Like all who vanish, Carol Godding had no idea that it was the day of her disappearance. When she laid her clothes on her freshly made bed, she was unsure if the brown slacks really could be worn with the foggy-blue top that the saleswoman at the Tacoma Mall Nordstrom had insisted was “to die for.” It just didn’t look right, and she was unsure if the old trick of trying to tie the outfit together with accessories was really going to work. She put on blue jeans and a sweater instead, facing the mirror over the antique pecan-wood bureau that had belonged to her grandmother. She set a couple of necklaces out and held them to her throat one at a time. The first, a chunky gold link that was supposed to be Italian in design, had been purchased by her mother from QVC.

Not working for me, she said to herself, setting the chain down. She held up a strand of blue and brown beads that had a far more inspiring origin. She’d purchased them herself the summer before when she traveled to Peru with her best friend, Connie.

Former best friend, she thought, fastening the lobster-claw clasp and refusing to revisit the incident that had shredded their bond. Over a man, no less. She gave herself one more look in the mirror and shook her head.

This is as good as I’m going to get with this ensemble.

“I see you beat me to it,” Gary Wyatt said, watching the man and his young son try to hoist the yellow canoe into the back of his long-bed pickup.

Sam Castile spun around and slapped on a quick smile.

“Yeah, your loss,” he said. “Early bird, all that stuff.”

Gary, a sandy-haired grandfather of six, shrugged as he lumbered over to the rear of the truck.

“Can I give you a hand?” he said, his eyes lingering on the prize that he’d missed out on.

Max Castile stepped back so the older man could help.

“Sure. Bought a bunch of other stuff too.”

The inside of the canoe was covered with a brown plastic tarp. Gary bent at his knees and started to lift.

“Jesus, did you buy some bricks or what?”

Sam laughed. “Something like that. Some old cinder blocks she had out back.”

“Oh. She said she was selling as much of her ex-husband’s stuff as she could. Wonder what else she has left.”

The canoe was now in the back of the truck, and Sam ran a nylon rope from hooks on either side of the tailgate through a steel loop on the end of the boat.

“She’s gone,” he said. “Took off for church or something. Took the money and ran.”

“Just my luck,” Gary said.

Sam turned to his son. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Max, who hadn’t said a word, nodded like a bobblehead.

“Thanks for the help. Nice to know there are still good people in Port Orchard.”

“No worries. Have fun with the canoe.”

Sam waved as he pulled away slowly, watching Gary as he went back to his car.

It was Carol Godding’s sixty-two-year-old Kitsap Sun paperboy who noticed that something was wrong. Three days worth of Suns crammed the bright blue plastic paper tube affixed below Carol’s mailbox. He remembered how she’d mentioned she was heading to Southern California for a few weeks and figured he’d got the dates wrong. He pulled out the newspapers and put them in the backseat of his car. Next he called her number and left a message.

“Ms. Godding, call me when you get back to town. I’ll start up the paper lickety-split.”

Several days passed, and no one else noticed she was gone. The Goddings had not fostered ideal relations with their neighbors. Dan had waged war with the people on both sides over a wall of prolific Leyland cypresses that he’d planted to create some privacy but ultimately blocked others’ views of the golf course.

Carol had apologized for the less-than-neighborly attitude of her husband and tried to make amends. But by then battle lines had been drawn, and she was considered to be a bitch married to an asshole. It was a stigma that, despite her kind and outgoing nature, she couldn’t shake. When she volunteered at the community garage sale to raise money for the Port Orchard food bank, she got the cold shoulder from the women in charge. As a result, no one cared enough about Carol to notice if something was amiss.

There were no second chances in McCormick Woods.

Kirsten Potts was called “The Enforcer” or “The Landscaping Nazi” behind her back. Kirsten didn’t care. In fact, when she first heard of the moniker she only feigned indignation. To her, backbiting and fear brought results. She lived in McCormick Woods because she liked the orderliness of a neighborhood with strict covenants. She wasn’t really supposed to patrol the streets of the development, looking for bushes that needed to be trimmed or lawns that needed to be mowed. She’d been told several times by the homeowners association president that they were “not to seek out infractions like a police force but to wait for neighbors to bring things to our attention.”

Kristen didn’t care. She routinely drove around McCormick Woods with a camera, a ruler, and a wary eye. She’d been watching the Godding place for the past week. The Goddings had been on her radar for years after the Leyland cypress brouhaha, but they’d kept the place in tiptop condition. Lawn edged. Pines trimmed poodle perfect. The fountain in front never foamy. She’d heard gossip about the Goddings from the committee after Carol started writing the homeowners’ dues from a new account. Dan’s car was gone too.

The yard was looking shaggier and shaggier, and Kirsten Potts decided action was the order of the day. She rang the bell; no answer. She knocked as loudly as her tight little fist could pound.

She leaned close to the sidelight next to the door, but the house was quiet. She went around to the garage, noticing the sorry state of the lawn.

Jeesh! Talk about letting a place go to seed! she thought.

Kirsten Potts didn’t consider herself a snoop. Snoops almost never do. She felt an urge to try the side door to the garage. She turned the knob and pushed it open. When she stepped inside, she immediately knew something terrible had happened there.

She opened her phone and called 911.

Chapter Forty-one

February 4, 1 p.m.

Port Orchard

Kendall Stark ate alone at a small café in downtown Port Orchard. She’d brought a salad Steven had made the night before but had left it in the car. Now it was a soggy mess. The café was no great shakes, but it gave her a moment to think. She watched a woman across the room cut her daughter’s hamburger into small pieces while she talked on a cell phone. The girl was about fifteen and obviously impaired. She sat hunched over her plate while her mother did her duty.

Poor girl. Maybe cerebral palsy? Kendall was unsure. But what struck her was how the mother just went on and on with her phone conversation, cutting the food as if her child were not present. She was grateful for Cody, happy that despite her son’s problems they were connected. They had a bond. He might not be the son of her dreams, but she’d learned to love every minute they shared. The realization had come slowly.

Her phone vibrated. She set down her fork and answered a call from Josh. It soon became clear that the apple pie she had ordered, which the waitress had said was the best in the county, was going to go uneaten.

“I’m way up north in Kingston,” he said. “We’ve got a deputy out at McCormick Woods on a call, Kendall, but since you’re not far, can you check it out?”

She took down an address in McCormick Woods.

Kendall Stark surveyed the interior of the Godding garage. There was a pegboard with outlines of various tools, most of which were missing. Carol’s car, a dark blue Lexus, was in perfect condition. In the space next to the car was what had caught Kirsten Potts’s attention. In the middle of the concrete floor was Carol’s dog, a Doberman named Dolly.