Tom released the death grip on the steering wheel, and with his eyes closed, he put the 4Runner in park. Leaning back into the headrest, he listened to his heart pounding against his chest and took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his nerves. At almost sixty miles per hour, the collision had been a blur, and he’d had no opportunity to swerve, but that was probably for the best.

He exhaled, then opened his eyes.

The 4Runner had come to a stop at a 30-degree angle, diagonally across the highway and the gravel shoulder. The passenger-side headlight was dark, and the driver-side headlight beamed into the dense forest. Outside, the trees were motionless.

There were no signs of the animal, but judging by the impact, Tom’s best guess was that it had been a deer, maybe a fawn. He’d hit an adult male elk as a teenager, and it had collapsed the roof, almost crushing him inside the car. Luckily, this impact wasn’t as catastrophic.

Tom pressed the hazard button and turned off the vehicle, then rolled down the window. He listened for a few moments, but the only thing he could hear was his heart.

He stepped out of the car and quietly shut the door. The night was cold against his ears and neck. The temperature was probably in the low twenties, maybe even in the teens. He walked to the front of the 4Runner to survey the damage.

The radiator grille, bumper, and right front fender were caved in, the passenger-side headlight was completely missing, and the “Colorado Native” license plate frame was shattered. Blood was splattered across the hood and fender, and strands of fur were entwined in the plastic cracks.

Tom turned back to the embankment, looking to the east, then west, then back, but there was no sign of the animal.

His head hurt. Probably a concussion from hitting the windshield.

Trudging to the rear of the 4Runner, he opened the hatch, retrieved the roadside emergency kit, and removed a flashlight. He shined the light across the highway and followed the skid marks, which stretched about thirty feet, maybe longer. The smell of rubber still hung in the air.

Tom started back along the embankment, shining the light across the forest. He contemplated driving away, but his conscience wouldn’t let him sleep knowing there could be a mortally wounded animal dying at the edge of the forest. Hopefully it had died from the collision or broken its neck on the landing, or run deep into the forest and found a final resting spot to succumb to the injuries. Anything that would keep him from using his gun. He didn’t want to kill tonight.

About a tenth of a mile from the crash, Tom stopped in ankle-deep snow.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, shaking his head.

The flashlight found the fawn hiding behind the trunk of a Douglas fir about forty feet directly ahead. The animal was curled up in the snow drift—ears back, eyes closed, lying in a pool of blood-soaked snow, gasping for every breath. Tom stood there for a long time, shining the light on the fawn.

Suddenly, the animal sprang up, but almost immediately it dropped back into its own footprint. It looked up at Tom, then slowly turned back to the forest. Defeated, it appeared to accept its impending fate.

Tom was about fifteen steps down the embankment when the roar of an engine broke the silence. He turned back to the highway. Through the trees, he could faintly see the shimmering headlights of a truck. The engine roared louder and louder. It sounded like an eighteen-wheeler, and if the driver was speeding, they’d have little time to react to the back of Tom’s 4Runner still parked on the dark and icy road. Tom ran up the embankment but slipped and fell on his stomach, partially knocking the wind out of him. He pushed to his knees, then jumped up and began high-stepping through the snow.

Upon reaching the pavement, he started a full sprint. About a minute later, he reached the vehicle, climbed in, turned the key, pulled the gear shift into drive, and stepped on the gas. Snow crunched as he steered the car off the highway.

Tom leaned back and fixated on the driver-side mirror. The truck was practically on top of him, and for a moment he thought it might still collide with his car and hurl him into the forest as he had done to the fawn.

The deafening engine rattled the entire vehicle as it passed. After about twenty seconds, it was gone, disappearing into the darkness of Highway 40 and the Rocky Mountains.

Tom turned off the car and stepped outside. He walked back down the highway until he found his tracks. Stopping for a second, he looked up to the night sky. A coyote howled in the distance, but after it faded, there was nothing.

Slowly, he traced the snow tracks down the embankment, moving the flashlight across the forest. His breath was a thick, white cloud.

“Hey boy, where’d you go? Nothing to be afraid of,” he said, slowly removing the Glock 17 from his belt.

Halfway down the embankment, Tom spotted the pool of blood in the snow. He stopped and stared. The deer was gone, the forest was still, and Tom was alone.

Wiping the snow out of his eyes, he started back up the embankment as the crescent moon disappeared behind a cloud.

---

Tom turned off County Road 50 and into his driveway. A light shone from the kitchen, but there was no sign of Lisa. He sat in his car and stared at the house.

After a couple minutes, he opened the door and stepped into a few inches of snow on the driveway. It crunched under his Merrell boots. Tom contemplated shoveling the driveway and walkway right then, but he decided against it. It was too cold, and he was tired. It’d have to wait until tomorrow, or maybe the day after, or maybe the weekend.

At the front of the 4Runner, Tom looked down at the bumper. He stared at the damage for a moment and then continued up the driveway.

Tom stepped onto the porch, grabbed a handful of salt from a Home Depot bucket, and tossed it on the stairs and walkway. Turning to the front door, he placed his hand on the doorknob and felt it twist. Lisa had left it unlocked again.

