Everything She Feared, page 2
Now, her work morning in full swing, when she glimpsed her new shoes, she was glad the stain was gone and for the soothing extra cushioning.
Sara focused on the diner’s many customers, who’d been coming in steadily all morning. The Jet Town was in the city’s Northgate community, not far from the ramps for the I-5, one the state’s busiest highways, and it was a Seattle favorite. The clientele was mostly blue collar, but being close to the freeway, they got commuters, travelers and shift workers, anyone who wanted good food at a good price.
Working at the diner, Sara had met all kinds of people. There were those who scrutinized spotless drinking glasses or polished perfectly clean spoons with napkins, saying: “This place ain’t the cleanest. I don’t know why I eat here.” There were the Goldilocks nitpickers: “Too cold, too hot, take it back.”
There were the jokers, the touchers, the grabbers, the ass-patters, the jerks who’d read her name tag and say things like: “I can think of other ways you can serve me, Sara.”
There were families with out-of-control children, people with birthdays, anniversaries, something to celebrate. There were couples on first dates and couples who were breaking up. There were demanding customers who never tipped and silent non-complainers who left huge tips and nice notes: You’re awesome. There were salt-of-the-earth regulars from the neighborhood, families whose children Sara had watched grow up.
Through it all she’d become something of an expert at dealing with hungry people, keeping her stress in check, learning to prioritize and always going the extra mile.
Now, as she went from booth to booth, topping off coffee and tending to requests, she saw the man alone in the corner at a two-seat table.
Hunched over his plate, he was chewing the last of his lumberjack combo, a big order. His long gray-and-white hair had been wetted, likely in the bathroom, and neatly combed, his effort to look presentable. His denim shirt was faded, dotted with ancient stains. Under it he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt. He had khaki cargo pants and scuffed hiking boots with broken laces he’d knotted together. His gaze went beyond the window to the edge of the parking lot where the sun glinted on a shopping cart overflowing with bags and half-concealed in the shrubs.
Sara watched him look at his check, then reach into his pocket, pull out a couple of coins and set them on the table with one crumpled dollar, the amount far short of what he owed.
Topping up his coffee, she smiled. “Can I get you anything else, Lonnie?”
Toast crumbs and egg bits were trapped in his wild beard. A blend of hand soap, body odor and a trace of alcohol wafted from him.
Lonnie came into the diner a couple times a month. From what she knew, he was in his fifties. Some years ago he’d lost his wife and children, then his job and his house. He didn’t like shelters, so now he slept under an overpass or in parks.
“Anything else you’d like?”
He gave his head a slight shake and she put her hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll catch ya next time, okay?”
A few minutes later she exchanged heartfelt glances with her coworkers, Polly and Beth, after watching him amble across the parking lot to his shopping cart.
Lonnie was a heartbreaker.
As the morning rolled by, Sara considered her own life as a thirty-one-year-old single mom of a nine-year-old daughter: Katie, the center of her universe.
Sara had lost so much over the years—her husband, then her dad. Now her mom was in a seniors’ home, living out her life.
Stop complaining, Sara told herself. Everyone’s hurting. Everyone’s carrying something.
As she worked, she glanced at the gray-and-white flowers blossomed on her inner wrist and lower forearm. This is what I’m carrying. For Sara, the tattoo signified who she was—something she thought about every day.
Nothing can change it.
It had been so many years now and the things she feared hadn’t happened. Let the darkness stay in the past. She was confident they were going to be okay on that front.
But on the financial front, a clock was ticking down on Sara and she had to do something soon.
She’d started working at Jet Town during high school. It’s where she met Nathaniel, the kindest, sweetest, most handsome guy she’d ever known. He had his own motorcycle repair shop in Salem, Oregon, and he had friends in British Columbia. While traveling to see them, he stopped once at the diner. Then he made a point of always stopping, even calling ahead to be sure Sara was working because he wanted to see her. She liked him. After they got married, Sara moved to Salem, where she had Katie. When Nathaniel died suddenly, her world fell apart. Their marriage had been so good because Nathaniel was good. He had such a gentle, solid soul.
After he died, she moved back home and returned to working full-time at Jet Town to make ends meet.
Even Nathaniel never knew the truth about her, and why she’d been reluctant to have children. But he had a good heart, ached to be a dad, and she loved him so much. He gave her hope... And so they had Katie.
But then...why did you have to die on me, Nathaniel?
That was another life, though, and Sara was grateful to work at the diner. It had helped her heal. Now the years had blurred past and Sara was the longest-serving staffer at Jet Town, where she’d seen servers come and go.
“You’re a lifer, kiddo,” Mel Carver, the owner and chief cook, often teased her.
“You’re an institution,” Polly always told her.
“You’ll never leave,” Beth said all the time.
Even Beth and Polly, each going on three years at the diner—way longer than the other servers—were now talking about leaving. Polly was engaged to a pilot and likely moving to Australia. Beth’s sister was part-owner of a new motel near Las Vegas and had offered her a position there.
