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It took two days for Lucien and Brogan to coordinate the search and get everything lined up with the developer who owned the land. They stood at the end of Lynley Circle, holding a map they’d downloaded from the Vollaway website and blown up for easier reading. They studied the proposed future subdivision that called for cutting an access road through the quiet neighborhood, carving out space for six more streets where two-story houses would eventually sit.
“Within six months, you won’t be able to recognize this place,” Lucien lamented, looking around at the beautiful landscape. “How many of those trees will get destroyed? Does Vollaway realize that guests at their fancy Airbnb will likely complain about the noise level?”
“I doubt they’ll care. For some neighborhood residents, the new subdivision will block off their view of the ocean. Vollaway already has its marketing strategy in place. They call it The Preserve at Watersedge. They’re already touting how the planned community backs up to a nature preserve.”
“But they plan to run a road through here eight feet off Lynley Circle. I wouldn’t be happy about any of it if I lived here. I’d fight it every step of the way.”
“Good thing I have written permission from the top communications director,” Brogan muttered, letting go of the map to check her bag for the fax she’d received just that morning.
“I liked the way you worked him. No PR guy likes the idea construction workers might find the dead bodies of two missing kids under their proposed subdivision. That would make headlines and bad press.”
“Do you really think we’ll find them?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
Behind them, two pickup trucks bearing the Terra Search & Recovery logo, one pulling a trailer, roared down the lane.
Lucien squinted into the sun. “The experts have arrived. Maybe they’ll have the answers. Beckett said he’d teach me how to run the GPR.”
Brogan found that funny. “It looks like a lawnmower. You know how to mow grass, right?”
Lucien bumped her shoulder. “There has to be more to it than that. I need to get familiar with the readouts. I just don’t want to miss anything.”
Twenty minutes later, Brogan watched on the sidelines while the trio of men—Lucien, Beckett, and Birk—unloaded a trailer with three different types of ground-penetrating radar. The machines would scour the terrain and detect anomalies beneath a substrate of sand or granite up to a hundred feet below the surface. But the best it could do in shale or moist clay was three to five feet down.
Birk let them know that at this stretch of California coastline, moist clay made up most of the topography, especially the field around the barn. “We might get luckier in the woods. The ground there is sandier. But if the killer buried them near the barn, the hope is that he dug one shallow grave for both of them. The fact is, we don’t want to miss anything six feet or deeper.”
Brogan sighed and traded looks with the other women—Kelly and Jade—sitting in front of a row of laptops monitoring the results. Before joining them, she studied the path that cut through to the beach. She could make out the shimmering blue water of the ocean in the distance. “To think this all started because a family wanted to escape the valley and spend time at the beach. The murders shouldn’t have happened here in this beautiful spot, let alone during summer vacation.”
“Unfortunately, murder can happen anywhere,” Jade reasoned, her eyes never leaving the laptop screen. “How did the killer know they’d be here at this house? It had to be someone the family knew.”
“But why did he wait until five-thirty in the morning to attack?” Kelly pondered, keeping her eyes trained on the monitor. “Why not midnight? Or two a.m.?”
“It’s almost as if the killer orchestrated the whole thing to occur when the paperboy pedaled his bike past the house. We know that’s ridiculous,” Jade rectified. “No one in their right mind would come running out of the house holding a gun knowing a witness had heard the shots.”
Brogan pivoted back to the men, assessing their progress. “The killer didn’t count on the paperboy being here. I’m sure of that. He messed up and had to act fast to catch up with Trey.”
“Who was probably carrying little Elliott, right?” Kelly finished. “How far could this kid go juggling a scared three-year-old on his bicycle?”
“That’s a good point. So many questions,” Jade remarked before signaling Birk to stop. “Back up four feet or so and go over that area again.”
Brogan leaned over Jade’s monitor, trying to pick up on the anomaly. “What is that?”
But before Jade could reply, Birk called out, “It’s rusted metal, a piece of old farm equipment. Nothing to do with bodies.”
Disappointment crossed Jade’s face. Her eyes left the screen long enough to pivot toward the sound of barking pups setting off a commotion, especially Poppy and Journey.
Brogan scooped up her pint-sized Bichon and let Kelly take care of the larger dog. But over the noise, she caught sight of Gerald and Susan Rescher making their way to the entrance of the old orchard. Knowing they were hoping for some sort of update, Brogan strode over to the couple. “Nothing yet.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Susan uttered, reaching out to the little dog to rub his ears. “But every reporter from here to San Diego seems to have gotten wind that somebody’s looking into our son’s case. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since we were out here the other day with the cops and that poor man’s suicide.”
“Reporters showing an interest is a good thing,” Gerald muttered. “Twenty years is a long time for people to think Trey killed those people. This might be our only opportunity to set them straight.”
Susan sniffled as her eyes welled with tears. “Even if it takes finding his body to do it.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Brogan replied, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
“I know you are. That doesn’t leave us with many options—dead and buried or a double murderer. Either way, Trey loses. We lose.”