He walked in and untied his boots, placing them on the boot tray. The furnace rattled a few times, then smoothed into the calming sound of natural gas. It was hot, probably in the high seventies; Lisa never lowered the thermostat below seventy-five in the winter.

The TV was on but muted, a rerun of Seinfeld. A quilt lay half on, half off the couch, and a near-empty wine glass stood atop the coffee table with no coaster. Tom picked up the remote, turned off the TV, then grabbed the wine glass and started to the kitchen. The warped hardwood floor creaked with every step.

A pile of dishes towered in the sink, and an open prescription pill bottle rested on the table. Picking it up, Tom found that it was empty. Xanax, 1mg, Quantity 30, prescribed to Lisa three days ago with the instructions to “Take 1 tablet every 8 hours as needed for anxiety.” He stared at it for a minute, maybe longer. This was the fourth empty bottle he’d discovered in the last few weeks: this one, the one on the floor next to her nightstand, the one in the bathroom trash can, and the one in her glove box. In all likelihood, there were many more.

He placed the glass on the counter next to the sink, dropped the pill bottle in the trash, and opened the cupboard, removing a rocks glass. An assortment of whiskey bottles stood on the hutch—Buffalo Trace, Jack Daniel’s, Johnnie Walker, Wild Turkey, and Maker’s Mark.

Opening the Jack Daniel’s bottle, Tom poured a few shots into the glass and drank it down in two gulps without wincing. He refilled the glass about two thirds of the way, then put the bottle back on the hutch. Sipping on the whiskey, he stared out the kitchen window, watching snowflakes fall to the earth.

A sound came from behind, and Tom turned to the hallway. Max, his eleven-year-old black lab, was standing there, breathing labored, his hind legs shaking.

“Hey boy, you snuck up on me. How are you doing tonight?” Tom said with a smile.

Max had once been a great adventurer and the perfect hiking partner, but now spent the better part of his days sleeping at the foot of the bed. The only time he got up was to eat or go to the bathroom, and more often than not lately he didn’t make it outside for that. He was near-blind, probably deaf, and hadn’t barked in over a year. Tom knew Max would be lucky to make it another year, and sometimes contemplated taking him out back to put him out of his misery, but he couldn’t imagine a day without Max. The dog was currently Tom’s only friend and his closest confidant.

“Are you hungry, Maxie?”

Tom grabbed a dog bowl, dumped a cup of Purina into it, then placed it in front of Max. The dog stared at him for a moment, blinking a few times, then bowed down and slowly began to eat. Tom rubbed his head for a bit before walking back to the table, where he resumed sipping on the whiskey. His eyes were heavy as he watched Max bury his nose into the bowl.

A few minutes later, the dog walked over to the table and lay down on the kitchen rug, closing his eyes. Tom bent down and started rubbing his head.

“That’s a good boy.”

Sometime later, Tom rose and started up the stairs. Partway down the hallway, he stopped at Megan’s room. Tom pushed the door open and peered in. A faint musky smell surrounded him. It had been almost six months since he’d stepped into her room, and it was exactly how he remembered it. Virtually untouched.

Tom carefully walked across the undisturbed carpet to sit at the edge of the perfectly made bed. Running his finger across the gray comforter, he looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. He could almost hear her voice calling for him. Almost.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked around the room. Her dresser, her nightstand with the alarm clock flashing twelve, her desk with textbooks and notebooks and a mini gumball machine, and finally her cork board, with nature pictures, a work schedule, and inspirational quotes tacked onto it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a photo album labeled “More Summer Vacation Pictures” on the bottom shelf of the desk. He reached for it and began turning the pages. Disneyland, Miami Beach, Seattle, Moab, birthday parties, camping, and Yellowstone. Yellowstone was his favorite vacation. They’d gone there for a week when Megan was nine. They made it to almost every major attraction in the park—Old Faithful, Mammoth, Yellowstone Canyon, Grand Prismatic. They even saw a grizzly bear cub in a visitor center parking lot. Megan had named him Freddy.

What he wouldn’t give to have one more vacation with her.

Tom shifted on the bed to look out the window but found himself staring at his reflection for a few moments instead. He closed the album, placed it back on the shelf, and got off the bed. After straightening the wrinkles in the comforter, he started toward the door. He turned off the light and blew a kiss, closing the door behind him.

Continuing on to the master bedroom, Tom found that the door was shut.

In front of the dark wooden door, he started to think about his life. All of the mistakes and all of the failures that had brought him to this moment. He considered turning around and walking back downstairs, but after a minute, he gave a light knock.

“Lisa?” he said. No response. After a few seconds, he knocked louder.

“Lisa, are you awake?”

Nothing again. Tom turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Lisa was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, holding an empty wine glass. Her head tilted up slowly, and she stared at Tom as if looking directly through him.

“Are you okay?”

He already knew the answer.

She remained motionless. Finally, she said, “I didn’t hear you get home.”

“Yeah, I got here about an hour ago. I was feeding Max.”

“Oh.”