Sara’s situation wasn’t as rosy. For her, there was more money going out now than coming in, and that scared her, forcing her to take stock of her life. She wanted to act on the encouragement she’d received from two women who were real estate agents. The women were regulars who brought clients to Jet Town to discuss deals. Both had gotten to know Sara and had urged her to get her real estate license.
“You’re good with people,” one of the women had said. “You can earn a very good living. And think about your future. You’ll need a college fund for your daughter, a retirement plan for yourself. We can help you with the license.”
The women offered to guide Sara on the coursework and studying for the exam, and help her get her foot in the door with a good real estate agency. The more Sara thought about it, the more she liked the idea.
During her break in the staff locker room, which was cramped with boxes of supplies, she took out her phone. She scrolled through a site offering information on the steps she needed to take to earn her license, biting her bottom lip with excitement at the prospect of a new life. Just then, her phone vibrated with a text from Connie Atkinson, one of the supervisors with Sunny Days.
It began with There’s been a terrible incident...
When Sara finished reading it, she rushed to Mel in the kitchen.
“I’ve got to leave!” She was already pulling off her apron. “Something’s happened at Katie’s—I gotta go now!”
“Why? What?” Spatula in his hand, he turned. “What? Go where?”
Sara grabbed her bag from the change room and hurried out the door. She ran to her car, fishing her keys from her bag, her heart pounding.
4
Near North Bend, Washington
Deputy Rob Hirano climbed up from the river.
Moving along the trail with other deputies, he reviewed a mental checklist of what he needed to do.
Keep it by the book.
It was far too early to classify this as an accident, suicide or something else. He’d protected the death scene by sealing it at the river and the clifftop, posting deputies and troopers there.
According to Jackson Jones and Adam Patel, no other people had been hurt. To be safe, Hirano had asked the paramedics to look at the two men, then later he’d have them assess Katie Harmon and others in the group as well.
And we may need them when we notify Anna Shaw’s family, because her family will come here. No matter what we say, they will come.
Hirano took a long breath, relieved that they had covered the girl’s body because by the time he’d finished talking with the adult supervisors on scene and reached the Sunny Days group, the first Seattle TV news helicopter passed overhead. Hirano knew press people monitored police radio transmissions and moved fast.
At the day camp, children were sitting on the grass in small circles. Some were crying and hugging each other. Three boys were off to one side, their expressions grim while tossing a football. Others in the group were at the picnic tables, talking on their phones or texting.
The crackling of police radios signaled the arrival of the deputies. Some of the older kids went to them, their faces taut, intent.
“Is Anna dead?” one boy asked.
“Can we go look?” said another. “Can we ride in a helicopter?”
“What’s going on?” one of the girls asked.
Hirano raised his palms.
“I’m Deputy Rob Hirano. What’s happened is serious and we need your help,” he said. “We’ll talk to each of you. Please be patient, this is important. My friends here are going to get started.”
As the deputies began gathering statements, Hirano looked at his notebook, then at the group.
“Is Connie Atkinson here?”
She was nearly out of sight, sitting alone with Katie under a tree. Connie heard him, got up and brushed herself off as she walked to Hirano. He took notes as Connie recounted the morning’s events.
“Anna and Katie were last getting off the bus. They sort of took their time behind us while we walked the trail here.” Connie ignored her vibrating phone. “Then Katie came screaming for help.” Raking her fingers through her hair, Connie nodded toward a canvas bag. “We got tent ropes, ran to help but... Oh, God!” Connie covered her face with her hands, sobbing. “It was too late.” Connie gasped. “Anna had volunteered to help us for the day. Oh, God!”
Out of earshot, Katie watched them from the tree, never taking her eyes from them.
When Hirano finished talking to Connie, he asked for Anna Shaw’s consent form. Her fingers shaking, Connie withdrew a copy from a binder in her backpack.
“I’ll need Katie Harmon’s, too, before I speak to her.”
Connie’s phone vibrated again; this time, she pulled it from her back pocket and looked at it.
“Parents are hearing from kids and have been calling nonstop with questions.” Connie sniffed. “My God, what do I tell them?”
“Tell them there’s been a serious incident, that you don’t have all the information,” Hirano said. “That help is here and you’ll know more later.”
Nodding and reading messages, Connie said: “They want to know if they can drive out here and get their kids?”
“Yes, but they must stay in the parking lot until we’re done,” he said. “We’ll bring the kids out when we’re done talking to everyone.”
Hirano was aware of the challenges, but he knew that under the circumstances, deputies could question the children alone without a parent or lawyer present. He radioed for deputies and troopers to get tape up and post someone at the trailhead.
“Nobody gets in,” Hirano said into his walkie-talkie.
Taking a deep breath, Connie got Katie’s form for him. And while she sent messages, he went over to the tree and sat alone with Katie.
Her tear-filled eyes took a walk all over him in his patrol uniform. In his black shirt and armor vest, with his body camera, holstered gun and other gear, he realized his appearance might be a concern for a nine-year-old girl amid the horror and chaos.
Still, Hirano couldn’t lose sight of the fact he was the first officer to speak to her. This was his one shot at getting her first account. He had to do this right. He checked his body camera to ensure it was recording a video of Katie while he took notes.
