She’d been ten when Jerry Chiavo was arrested. Her parents had tried to keep the news from her, worried it would stir up bad memories, but classmates found out and told her. Rowan confronted her parents after verifying the story of his arrest in the local newspaper, worried she’d have to testify in a trial. She couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to recount those days in the shed. The games. The cruelty. The pain. Her last days with Malcolm.
Her parents explained that Jerry Chiavo would be tried for Carissa’s murder, but they were hesitant to have him tried for kidnapping—they didn’t want to put Rowan through a trial. Detectives were working to discover what Jerry knew about Malcolm’s disappearance. They hoped he’d share information if they agreed not to prosecute him for the kidnapping.
It was a gamble. Jerry Chiavo could possibly be acquitted of Carissa’s murder and then never be prosecuted for what he’d done to Malcolm and Rowan.
But then he’d been connected to the murders of two other young women that had happened around the same time as Carissa’s, and the odds he would go to prison increased. Rowan’s parents agreed to accept whatever sentence he received for the murders of the three young women, desperate to keep Rowan away from a trial.
Three life sentences had been the result. Along with Jerry admitting to the kidnapping of Rowan and Malcolm and the accidental death of her brother.
Accidental, my ass.
All through her teens she had refused to think about the man who had mentally tortured the two of them and broken her leg. She’d erected a wall in her brain and hidden him behind it. Later several therapists had helped her deal with the guilt and the memories, and then, in her twenties, she’d grown curious and read everything she could find about the man.
In one way, the information was healing. But it fueled her obsession to find where he’d buried her brother.
The trial had been heavily covered in the media. The murders of three young women had created a sensationalized story of which the public couldn’t get enough. She and Malcolm were often mentioned, but most reporters had tried to honor her family’s wishes that the children’s privacy be respected.
Jerry Chiavo had been fifty-five when he was arrested. He’d been married for thirty-five years but never had children. He’d been a deacon in his church, and he and his wife had fostered dozens of children. No one had a bad word to say about the man. His foster kids had adored him, and his church considered him a pillar of the congregation.
But clearly he had another side.
Rowan had pored over the photos of him and his wife, Suzanne. They looked so normal. Slightly overweight, perfect smiles. They were a solid middle-class couple with lots of friends. They lived on a few acres just outside Eagle’s Nest, a tiny town a half hour from Bend.
When the property had been searched, investigators found jewelry from all three young women in Jerry’s vehicle, tucked away in a tiny box in his glove compartment. Neighbors came forward, claiming Jerry had been framed.
Jerry had pleaded not guilty to the murders of the young women. He refused to talk to the investigators about the women, but admitted that Malcolm had died in exchange for not being prosecuted for the kidnappings or Malcolm’s death.
It didn’t make sense to Rowan, but she’d come to the conclusion that Jerry must have thought he’d be found not guilty of the women’s deaths and still be protected from being tried for what he’d done to her and Malcolm.
As she studied the reports of the trial, Rowan saw that Jerry Chiavo believed he could talk his way out of a guilty verdict. He was overly cocky and confident that everyone would take his word as fact.
He was delusional. There was plenty of evidence that tied him to the young women.
One of the investigators had become close with her family. For years Detective Sam Durette had kept her family updated on the cases. Rowan had been immediately drawn to him as a child. He gave her a sense of security and talked gently with her while listening to her stories of what had happened in the woods. Between Detective Durette and Ken with his search dog, Rowan felt safe. She might have never mentally healed as well if those men hadn’t stayed in her life.
Detective Durette had retired about ten years ago. He now lived on a big ranch outside Bend and often had Rowan over for dinner with him and his wife. He’d worked tirelessly to solve her case. The arrest of Jerry Chiavo wasn’t the end of his work, and he’d continued to search for her brother too. He’d accompanied her for a few years in the woods until his hip couldn’t handle the trek. But she would call him after every search, and even though she never had any results to share, the detective was encouraging. The call was another part of her routine for the day.
The forest opened up, and Rowan smelled the fresh, damp odor of the small river. It fed into the Deschutes River, which wound its way to the Columbia River and then to the Pacific Ocean. Rowan carefully crossed the big, slick rocks to the river, fascinated that the water passing by could eventually travel hundreds of miles to the ocean. She picked a large rock and sat, watching Thor, who took a tentative lap of the water and snorted at a spider-looking bug skimming along the surface.
The sun was mostly blocked by the tall firs, but here and there its light sparkled on the water. Rowan pulled a protein bar and some dog treats from her day pack, amused that Thor had returned to her side the moment she touched the pack’s zipper. “Good boy,” she said, offering him the treats one at a time. “Another birthday under our belts,” she continued. “We just have to get through the party at Mom’s tonight.” Thor swallowed the last treat and his ears twitched, his eyes begging.
treats treats treats
“That’s all.”
The dog huffed and set his chin on her thigh.
She stroked his head, enjoying the companionship of her dog and the quiet of the woods. After a few long moments, Thor returned to his exploration of the stream. When he’d gone quite far upriver, Rowan stood up from her perch, stretched, and made her way upstream, following the black shadow and his wet paws.
He’s scented something.
Thor barely glanced back at her and continued to steadily make his way along the riverbank.
Please don’t be a bear.
She swung the day pack off her shoulders and took out her bear spray. She never entered the woods without the pack. A small medical kit, her GPS, protein bars, dog treats, water, and a Leatherman tool were also in it. The bare necessities for her short hike.
Ahead Thor sat down and looked back, waiting for her to catch up. A large rock wobbled under Rowan’s foot, and she caught her balance with her weaker leg but nearly tumbled into the water.
“Shit.”
Her leg had been badly broken while she was kidnapped. Four surgeries later, it was pretty good, but never quite right. No matter how much she worked it, the leg didn’t have the full strength for certain movements.
Like catching her balance when her good leg was compromised.
It’d taken Rowan years to accept her subtle limp. She could mask it if she concentrated, but ten years ago had given up hiding it. There was no point. This was how she was. She’d learned to give no fucks about what other people thought.
If the worst thing in her life was that she limped a bit, she was grateful.
When people asked, she simply smiled and said, “A bad break when I was a kid.” And changed the subject. The surgical scars weren’t attractive, but she’d accepted those too.
They were who she was. A road map of her life.
Rowan pushed forward, choosing more cautiously where she placed her feet.
She froze as a sound reached her over the noise of the river.
Oh no.
It was Thor’s discovery chatter. He’d found something.
She shaded her eyes and squinted. One of the sun’s rays highlighted bare flesh on the river’s rocky bank. The body didn’t move.
“Thor! Come here.”
Her dog swiveled his ears, confused that he was being told to leave his discovery. Thor paused for a second but then obediently trotted back to Rowan, meeting her halfway. “Who’s the best boy?” She scratched his ears, her gaze locked on the body partially in the water.
It was a woman. And she’d been dead for some time.
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