Her hair had been professionally styled, pulled back and tied with white lace. She didn’t care if it accentuated her crow’s-feet. She wasn’t twenty-three anymore, and she wasn’t trying to be either. She was happy with her age, and for the first time in a long time, she was happy with her life.
“You ready to do this?” Kins said. He’d worn his blue pin-striped suit that he normally reserved for trial appearances.
“Ready to do this?” she said. “We’re not running out of the tunnel for a game.”
He laughed.
They stood at the end of a white runner leading to a white awning just beneath the Alki Point Lighthouse. Her castle. Beneath that white awning waited a justice of the peace and, next to him, Dan, as much a prince as any man she’d ever met. At his side sat Rex and Sherlock, wearing white bow ties, her two knights—not always chivalrous, but always there. Forty guests had risen from their white lawn chairs and turned to face her and Kins. The invitation had said to dress casually, in anticipation of warm weather, but Del and Faz, creatures of habit, wore suits and ties anyway.
In addition to her family, Tracy had thought of Andrea Strickland that morning. She wondered where the young woman had gone, and how she was doing. She wondered if she’d had her baby yet, and if so, whether it was a boy or a girl. She wondered if Andrea saw that child as a new beginning, a new life. A chance to start over.
The media frenzy had been intense in the days after the standoff at the cabin, rife with speculation, innuendo, and rumors. When the pack of reporters finally determined the location of Andrea Strickland’s hideaway in the mountains, they descended upon Seven Pines, but found the tiny cabin just across the wooden bridge deserted, though filled with hundreds and hundreds of books. One of the reporters filed a story noting that a book rested on the coffee table, fanned open, as if the person who’d set it down intended to someday return and continue reading. The book was The Diary of Anne Frank.
“The reader,” the reporter wrote, “left the book open to a page with a single sentence underlined.”
In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.
Tracy wondered if Andrea Strickland had meant it as a message to her.
She looked at Kins and smiled. “I’m ready.”
Kins cued the violinist and cellist. A moment later, the man and woman began to play. Tracy walked forward, her arm wrapped through Kins’s, holding a bouquet of roses.
“You look beautiful,” Kins said.
Tracy smiled. “I feel beautiful,” she said.
Today would be one of the good days, one of the days to remember and, she hoped, her own new start to a new life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So, one of the hot topics at writers’ conferences is often whether you outline your novel or whether you’re a “pantser.” I’d never heard the latter term, short for “seat of the pants.” I’m not really an outliner or a “pantser,” though I’m definitely more of an organic writer. I take an idea, play with it, and explore where it goes. Sometimes the book unfolds for me, as was the case with Her Final Breath and In the Clearing. In a weird way, the chapters almost write themselves. I just try to keep up. It’s not that simple, but I think you get my point.
Other times, however, it’s a struggle, as was the case with My Sister’s Grave, and with this novel. Usually, I get myself in trouble because I think I have a set idea—in this case, a book that takes place on Mount Rainier. I’d traveled to Rainier with my family and thought it would be a cool place to set a story. Problem was, each time I spoke with an expert in this area, they would ask, “Why does your homicide detective go up the mountain?” I never did have a good answer for that. I suppose there could be a reason, but after several months of interviews and thinking, without success, I decided instead to take a different path. That’s not to diminish their help or expertise. Indeed, they each helped me to map out a course on the mountain and explain how someone could climb it and disappear. They also pointed out that what so many people take for granted—getting to the summit—is anything but a given, and at times can turn deadly.