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Prologue
Carmel Valley, California
Saturday, October 22, 2:15 p.m.
Homicide detective Kit McKittrick opened the barn door, making sure it made noise as she did so. She was more accustomed to slipping into the barn unseen and unheard so that she could be alone when life became too loud and frenzied. The barn had been her escape since she’d stumbled upon it as a terrified twelve-year-old runaway.
With Wren.
Her heart gave a familiar painful squeeze at the thought of the sister she’d lost sixteen years ago. They hadn’t known it at twelve, but they’d stumbled into far more than a barn. They’d stumbled into salvation, in the form of Harlan and Betsy McKittrick, who’d given them warmth, security, and so much love.
Wren was long gone, taken from them by a killer who hadn’t been found. Not yet. Kit still searched because Wren deserved justice. As do we. She and Harlan and Betsy had gone on because they’d had to. They’d lived. But they’d never forgotten the girl who’d brightened their lives.
Normally Kit came to the McKittrick barn to think and to remember Wren.
Today, however, she had a different mission. She entered, making sure she was loud enough to be heard. She didn’t want to sneak up on the teenager who’d entered the foster care system after finding her mother’s murdered body. The girl had endured enough pain and trauma and fear for a lifetime. Everyone at McKittrick House was always careful not to startle Rita.
Kit slid the door closed behind her, muffling the sound of the birthday party going on outside. The yard was full of McKittrick fosters, those who’d passed through and aged out and those who were still officially in the system and under Harlan and Betsy’s care. They gathered for birthdays and holidays and Sunday dinners. They were a family. A huge, wonderful family. Rita was one of them now, but they all knew how overwhelming they could be when gathered en masse. It wasn’t the first time someone had fled a celebration and it wouldn’t be the last.
Kit would check on Rita, then leave her alone if she so wished. Cocking her head, Kit listened and, sure enough, heard the sound of quiet sobbing coming from the stall that was never occupied by any of the farm’s resident animals.
Kit wasn’t the only one who escaped here to be alone. The stall was her adoptive father’s unofficial workshop, where Harlan McKittrick came to create art with his carving knife and a block of wood.
Opening the stall door, Kit found Margarita Mendoza huddled in the corner. Rita sat on a hay bale, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Her head was down, her face hidden by sandy blond hair that was streaked with purple and pink and blue.
“Hey,” Kit said. “We went to cut your birthday cake and realized that nobody had seen you in a while.”
The family’s initial reaction had been to panic at Rita’s absence, as she’d been abducted six months before. She’d been brought home safe and sound, but Rita’s disappearance had reminded them far too much of Wren’s. Today, however, they’d suspected that the teenager had simply wanted a little quiet. Still, Kit needed to report that Rita was safe, so she texted Harlan. Found her, Pop. In the barn.
Harlan’s reply was quick and heartfelt. Thank God. Do you need me?
Kit smiled. She’d always need Harlan and Betsy, but this was about Rita. Give me five minutes, then wander in. She’ll need you. She slipped her phone into her pocket and studied the now-fourteen-year-old foster child. Rita hadn’t moved, but she hadn’t told Kit to leave, either.
“You want me to stay or go?” Kit asked.
Rita shrugged thin shoulders and Kit took that as assent. Sitting next to Rita on the hay bale, Kit ran a hand over the girl’s hair the same way Harlan had always done to Kit’s when she was upset.
“I’m sorry,” Rita whispered. “I spoiled the party.”
“You spoiled absolutely nothing. I used to come and hide in here during parties, too.”
“Not on your own birthday.”
“You’d be wrong about that. I spent my fourteenth birthday in here, too.”
Rita lifted her head enough to peer through her hair. “You did?”
“I did. I can prove it, too.” Kit eased to her knees and brushed hay from the edge of the barn wall, smiling sadly when she saw the names carved into the wood. She and Wren had been officially under Harlan and Betsy’s care by then, their days of running away a thing of the past. “It’s not a pretty carving like Pop makes, but it’s still here.” They’d both been fourteen. Her sister’s fifteenth birthday had been her last.
Rita scooted to the edge of the hay bale and looked where Kit was pointing, her eyes growing wide. “ ‘Wren McK, fourteen, and Katherine Matthews, fourteen.’ ” She met Kit’s gaze, the girl’s dark eyes red and swollen. “You went by Katherine then?”
“I did. Only Pop called me Kit back then. Never Katherine.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never asked.” Although she’d wanted to know, too. “I figured if he had a reason, he’d have offered it up.”
“Your name was Matthews. But Wren was a McKittrick?”
