusive.
“Your caller knows something about Doe’s death,” Owen said, staring down at a deep tide pool among the rocks. “He’s talked a lot about secrets. Maybe he knows a secret about her.”
“It’s possible. It’s also possible the picture of your sister could be a red herring designed to throw us off track, or just to upset you.”
A muscle worked in his already tight jaw. He seemed to force himself to drink some of his coffee. “I want this bastard.”
“I know. So do I.” Abigail’s voice sounded calmer than she felt. “This caller is daring and manipulative—maybe desperate, maybe at wit’s end. But it’s someone with a plan, even if it’s not a good plan. And if it is Chris’s killer, then it’s also someone who’s managed to go undetected for seven years, at least.”
“Yes. At least.”
She took a breath. “If you’re thinking your sister was pushed—”
“I saw her go over the cliffs. She wasn’t pushed. She was upset—more upset than her fight with Grace would account for.” Owen looked up, squinting at a trio of seagulls flying out across the water from her house. “What if someone was in the woods that day? What if I didn’t make that up?”
“Who?”
He watched the seagulls land on a finger of rocks that jutted out into the water. “It couldn’t have been Will Browning or Chris—or Mattie. They were on the boat together.”
“You’re sure Mattie was on the boat?” Abigail asked.
“I was eleven. I’m not sure of anything.”
Sean Alden’s age. She remembered his wide eyes yesterday, his fear, his desire to make sense of a situation he couldn’t understand. If she’d said there was a ghost in his father’s garage, he would have believed her.
She asked Owen, “Did someone tell you there was no one in the woods?”
“Everyone.”
“Specifically, who?”
Owen didn’t answer. He sipped his coffee and watched the seagulls. It was a bright, clear day, already warm. Finally, he said, “The Coopers. My parents. Polly. They were all there.”
“But who told you no one was in the woods?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did anyone take a look around?”
He shook his head. “There was no time. We had to get to Doe.”
Abigail didn’t even want to imagine that scene, the terror and grief and shock as they’d stood out on the stunning granite cliffs and realized fourteen-year-old Dorothy Garrison was in the water.
“Understandable,” she said. “Do you remember in what order people arrived?”
“My grandmother was the last to arrive. I remember that. The rest—” He shook his head, his emotions well in check. “I don’t know.”
“If you remember Polly was the last to get there, you might be able to remember who was first.” Abigail took another swallow of coffee, the rock suddenly feeling very hard and rough under her feet. “I don’t know that it’ll make a difference. After everyone arrived on the cliffs, what happened? Had your sister’s body been removed—or did they see her—”
“They watched Chris’s grandfather pull her out of the water into his boat.”
“Then what?” Abigail asked, pressing him, resisting the tug of her own emotions.
“We drove out to the harbor.”
“How? Who were you with? Where were the cars?”
“The cars were up at Ellis’s house. Jason Cooper and my father went to get them. The rest of us walked out to the road and met them there. I’m not sure I’d remember, but I saw an owl in a fir tree—it didn’t fly away. It perched on its branch and stared at me. My sister was into birds. I thought somehow…” He shrugged, tossing the last of his coffee out into the encroaching tide. “I thought the owl was trying to reassure me that whatever had happened, wherever she was, my sister was okay.”
Abigail touched his arm. “I don’t know who put that picture on your doorstep or why, but it was an awful thing to do.”
Owen turned to her. “If it helps find this killer, then it’s worth it.” He glanced out at the sparkling water. “I don’t need a picture to make me remember that day.”