The Babysitter

case, she now shared split custody with Deon, but had her own residence. Dug Douglas, his wife, Teri, and their son, Greer, lived at the new Staffordshire Estates, on the westside of the city. Greer had already had a couple of minor brushes with the law running with Troy Stillwell, but Dug, with the money from his insurance business, had hired some of the best, and therefore expensive, lawyers, and Greer had so far gotten off with mere slaps on the wrist. Dug frequented a number of the town’s best restaurants, but still low-browed it at the Waystation. Cooper had run into him warming a stool at the bar there more than once. Though he and Dug had run with the same crowd in high school, they’d never been bosom buddies in any sense of the word. With Cooper now a lawman, Dug gave him an especially wide berth. He still hung with Race Stillwell, but it seemed to Cooper that Race had gotten over having Dug as his acolyte. Their friendship, like all of the guys from their high school group, had turned fairly tepid.

Cooper started with the archives on the babysitter killing in Vancouver. He had a number of files on his computer that he’d downloaded over the years, and he referred to them now after he found nothing online that wasn’t years old. As of five years earlier, the family was still looking for closure for their daughter, Tyra’s, death. They were infuriated that the Vancouver police hadn’t done “enough,” though Cooper felt, from what he read, that the local police had worked hard with what they’d been given from the crime scene. He inserted everything he deemed pertinent to the girl’s death into his own cell phone notes.

The death of the Gresham girl from the balcony had been settled once the boyfriend had come forward and confessed that the girl had helped him onto the roof and must’ve fallen to her death. There was nothing suspicious about her death after he filled in the blanks, but still Cooper plugged all the information he had on the families into his cell phone as well.

And then there was Emma. There’d been a lot of play about the Ryerson home invasion in the beginning as another by the “Babysitter Stalker.” Jamie’s mother, Irene, had spoken to the police, the media, anyone who would listen. She’d been angry in her grief, and had intimated that she would find whoever was to blame and take care of things herself if the authorities couldn’t. Partly on her adamancy, the police detective on the case at the time, Mike Corliss, had doubled and redoubled his efforts. Cooper and his friends were dragged in time and time again. Initially scared, they’d gushed out the truth about scaring Emma, but about the third time they were deposed, some of them grew sulky and silent. Cooper was one who became more vocal. Like Emma’s mother, he demanded more than was being done. His Uncle Rodney, who was with the Portland PD, told Cooper to take it easy, explaining that sometimes when an investigation didn’t seem to be moving forward, it actually was. Cooper had subsequently learned through his uncle that the police were looking into the Ryersons themselves, but in the end there had been “no there there.”

Now, Cooper picked up his beer, which had gone flat. It was Sunday evening and he’d been alone all weekend, tinkering around the house, doing a whole lot of nothing, mostly. Laura had been silent after the fiasco at the high school. He’d left a message on Marissa’s phone about wanting to talk to her more about the mixer, and she’d texted back, ignoring his ask and then saying she was over at the Whelan house and could he pick her up afterward? He’d texted back: Sure. Just let me know when. But then, apparently, Marissa had relayed that information to her mother, because Laura had sent him a terse: I’ll pick Marissa up.

So, okay, he was free again.

His mind moved to Jamie. He was attracted to her in a way he hadn’t felt in years, yet it made his heart ache a little to see her, too, because of the terrible tragedy that had happened to Emma.

He looked out the kitchen window, which faced west. The sun was beginning to set. He watched it for a few minutes, then walked back to his desk, then back toward the kitchen. Feeling like a caged lion, he decided to break free. To that end, he headed out to his SUV and a trip to the Waystation. Dive it may be, but it was still the most comfortable bar in town.

Chapter Eleven

“Is that it?” Debra Whelan asked, hugging her sweater close to her body as she leaned in to Jamie’s father. The two of them were standing at the back of the house, watching as Emma spread the ashes over the last of the Mr. Lincoln roses and some orange and yellow dahlias.

Donald Whelan’s face was set in a kind of earnest stoniness. It was as if he felt if he displayed any emotion at all, it would somehow show weakness, or maybe allegiance to Irene in a way Debra wouldn’t maybe like.

Emma now clutched the urn close to her breast. She’d drifted the ashes over the remains of the vegetable garden, which was looking kind of ragged, a few zucchini and pumpkins and some leftover cucumbers, since Mom’s death.

Jamie, too, could feel the cold as the temperature dipped, almost as soon as they all stepped outside. From a watery sun to a coolish evening, the six of them had trooped into the backyard after mowing through the appetizers and suffering through stilted conversation. Jamie had steeled herself to utter a few words. She’d thought hard and long about what she wanted to say, but Emma had put her finger to her lips when she started to speak, and so Jamie had waited.

After a moment, Emma intoned gravely, “Mom knew.”

They’d