Serenity shut the file folder and shoved it back into Josh’s black leather briefcase.

Two days later, the Lighthouse published its latest scoop, this time in the form of a Tad Stevens op-ed piece:

The Unthinkable: Vic Raped

by Foreign Object

The editorial was over the top in the righteous indignation that newspapers sometimes employ, when in reality they are courting eyeballs on their inky pages; if they didn’t want to inflict further injury to the victims’ families, they wouldn’t publish the salacious details. Stevens attributed the detail about rape with a foreign object to insiders handling the investigation, a vague reference that left Sheriff Jim McCray and his investigative team scurrying once more to plug the leak.

Stevens ended the piece with a clarion call for justice: “Someone out there is doing unspeakable evil and he must be stopped. If you have any leads, call this paper or the Sheriff’s Office.”

The Sheriff’s Office seemed like an afterthought.

The afternoon that the editorial ran in the paper, Serenity Hutchins took another phone call. Serenity was standing in line at a sandwich shop on Bay Street when she answered PRIVATE CALLER.

“Your publisher really laid it on the line,” the caller said. “Big, tough, pointy-nosed nerd calling for justice.”

It was the same strange voice.

“Turn yourself in,” she said, for the first time conceding-at least to him-that someone’s life was worth more than a shot at the big time.

“I enjoy what I’m doing,” he said. “Why would I stop now?”

“Because what you’re doing is…” her words trailed off. Serenity wanted to say evil or deplorable or something that really drove the point home, but those adjectives felt insufficient.

“You’re at a loss for words,” he said.

“No, I’m not.”

“I can’t think of a single reason to stop killing,” he said. “Canoe?”

The phone went dead.

“Salami grinder?” the man behind the sandwich prep counter said.

She nodded. Her bones felt chilled. She wondered if she had heard the voice of the killer correctly.

Did he say “Can you?” or “Canoe?”

PART FOUR. Carol

Chapter Forty

February 2, 12:40 p.m.

Port Orchard

If there is a neighborhood of distinction in South Kitsap, most would consider it to be McCormick Woods, on the eastern edge of Port Orchard. It was an enormous development of rambling acreage surrounding a golf course and dotted with an eclectic mix of custom homes that showcased dreams, sometimes at the expense of good taste. Look here: a Mediterranean villa. Over there: a Craftsman-style monstrosity. Next door: a block-stretching rambler built for older people who disdain stairs.

The Godding place was an Italian-styled affair with stucco and archways that were meant to inspire oohs and aahs from the architecturally challenged folks who drove by, wishing they’d be able to get a peek at the interior.

Unfortunately, the grandeur of the house’s exterior was a cover-up for the heartbreak that resided there.

In fact, Carol Godding’s birthday present from her husband the previous year was her abandonment. Dan Godding, a former Kitsap County Commissioner, left Carol, the house, the dog, and everything they owned when he drained the couple’s liquid assets and moved to central Florida with his high school sweetheart. A plucky woman, Carol sucked it up (as her ex likely knew she would), kept current on the mortgage, and started to sell off everything that reminded her of Dan. She’d worked her way through most of the items in the garage: tools, a decrepit Porsche that Dan was going to restore, and a golf cart. Next on her hit list were the sporting goods-hers and his. That week she listed on Craigslist a canoe that had been a favorite of hers. Dan had refused to take the classes at the South Kitsap High School pool. He just didn’t see the purpose of paddling when he could use a powerboat.

Later, when hurt turned to anger, Carol saw that as a watershed moment. How could she love a man who thought the loud noise of a powerboat was preferable to quietly gliding through the water in a canoe?

She downloaded a photo showing her canoeing on the protected waters of Sinclair Inlet, not far from McCormick Woods. In the photograph she looked younger than her years in a chartreuse polar fleece vest and hat, smiling from ear to ear as she held up her paddle as if to say “I did it!”

Sam Castile was among the first of a half dozen callers.

“Saw your ad,” he said. “Is the canoe still available?”

“I think so. I had some lookers earlier today. Said they’d be back.”

“My son and I are in the area. Would it be convenient if we came by?”

“Now?’

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

Carol looked at the time. She’d been planning on making a Sunday Costco run before the day got away from her. But she wanted to get rid of that canoe. As much as she loved it, she was determined to downsize everything from her old life, sell the house, and get out of the neighborhood, where she had never wanted to live in the first place.

She gave him the address.

“I’ll be waiting. What’s your name?”

“Rick Davis,” he said. “See you in a few.”

The human body is a cocoon of skin. No matter the color, the condition, the age, the membrane that stretches over the bony frame of a person’s skeleton and musculature is the key to understanding the demise of so many. A knife. A box cutter. The shattered neck of a beer bottle. All had been deployed by those who seek to do harm. Kendall had seen the evil that men-and even an occasional woman-do with the sharp edge of a tool meant to slice the cocoon that holds a person together. Skin was so fragile, like a tissue paper cover on a drum; it could be punctured by the prick of a sharp tool.

She twirled through the autopsy photos on the CD that Dr. Waterman had burned and sent over. In total, there were more than 400 images, all gruesome and tragic as they told the story of what happened. Skye’s skin was chalky white. The gash that severed her carotid artery was more than an inch wide, the tissue pushing out like the screaming lips of a clown, red, full. On her back in the vicinity of her shoulder blades were two large puncture wounds, narrow at the top like a pair of inverted keyholes. The young woman had been hung like a deer carcass and left to bleed out. The county’s forensic pathologist indicated that the killer had done a thorough job. She’d had lost around two pints of blood in her body-one fifth of the volume of a woman of her weight.

Wounds postmortem [Dr. Waterman had written in her notes]. The wound on the left is a quarter-inch larger, shows some hesitation. Serrated blade. The wound on the right is crisper, cleaner. It is possible that perpetrator of these postmortem injuries gained confidence as he gained experience. There is one bit of caution here. The angle of the second cut is about twenty degrees different than the first. This kind of differential suggests the possibility that the same person did not make both cuts.

Kendall looked at the photograph that Dr. Waterman had referenced with that last point. The angle change was not visible in the photo. An idea rolled around in her thoughts. Was there a pair of killers? There was a kind of timidness suggested by one of the perpetrators. There was also the idea that Marissa’s face had been enhanced, likely in death, with makeup.

Was one a woman?