The First Death (Columbia River, #4)
Kendra Elliot
1
Twenty-five years ago
Don’t say a word.
Be quiet.
Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.
Five-year-old Rowan held her breath and tightened herself into the smallest ball possible, her head hidden in her arms. Her leg hurt so bad. But that was normal now. It had hurt for days. She’d cried nonstop as it bounced and jerked while she rode on Malcolm’s back.
Malcolm will be here soon.
She simply had to wait. Her brother would never leave her for long.
I’m so cold.
She shuddered and pressed closer to the trunk of the big bush. Malcolm had chosen the hiding place because of its low branches and big leaves. Dirt tickled her nose. Its scent of dampness and decay.
He was looking for them. She had heard his faint shouts as he called her name and Malcolm’s.
Be quiet.
Malcolm had stashed her under the bush when he couldn’t carry her anymore. He’d tried to keep going, but he was only seven, and he wasn’t that strong. Now she wanted to sleep. Sleep and sleep. Her eyelids wouldn’t stay open, and her limbs were deadweight, but her brain kept listening, waiting to hear Malcolm return and fearful that his calls would get closer.
She pushed up the sleeve of Malcolm’s sweatshirt and scratched her arm, feeling the scab release and then wedge under her fingernail.
So itchy.
Bugbites. Dozens of them. Up and down her arms and legs. Many she’d scratched until they bled. The constant itch and sting made her cry. Something in the locked shed had thought she was delicious. Malcolm had a few bites but nothing like the number of hers. The only good thing about the itch was that it temporarily made her forget the pain in her leg.
Until she moved it. And then hot fire shot up her nerves into her brain.
She wiped her cheek with a filthy hand. Being dirty no longer bothered her. Her empty stomach bothered her. The cold and bugbites bothered her. Being alone and hearing shouts in the distance bothered her.
What if he finds Malcolm?
He wouldn’t. Malcolm was smart and sneaky. He would get help and be back soon.
Rowan didn’t know how many days had gone by since they’d escaped. She thought they had been in the woods for two nights, but her memory was fuzzy. It’d been dark when they left, and they’d stopped several times, when she’d dozed off. She was so very thirsty. And cold. And tired.
So tired.
She jerked awake. The shadows had changed, the green of the leaves was brighter, and she had a sense that she’d slept through a large part of the day. A few yards away, rustling and panting noises sounded, and she knew that was what had disturbed her sleep.
Malcolm?
He didn’t breathe like that.
It must be him.
She scrunched herself small again, listening hard for a voice, grinding her teeth to keep from crying at the fresh pain in her leg. The rustling grew louder, and branches crackled as they were pushed aside. Rowan covered her ears and squeezed her lids tight.
He can’t see me. He can’t see me.
Something stopped and then pushed through the leaves of her bush. She heard a snort, and then breath huffed against her cheek.
A bear? A wolf?
Her eyes flew open, terror freezing her in place.
A dog.
The big yellow dog abruptly sat down outside her bush. He sniffed and whooshed air at her again. Then he smiled at her, teeth showing as his tail whipped back and forth in the dirt.
He’s happy.
Rowan blinked several times. “Hi,” she whispered. His tail beat faster and his smile widened.
Dogs don’t smile.
But it was the only way to describe his expression. His dark doggy eyes held her gaze, and Rowan’s own smile made her cheeks hurt. They were stiff and cold. They felt as if she hadn’t smiled in weeks.
She hadn’t.
“Good dog,” she said quietly, suddenly desperate to keep him close. If he ran away, she’d be alone, and it felt as if she’d been abandoned for days. She sat up and stretched a hand out of her hiding spot toward the dog, her frozen muscles jerking with the movement.
Someone pushed through nearby bushes, and Rowan yanked her hand back under her bush, glimpsing a tall man in a dark cap.
He saw me.
Tears streamed. She’d been caught. He’d take her back to that horrible place.
“Great job, Colin!” he said. “Who’s the best dog?” The branches parted.
Rowan pressed her palms into her eyes and curled into the smallest ball possible.
“Rowan? Don’t be scared.”
It’s not him. That’s not his voice.
“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.”