PROLOGUE
"We need to get this cargo offloaded before the storm hits." Shivering in his parka, as he hurried back to the train, Ron Briggs glanced at the sky. It didn't look threatening. Threatening had come and gone an hour ago. Now, it looked menacing. Low clouds, grayish purple in color, were rushing in, and a freezing wind was gusting.
Ron had been working for the railways for over twenty years, and he knew that a snowstorm could bring all operations to a grinding halt.
This might not be just a snowstorm, but an actual blizzard. They had trucks in the parking lot, waiting to load up and get going before the bad weather arrived. And here they were, on a darkening evening in northern Oregon, still struggling to get everything offloaded from the last storage compartment of the freight train.
Ron cursed under his breath. This delay was going to put them in danger of missing their deadline. He glanced over at his partner, Billy, who was inside the last of the carriages. He knew why there was a delay, and he thought it was Billy’s fault.
Billy Fairley was new on the job, unlike Ron, who was a seasoned freight handler, and he could see immediately that Billy was a problem child. He was always stalling, always finding excuses, and claiming that he couldn't do his part. Ron didn't like his foot-dragging attitude, and he didn't like the way Billy looked at him sometimes. He wondered what he was thinking when he gave those sidelong glances, with his thin lips pressed together in his broad, expressionless face.
He had a bad demeanor about him, this boy, that was for sure. And he seemed to be slow-going now, whether because of the cold, or because they were now running late, or who knew why.
Frustration surged inside Ron as he rushed back into the train carriage to get the second-to-last box. He eased it out, his breath fogging in the chilly air. It weighed a ton, or at any rate, it seemed to. He maneuvered it onto the hand truck, tilted it back, and got it down the ramp.
It was now starting to drizzle. Freezing drizzle, like mini ice crystals. It scoured his face as he steered the hand truck, with its heavy load, across the concrete walkway, and down to the storeroom that was midway between the train platform and the truck parking lot.
He set the hand truck down, pulling it out from under the box.
That one done, Billy would bring the last one, and then finally he could get home. Only half an hour until he was in his warm house, with a cup of coffee, and the television on, and out of these clothes which were damp, cold, and uncomfortable.
It was his wife's turn to cook tonight. He did weekends, she did weekdays, so there'd be a hot meal waiting, hopefully. After all this labor on such a cold day, he
was starving.
Where was Billy? He glanced back at the train. Had his problem child disappeared? Where had he gone?
"Billy?" he called, letting out an impatient breath. He really wanted to clock out now.
No answer.
He gritted his teeth and headed back, starting to get a little worried. He reached the carriage door and headed into the darkened space.
Inside, he heard a grunt, and a sharp exhalation of breath. What was going on in there?
"Billy?" he called out again, but there was still no answer. He switched on his flashlight, banishing the shadows that loomed in the doorway.
He walked further into the container, and then he saw it.
Billy was bent over, tugging at his boot, which had managed to get trapped under the very last item to be moved. It was a big, solid, wooden storage box, about six feet wide, two feet high and three feet wide.
"Sorry, Mr. Briggs," he said breathlessly. "I tried to move this on my own, to save us some time, and it was so darned heavy. It slipped off the hand truck and onto my foot."
The boy looked in pain. His foot would be bruised at best, and he’d have a broken toe at worst.
"Stay still," he said. He reached for Billy's hand truck, in the corner, and moved it over quickly. Billy was babbling out apologies, wincing in pain. Perhaps he'd misjudged the boy. He'd just been trying his best. Maybe he’d just been that resentful old-timer who thought the new worker could never do well enough. And this box was extremely heavy.
He managed to lever it up long enough for Billy to draw out his booted foot, wincing in pain.
"Don't think anything's broken, Mr. Briggs," he said. “I can move my toes.”
Ron nodded, relieved. "C'mon, then," he said. "Let's get this offloaded before the snow hits. And you should probably get that checked out by a doctor anyway."
He turned to the problematic box. What was this item? Looking at it, he didn't even see any documentation or labels attached. What was it doing on this train? Was it even destined for this stop?
It had riveted corners, a tightly fitting, hinged lid with a padlock on it. But the padlock was open. It had been threaded through the latch, but not closed.
