HAYLEY AND TAYLOR FOUND THEIR FATHER in his tiny office, which was decorated with paperback book covers that were so hideous they really couldn’t pass for art, even though they were professionally matted and framed. Kevin Ryan was bent over his computer. Approaching middle age, Kevin was holding his own in the looks and cool department—at least on the dad scale, which every teenager knew was not so demanding. His hair was no longer styled in a foppish ’90s haircut, but was cut short. He no longer sported the porn-star mustache that he’d worn throughout most of the girls’ younger years. His gray eyes looked up from the computer screen, and he grinned at his daughters.

Kevin always welcomed an intrusion.

“You talk to the police today?” Taylor asked.

He took his hands from the keyboard and swiveled around in his black leather office chair. “I talk to the police almost every day. It’s kind of my job.” He grinned.

Taylor pulled up a chair and scooted it closer to her father’s desk. Hayley took a space next to Hedda, who was laying on her back, deadopossum style, in the small window seat.

“We know, Dad,” Hayley said. “Did you find out anything about Katelyn?”

Kevin didn’t answer right away. He clicked the SAVE icon on the screen and took off his glasses, which he said he needed only for “computing” but the girls knew otherwise. Next to him was a faxed copy of a Kitsap sheriff detective’s report.

Katelyn’s name and the date—twelve days after her death—were smudged across the top.

“Look,” he said, “I want you to understand that what I’m about to tell you isn’t the kind of information anyone really needs to know. But I’ve trusted you with important stuff before, haven’t I?”

Their father could have been referring to a number of things right then, but more than likely it was the story of Donita Montero, a woman who’d abused her children before murdering one in a coin-operated washing machine in Duluth, Minnesota. His book Clean Getaway did not disclose the sexual abuse of the surviving daughter. While another author might have included it for shock value, Kevin Ryan took the higher ground and didn’t even tell his editor about it. To confide in an editor was, without a doubt, like opening the door a crack.

A crack was all it took to ruin someone’s life.

“Dad,” Taylor said, “we were friends with Katie. We want to know what happened to her. What really happened?”

Kevin weighed her request carefully. “They thought it was an accident at first, but it is possible—maybe even likely—that she killed herself.”

“Killed herself?” Taylor shook her head. “Doesn’t add up, Dad. She wouldn’t have done that.”

“She got some bad news the night she died,” he said.

“What bad news?” Hayley asked from the window seat.

“Her grandmother had promised to fund her college expenses but told her that night that the money was gone.”

Hayley got up, and Hedda, astonishingly spry for seventeen, jumped to the floor. “I doubt she would have killed herself over that. College is years away. Anything could happen between now and then. She could get a scholarship or win the Lotto. She could even get a student loan.”

Kevin nodded in agreement. Hayley was right. “That’s what Chief Garnett told me. Nothing further is going to be done with the case. They’re closing it as an accident, a freak one at that. Better than having Sandra and Harper live out the rest of their lives thinking that they could have done something to save their daughter.”

There was no arguing that one. Instead, the twins took in each word with the respect and solemnity that they knew their dad, a kind of purveyor in tragedy, would expect of them. There could be little doubt that Chief Garnett and their father believed that digging around Katelyn’s tragedy would only yield hurtful results.

It wasn’t the twins’ fault that they were driven to do so.

Others could never see what they saw or felt.

Others simply didn’t get the messages that they did. In a very real way, others were actually kind of lucky.

OUTSIDE, BARELY OUT OF THE CUTTING CHILL of the weather, Moira Windsor stood under the green water towers at the entrance of the main business district of historic Port Gamble. She’d taken up smoking to be more reporter-like, and she was actually enjoying the buzz of the nicotine. It calmed her. It soothed her at a time when she really needed it. She’d accosted Sandra Berkley earlier in the day as she left the Timberline restaurant. Sandra barely said a word to Moira, but what she said left no doubt about her feelings about an interview.

“You bloodsucking bitch, leave my baby alone!”

“That was harsh! I’m sorry about your daughter, but I’m on a deadline!”

Sandra could have killed the reporter right then, but she didn’t.

There’d been enough death in Port Gamble.

For a second, Moira felt a little embarrassed, but on further reflection she dismissed it when she realized that no one else had seen the encounter.

She’d left more messages for the Ryans, but there were no return calls.

What do I have to do to get somebody’s attention? she asked herself as she snuffed out her cigarette, ignoring the sign to dispose of trash in the proper receptacles.

The more people pushed her away, the harder she’d push back.

She heard a dog yelp somewhere in the distance, and she smiled.

chapter 20

UNLIKE ESKIMOS WHO PURPORTEDLY HAVE an unbelievable number of words to describe snow, teenagers in Port Gamble have only four to describe rain: almost all the time.

Those who don’t live there could never comprehend the incessant downpours that come in fits and starts all year long. Spring. Winter. Whatever. Rain falls like a curtain over the town. On those rainy days, anyone looking from the General Store to Buena Vista Cemetery could see nothing but a white wall before them. Not even a tree is visible. And forget the scenic view. During the heaviest downpours, the bay and the canal blend into one large, seamless cloud. Oddly, only the most overt nerd townie or tourists carry umbrellas. No one loves the rain in Port Gamble, but residents live there in spite of it. They refuse to let it stop them from doing what they need to do.

There were never any rain delays for school sports events. Never did a June bride plan a wedding on the bluff overlooking the sound without the benefit of tents. No camping trips to the Olympic Mountains were canceled over inclement weather. No picnics were moved inside.

As Kevin Ryan told his girls over and over, “You’re not the Wicked Witch of the West. You won’t melt if you get wet. Trust me.”

It was raining, of course, when Taylor and Hayley stood out in front of their house waiting for the school bus. In a few months they’d be sixteen, and if there was any justice in the world, their father would help them buy a car.

Girls like Starla Larsen with older boyfriends managed to halt the cycle of abuse that was the bus ride to Kingston High School. The driver, Ms. Hatcher, liked to keep perfect order on “her” bus. She didn’t want to be made the constant hugger—and especially not the kid with Asperger’s. She made him sit behind her on the window seat in her blind spot so she never had to engage with him or the boy from house number 27, who wore a raccoon tail on a back beltloop as a fashion statement.

Other kids sat in the usual order. In the front were the geeks, the crybabies, and the kids who just wanted to get off the bus as soon as the doors swung open. The couples and the druggies sat in the back. The middle section held everyone else.

Beth Lee was seated in the middle—one of the few kids to actually migrate toward the center of the bus since leaving elementary school. Beth had so many incarnations that she easily could have found a spot anywhere. Hayley and Taylor scooted into the seats next to Beth.