Rob said, “It looks like she ran over there in her nightshirt, jeans, and her uniform jacket and boots. Her pistol is still in her holster, hanging over the chair at her dressing table.” He remembered Adam questioning him that first night about not carrying his weapon. He didn’t think he’d ever leave it at home again.

Adam said, “Again, indication that she didn’t fear the intruder.”

“She was a gutsy lady,” Rob said. “And if it was the same guy who tried to break in the first time, she’d scared him off by yelling. She may have thought that was all it would take.”

Adam asked, “Did she actually say the offender was male?”

“She wasn’t certain. She thought he was male. She didn’t see him close up. He ran the minute she started shouting.”

Adam nodded. “Were her clothes found?”

“In the Dumpster behind the building.”

“Interesting.”

“Or just weird.”

Adam shrugged. “Or just weird, yes. The girl’s room is on the other side of the house?”

“That’s right.” Rob led the way. “Anyway, you can see for yourself there’s no sign of any disturbance.”

As they walked through the small dining room, Adam stopped beside the oval table to sort through the small pile of mail. There was a summons for jury duty, a couple of credit card bills, and a number of newsletters from organizations like Modoc Nation— “The sole legitimate government of the Modoc People of Southern Oregon and Northern California.”

“She was politically active,” Adam’s tone was thoughtful.

“Not particularly.”

Adam glanced up. “You don’t think so? It looks to me like she was a regular subscriber.”

“Look,” Rob said. “Don’t go there. She’s the victim here, and her political beliefs are—were—her own business. She wasn’t an activist. She wasn’t a militant. She wasn’t a terrorist.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say she was?”

“You’ve got that ah ha! look on your face. Everybody knows the FBI’s mission changed after 9-11. You’re all about homeland security now.”

“Actually, Homeland Security is all about homeland security now,” Adam sounded uncharacteristically short. “I’m trying to understand who Cynthia Joseph was. You say she wasn’t a terrorist, and I believe you. Her interests indicate—and I don’t find it surprising or disturbing, by the way—that she had an inclination toward activism.”

“She wasn’t killed because she thought the Klamath Tribes got a raw deal in some of the disputes over water and our other natural resources. Believe it or not, a lot of people feel the same way.”

“You could be right. Then again, a couple of Native American artifacts were stolen out of a museum, so it’s not impossible that Joseph’s cultural heritage and political beliefs are a factor in her death.”

Rob couldn’t really argue with that. He didn’t buy it, but he couldn’t disprove that theory. “Fair enough,” he said. “Personally I think we’re wasting time.”

Adam’s brows rose. He laid aside the Modoc Nation bulletin. “It’s your investigation, Deputy.”

“So far, yeah. I think we’ll get further focusing closer to home.”

“Was she seeing anyone?” Adam asked. “Was she in a relationship?”

“No.”

“You seem pretty definite.”

“It’s a village,” Rob said. “Cynthia and Frankie both belonged to the Women’s Club. They both tried to set each other up—and they both got nowhere with their matchmaking.”

“They were friends a long time?”

“They both grew up in this town.”

Adam said, “A place where everybody knows your name? Tiffany’s room must be down this hall.” He moved past Rob.

The second bedroom had been done in candy box shades of pink, lavender, and mint green. There were a lot of pillows and stuffed animals. No posters of rock stars or TV actors. A backpack with school books leaned against a surprisingly tidy desk. Clothes spilled out of a gym bag on the neatly made bed.

“That’s Tiffany.” Rob indicated one of two photos tucked in the corner of a square mirror over the painted chest of drawers.

Portrait of a young girl. Tiffany was small and cute, like a kitten. Big dark eyes and straight dark hair. And at seventeen, very, very young.

Adam barely glanced at the photo, his attention on the other snapshot. It was old. That went without saying. These days kids used their phones to preserve the moment. This looked like it had been developed from one of those disposable cameras.

“Do you recognize either of the boys in this photograph?”

Rob frowned at the image. “The kid on the left is Terry Watterson. He drowned at Blue Rock Cove a few years ago. The kid on the right is Bill Constantine.”

“What kind of relationship did Tiffany have with Terry?”

“Nonexistent, I’d say. This picture is at least five years old. Tiffany would have been twelve. Terry and Bill would have been nineteen or twenty.”

“What kind of relationship does Tiffany have with Bill?”

Rob said dryly, “I don’t think there’s a relationship there.”

“Why not?”

“To start with, Bill’s too old for her. For another, he’s geeky and shy, and Tiffany is outgoing and popular. She’s an honor student. She’s a cheerleader.”

“She wouldn’t be the first popular girl who fell for an older man. Or a geek.”

“No.” Rob was positive. “No way.”

“She kept the photo for some reason.”

“Well, maybe she had a crush on Terry. I don’t know. As far as I’m aware she isn’t dating anyone. I don’t keep track of the social lives of teenaged girls.”

Adam looked unconvinced, though hopefully not about the part about not keeping track of teenaged girls. “This will be the en suite?” He headed for a small bathroom—also painted pink—off the bedroom. Pink and black tiles, white fixtures. The bathroom smelled of girly shampoo and soaps—and Adam’s expensive aftershave. A combination of fragrances that did not exist in nature.

There was a faint draft in the bathroom. It barely stirred the pink polka dot shower curtain.

Rob edged past Adam, distractedly noting that his initial impression had been wrong. Though tall, Adam was not really a big guy. Not a Ken doll at all, though he was strong and nicely built. Whipcord muscle and tensile strength. Rob could vouch for that. He gave off an aura of authority and power. That aura was at least fifty percent attitude—bolstered by ten percent blue and gold credentials. The rest of it…hard to say, but it was effective.

Rob checked the latch on the window by the toilet. The window wasn’t quite closed. And the latch…

Not locked.

Shit. He glanced at Adam who had stooped to feel a pink and white striped towel on the floor beneath the sink.

Adam looked at Rob. “This towel is still damp.”

“You leave them on the floor, they stay damp.” Rob was a guy who had a lot of experience in that branch of the sciences.

“She would have showered for school on Thursday morning. This is Saturday afternoon. Even with the heat turned down, that’s more than forty-eight hours later.”

Rob was only half listening, still thinking about the unlocked, not-tightly-closed window.

A horrible thought came to him. Book bag. “Wait a minute,” he said, and squeezed past Adam heading back to the bedroom. There must have been something in his voice because Adam followed, silently watching as Rob went to the desk.

Rob picked up Tiffany’s book bag.

They stared at each other.

“She came back,” Adam said.

This was the kind of thing that had made Rob decide to chuck Portland for the wide open spaces. But evil—and this was fucking evil, no question about it—was no respecter of city limits or county lines.

Rob said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, “She could have seen everything. And the killer could have seen her.”

There was a white line around Adam’s mouth. Rob had never seen anyone lose color quite like that. When Adam spoke he sounded unemotional, almost cold. “There’s another possibility. Tiffany may be involved in her mother’s murder.”