“Hi, Katie. I’m Deputy Rob Hirano and I’m here to help, okay?”
She nodded.
“Don’t be put off by all my stuff. I have to wear it for my job.”
She brushed at her tears. Her face, weighted with anguish. Her hair was half out and half in blond braids that touched her shoulders.
“Are you okay to talk to me?”
She shrugged, crying softly.
“I’m going to ask you some things,” Hirano said. “I need you to tell me everything that happened no matter what it was, okay?”
Her blue eyes found his and she asked: “Is Anna dead?”
“She’s hurt, very seriously hurt. We have paramedics with her and we still have things to do. But she’s seriously hurt.”
Her shoulders shook. She clenched her eyes and sobbed.
“I want my mom! I want my mom!” She pressed her fists to her eyes.
“We’re going to get your mom here,” Hirano said. “I know this is hard, but I need you to be strong, okay?”
Hirano glanced at her consent form for the outing.
“I need you to help me. Your full name is Kaitlyn Jean Harmon?”
“I go by Katie.”
“Alright, Katie. And you’re nine years old. When’s your birthday?”
“June twenty-fifth.”
“Your mom is Sara Harmon and you live in Seattle at—” Hirano read her address from the form.
“Yes. Can my mom come and get me, please?”
“We’re going to get her here, or we’ll take you to her. But only after we’re done, and it could take a while, okay?”
She nodded.
“Okay, Katie, I need you to tell me what happened concerning Anna. You can take your time.”
Katie swallowed hard. As she began recounting the events, Hirano studied her. He knew children at her age were generally conscientious and truthful. But it was also the age that some became skillful at lying, depending on the circumstances, the stakes and the repercussions. He watched for signs of deception, listening carefully, asking the occasional question.
When Katie came to the part where Anna was taking a selfie at the cliff’s edge, she gasped, her words breaking in her throat.
“She fell—I couldn’t believe it was real. She screamed and was just gone. I looked down and she was hanging on to a tree, telling me to get help—I was so scared—I ran and ran.”
Katie covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Hirano watched her for a long moment. Her shoulders shook, her head shook. For a brief moment he thought her movements were an overreaction, even exaggerated. It gave rise to his uncertainty as to whether it was due to her shaking, or if she was actually peeking through her fingers, watching him watch her.
He just wasn’t sure.
He waited until she calmed down, until her shaking and tears stopped. Then he asked more questions. When they finished, he asked Connie to resume sitting with Katie while the paramedics assessed her.
Hirano walked off for a moment alone.
While surveying the deputies interviewing the others at the day camp, he called his sergeant.
“What do we have there, Rob?”
“I can’t be certain,” Hirano said. “We need detectives on this.”
“You suspect this isn’t a clear-cut wilderness accident?”
“Just a gut feeling.”
“What’s the ME say?”
“They’re on their way.”
“Alright, Rob. We’ll get a detective team rolling. You hold the fort.”
Ending his call, Hirano looked down at his open notebook and the words he’d circled after his interview with Katie Harmon.
Possibly deceptive responses.
5
Near North Bend, Washington
Detective Kim Pierce didn’t see the forests rolling by her window as Detective Carl Benton guided their unmarked Ford Explorer east from Seattle on I-90.
Driving far above the speed limit, the SUV’s emergency lights wigwagging, Benton threaded around traffic while glancing at Pierce.
She was concentrating on notes she’d received from the first responding deputy, who was still at the scene. She broke things down: deceased, a seventeen-year-old female; indication she’d taken a fatal fall. Only witness: a nine-year-old female.
Pierce went over other notes while continuing with her own.
Less than an hour earlier, she and Benton were at their desks at the King County Sheriff’s Office headquarters at the King County Courthouse in downtown Seattle. Pierce had been completing a supplemental report on an assault when Detective Sergeant Art Acker came to their workspace, undid his collar button and loosened his tie.
“North Precinct just called,” he said. “We got a death in Sparrow Song Park, the private place on the east side of North Bend. Kim, this is yours, you lead. I’ll put you in touch with the deputy there.”
In that moment Pierce caught Benton’s reaction, the rise of his eyebrows nearly imperceptible as Acker said to her: “You go with Benton.” Acker rolled up his sleeves, looked at the desks nearby. “Grotowski and Tilden, I want you to go, too. Take another vehicle, in case you need to separate out there.”
Heading to their car, Pierce had considered Benton’s subtle registering of surprise at Acker putting her in charge of the case. It underscored her feeling that Benton and the others were slow to accept her on the team. She was the only woman in an all-white squad of men, having joined three weeks ago after just making detective.
She was the rookie.
Sure, it always took time to settle in, but Pierce sensed their resistance went deeper, thinking back to an uneasy moment.
It happened about three days after she’d joined. She’d stepped away from her desk to get a coffee. When she returned, Grotowski and Tilden were talking with Benton at his desk. Benton, the case-hardened veteran, the team’s senior member, was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, holding court. Approaching them, Pierce heard a fragment of Benton’s side of the conversation, picking up on two words, her heritage, before their murmuring died away. Seeing her, Tilden shifted the subject to the Seahawks.