As soon as they got it out into the open, Ron decided he was going to take a look inside. He didn't want anything offloaded that might break the regulations. If this was contraband that someone was smuggling, or it had just been wrongly allocated, then better he find out sooner rather than later.
Between them, with Billy limping, they managed to maneuver the heavy wooden box out of the train carriage and onto the platform.
That ended up being a wrestling match that left Ron feeling somewhat warmer. Billy was breathing hard, too.
"Let's take a look inside here," Ron said.
He undid the padlock. He pulled open the latch. Now to open the lid, which was surprisingly solid, and seemed completely airtight, because as he pushed it up he heard the tiniest hiss of air.
He opened the lid wide.
Stared inside.
And he and Billy let out identical yells of horror.
It wasn't just the slumped body of the man inside, his face sheet-white, his mouth and eyes wide.
It was the claw marks on the lid's inside, and the bloody fingertips of the corpse.
"We have to call the cops," Ron said, groping for a coherent response, to come across as the responsible old-timer he was, as shock pummeled his mind. "We need to call them, now!"
CHAPTER ONE
Caitlin Dare stood in front of the home's wooden door. It was a small, well-kept house in a peaceful suburb on the outskirts of San Francisco. She and Ella had grown up nearby. But now, despite the neat, idyllic neighborhood, she felt under threat, as if she were in enemy territory. And she knew she had to be careful.
As an FBI agent, she should know the power of restraining orders. Uncle Josh had threatened her with one unless she left him alone and stopped questioning him about her sister Ella’s disappearance. Caitlin didn't want him to go ahead with that threat.
But she had to find out about 'D,' the person mentioned in Ella’s diary. And if ‘D’ was the person she suspected, then he’d lived next door to Uncle Josh. So now, she was back here, in his neighborhood. And if he saw her, she was sure trouble would follow.
Caitlin had figured out that her sister Ella's diary had referred to Derek, who had been in this neighborhood growing up, who lived next door to Uncle Josh. He checked all the boxes. He had been a little older than Ella when she'd disappeared, handsome in a rather creepy way, and now, Caitlin remembered she'd seen them together before Ella's disappearance. She’d never realized that Ella had been dating Derek, but then, Ella had kept her private life very secret from her younger sister.
She sighed, pulling the black hat over her auburn hair to hide it, so that if Uncle Josh came out of his door and glanced to his right, he might not recognize her.
She was wearing a big bulky coat to hide her slim, athletic figure, and dark glasses over her pale blue eyes. She was trying her best to stay anonymous, while she tried to find out if Derek really did have anything to do with Ella vanishing, on that day when she'd intended to board a train and start a new life.
Really, Caitlin didn't want to be here. She hated confrontation. It had taken all her courage to ask Uncle Josh what he knew and to voice her suspicions. Now, this felt like another insurmountable challenge. But if she was going to trace her sister's steps, and solve the mystery that had haunted her for ten years, then she needed to do it. Now.
Suppressing the shiver of nerves she felt, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.
There was nothing. Just an expectant silence. She glanced nervously sideways, at Uncle Josh's house again.
And then, she heard footsteps approaching. Her mouth felt dry. She readied herself.
"Who's there?" a woman's voice asked from inside.
Caitlin hadn't known Derek's family. Was this one of them? Did his mother still live here?
"It's Caitlin," she said, deciding it was better to be brief.
A moment later, the door was opened. A woman stood there, her face a little older than Caitlin
had expected, her hair streaked with gray. She was wearing sweatpants and a fluffy jacket in a bright shade of blue, and she had a look of surprise as she stared at Caitlin.
"Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"
"I'm looking for Derek Bowen," Caitlin said firmly, hoping her nerves didn't show.
"Derek?" She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully as Caitlin's heart sank. It was obvious to her, genuinely apparent, that this woman had no idea who Derek was.
"His family lived here. I knew him ten years ago,” she explained.
Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, that's a long time! We've lived here three years, and before that, I know there was a family renting for a while. So I've no idea what would have happened to that family."
"Is there any paperwork relating to the sale?" Caitlin asked, but the woman shook her head.
"I believe it was a repossession. Someone bought it and couldn't afford the payments, so it was rented for a while and then we got it. If I recall, the only paperwork was for the previous owners who had it for a very short time, ...
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