“The beginning of what?”
“A corporation,” he said. “We can use the money from the dispensary to invest in other start-ups and businesses. I spoke to the bank and between our two salaries we should have no problem qualifying for a loan—”
“When did you speak to the bank?”
He waved off my question. “See, look. We have excellent credit scores.”
“We don’t have any collateral.”
“I told them I was going to be made a partner and my salary was going to increase.”
“But you’re not going to be working there.”
“They don’t know that, and I can stay until we get the loan.”
“But that’s . . .”
“It isn’t a lie,” he emphasized. “I was going to be made a partner. I’m just choosing not to accept it.”
“They told you that you made partner?”
“No, but that’s just a formality.”
“I don’t think we can list your salary if you won’t have one.”
“It’s just to get the loan.” He grabbed my hands as if he wanted to take me out on the dance floor and twirl me. “Come on. Start being more optimistic and not so doom and gloom. This should be an exciting time in our lives. What better time to go for something like this than now, before we have kids?”
We’d never discussed kids. I pulled back my hands and looked more closely at Graham’s numbers. He hovered over me as I did, occasionally pointing and explaining the numbers to me. What I’d initially thought to be a detailed statement seemed to be a lot more speculative upon closer inspection.
“Do you think maybe you’ve underestimated the start-up costs? I’ve read with start-up businesses you should assume that you won’t make a profit for at least the first six months, sometimes as long as eighteen months. And you don’t have any salaries here for either of us. How will we pay our bills?”
Graham groaned, stepped in front of me, gathered his materials, and closed the file. “Excuse me for trying to do something to improve our situation. In case you’re forgetting, I’m the one who went to college, and I’m the one with the advanced degree, and I’m the one who’s been working the past three years in corporate law.” He shook his head and turned his back to me. “You know what, forget it. Just forget I ever mentioned it.”
He tossed his file on the coffee table, walked back to the front door, and grabbed his car keys off the counter.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Out,” he said.
The door slammed shut. Minutes later, the Porsche roared as it exited the underground garage and accelerated down the street. I looked out the window at the glow of the streetlamp and the tops of the trees planted in the sidewalk. The moon had settled over the bridge, light reflecting off the river. After a moment, I reconsidered the file on the table, opened it, and studied the numbers again.
CHAPTER 7
Having lived her entire life in the Pacific Northwest, Tracy was familiar with both the statistical facts and the mystique of Mount Rainier. At more than 14,000 feet, Rainier wasn’t just a mountain, it was a volcano of head-swiveling immensity that dominated the region. Visible for hundreds of miles in every direction, it was so immense and tall it created its own weather patterns. Even when the mountain could not be seen, when the Pacific Northwest gray hung like a thick curtain over the region, you could sense the mountain’s presence. Seattleites said things like, “The mountain is out,” as if Rainier were a living, breathing thing.
As beautiful as Rainier was, its allure could frequently be deadly. Thousands attempted to reach its summit each year, though more than half failed. Some died. Of those who had perished, some had never been found, their bodies buried under avalanches of ice, snow, and rock, or frozen at the bottom of hundred-foot-deep crevasses.
For someone looking to fake her own death, Mount Rainier was the perfect killer.
Just short of an hour and a half after leaving Seattle, Kins drove beneath the peaked pediment designating the northeast entrance to Mount Rainier National Park. He followed the road to an American flag hanging from a pole outside a log cabin no bigger than a schoolhouse set amid tall pines.
When Tracy stepped from the car and stretched the tightness from her body, she smelled the familiar scent of wintergreen, which made her fondly recall growing up in the North Cascades, but also the odor of ash and soot. A rust-colored haze from fires raging unabated in eastern Washington choked the air.
She and Kins entered the White River Ranger Station. A ranger greeted them in khaki shorts, a matching short-sleeved shirt, and boots. “You must be the two detectives from Seattle.” He extended a hand. “I’m Glenn Hicks. We’ve had our share of weirdness, but this takes the cake.”