SATURDAY, 9:12 A.M.
BRIDGER COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE
The passenger seat in Heath’s truck was becoming all too familiar. Harper’s palms slicked. She wrapped her hand around the door grip on their approach to the Bridger County Sheriff’s Office. When she’d come here to meet the sketch artist, the place had appeared calm. Everything was as it should be.
Today tension rippled through the air, with the heat already rising from the black asphalt as they made their way to the building.
Her heart had broken at the news that not one but two people were missing. Even more shattering—honeymooners. That she had possibly witnessed the new bride’s demise left Harper broken and empty. The woman’s parents had flown in from Nebraska last night, hoping for news of their daughter. They recognized her as possibly being the woman in the sketch artist’s composite. Harper had been called in to identify the victim from a photograph lineup.
Harper wanted to meet the parents. To somehow console them, but that wouldn’t happen during the investigation. Sheriff Taggart would have to look closely at them. It was standard procedure to suspect the people closest to a victim because murders were most often committed by someone the victim knew. Despite her time as a crime scene photographer, Harper still couldn’t fathom that truth. Would Harper also be asked to look at pictures of the father—was he the man behind the weapon? She shuddered. The sheriff would also suspect the husband. He was still missing but could have committed the crime. Waves of grief rolled through her as she struggled to believe that a family member could murder a loved one.
At the doors to the county sheriff’s office, Heath ushered Harper through to find Detective Moffett waiting.
“The parents are sequestered in another room, waiting to hear the news. We have photographs of their daughter for you to look at.”
“What about her father?” Harper didn’t spell out her meaning for the detective.
“At this moment, he doesn’t match your description of the murderer.” She leaned in. “He’s in a wheelchair. Has MS.”
“I see.”
Moffett led her to a room. Photographs were laid out on the table. Harper closed her eyes and recalled the images of the victim she had committed to memory.
Before Harper looked at the photographs, she glanced at Heath, then Moffett. “They’ll want hope that she’s still alive.” Harper couldn’t give them any. She’d seen the woman’s empty eyes.
“We all do,” Moffett said.
Harper steadied herself, then faced the nameless photographs lined up on the table. Many different women stared back at her. Blood rushed to her head, roared in her ears.
She ran a forefinger over the edge of one particular photograph. Those eyes—she could never forget them.
The woman in the photograph was smiling. Laughing with friends. Tears burned down Harper’s cheeks.
Why had this cruelty happened?
She glanced at Moffett. “This is the woman I saw. Is it . . . Is it her?”
“Can I have her name, please?”
“Sophie Osborne. Her husband’s name is Chase,” Moffett said.
“And the parents?”
“Rick and Netta Batterson.” Moffett studied Harper. “Anything else?”
Harper shook her head.
“Thank you for your help.”
Strong but gentle hands gripped her shoulders and led her out of the room to another, more comfortable room. Heath brought her a mug of hot, steaming coffee. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this. I’m sorry for the parents.”
“And now that we know for sure it was her, we also know her husband may have been murdered too.” Harper shivered. “Or could it have been him who killed her? Do you happen to know how old her husband is?”
“I looked at pictures of him too. He’s around Sophie’s age.”
“Then he didn’t kill her.” She’d seen part of the shooter’s face. The wrinkles surrounding his eyes. “The shooter was much older. Not a young man on a honeymoon. It wasn’t the husband.”
“Agreed. At least that’s what I gathered from Laura’s composites.”
The good news was that multiple agencies would now look for the two missing hikers. The bad news was that Harper was certain at least one of them was dead. She didn’t hold out hope for Chase, unless he had somehow escaped and gotten lost in millions of acres and was still trying to find his way back to civilization. But with a hunter after him—someone who was familiar with the area—his chances of survival were slim.
Detective Moffett came into the room with a laptop. “I’ve informed the parents. We’re now searching for two people. We’ll ask for volunteers as well. Ms. Reynolds, are you up for it? If so, you and Deputy McKade can help with the search. The sheriff appreciates your eye for details. You’ve brought us this far.”
Wow. The sheriff’s crew had gone from being skeptical of Harper to being staunch supporters almost overnight. The detective’s question surprised her, and she glanced at Heath.
He crossed his arms. “I’m not on board with it. It would be too dangerous for Harper out there.”
“Sheriff says it will be fine. With a huge contingent of law enforcement out there, search dogs too, the shooter would be a fool to stick around. But Sheriff assigned Deputy Arty Custer to go with you as a precaution. We need all the help we can get.”