“Have you had dinner? Want me to make you something?”

Lisa looked into the empty wine glass.

“I was at Perks today, just sitting alone, sipping on a coffee, reading the paper, and a group of three women sat down at the table directly behind me. I’d never seen them before, and I doubt they recognized me.”

Lisa started flicking her index finger against the glass.

“They were discussing how bored they were with their husbands, and their families and their lives. Just the mundane bullshit I always overhear women talk about, nothing captivating. But then the topic changed. They started talking about the Bob Anderson murder and the murder of some nurse in Boulder a few years ago, and a couple of hitchhikers who were murdered on Hoosier Pass back in the eighties. They were fucking giddy the way they talked about it. It was disgusting, and I was about to get up—then one of them mentioned Megan’s name. I leaned back to get a better listen.”

“Why, Lisa?”

“The fat one said they heard a rumor that Megan was abducted, raped for a few days, then tied to a tree and left for dead. Either dead from the elements or wildlife or the killer sliced her throat.”

“You know that’s just stupid small-town gossip,” Tom said.

She shook her head. “How do you know that? You’ve been looking for almost two years, and you’re not any closer to finding her than the day she vanished. And I’m sitting here living my own fucking nightmare. Every waking moment. I can’t touch her, hug her, kiss her, or even bury her. She isn’t alive and she isn’t dead—she’s a lost soul in some fucking purgatory.”

“I’m going to find her,” Tom said, choking on his words.

Deep down, in places he was scared to visit, he knew that Megan might never be found, but he could never utter those words, especially to Lisa.

“I hope you’re prepared to find a scattered pile of bones.”

He didn’t answer.

“You couldn’t find the killer of those kids, and you’re not going to find Megan!”

Before his own daughter’s tragedy, not solving the murder of the kids in the pizzeria was his biggest failure.

“Please stop.”

She looked up at Tom and without warning threw the wine glass at the closet door. It shattered, and hundreds of tiny shards fell to the carpet. Neither of them flinched; their eyes remained locked.

“I hate you for convincing me to move here. I really do. I wish I would’ve said no. If I had, Megan would still be alive.”

“She is not dead, and I promise that I won’t stop looking until I find her.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice. She is never coming back. Never. Megan is dead. She’s gone forever.”

“I love you, but you’re wrong.”

“Then where the fuck is she?” Lisa screamed, spitting the words.

“I don’t know,” Tom whispered.

ONE

Tom sat alone in the back booth of Rocky Mountain Café, a diner with a capacity of around thirty in downtown Granby. Conversations meshed into one loud, incoherent, ambient noise, and the sound of silverware against glass plates and cups echoed throughout the room. The smell of bacon grease seeped from the walls. A small white storage box with “MEGAN” written on the lid sat in the booth next to Tom.

He took the final drag off his cigarette, then smashed the butt into the ashtray. Flipping through the Rocky Mountain News, he glanced at each headline before moving to the next story: “Teen Fires on Classmates – 8 Killed, 5 Wounded in Kentucky High School Shooting”; “Details Pointing to Nichols, Government’s Case Solid in Oklahoma City Bombing, Experts Say”; “Denver Council Backs Needle Exchange.”

Tom closed the paper and slid it across the table. He looked at his watch then over his shoulder to the front door. Recognizing the owner of County Hardware five booths down, he gave a courtesy wave. He couldn’t remember the man’s name—something with a b. Bob, or maybe Bill. He’d always been bad with names.

He tore open a sugar packet, then dumped the granules into the stained white porcelain coffee cup. After a few sips, he pulled a binder out of the box and started reading the pages, instantly becoming oblivious to everyone and everything in the diner.

Sometime later a voice said, “Tom Floyd?”

Tom looked up from the binder and extended his arm for a handshake. “Yes, and you must be Marshall. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. And thanks for making the drive up here.”

“Likewise, and no problem. I’ll take any excuse to get out of the city.”

Marshall removed his overcoat, laid it in the booth, and dropped a notepad on the table.

A waitress stealthily approached. “What can I get you, sugar?”

“I’ll take a coffee.” He picked up the menu and swiftly skimmed it. “And give me the Rocky Mountain Breakfast—over easy, bacon, and white toast.”

“You got it. Anything else for you, Tom?” she said.

“I’m good with the coffee, thanks.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be right back,” the waitress said with a smile.

Tom slid the binder toward the wall and picked up the cup, taking another sip before addressing Marshall. “I’ve never been impressed by those fancy coffee shops—give me a coffee with some cream and a couple packets of sugar from a place like this any day of the week.”

---

The alarm clock buzzed, and Hannah slammed her palm onto the snooze button. She slowly opened one eye and squinted at the digital display—9:17.

“Fuck,” she groaned.

Meticulously she climbed out of the covers so as not to disturb her American Shorthair cat, Milo. Standing next to her bed she stretched her arms to the stucco ceiling while yawning. Hannah caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror propped against the wall and quickly turned away. The sight of the countless scars on her inner thighs gave her a conflicted feeling. She knew the cutting wasn’t healthy, but it was euphoric.

Self-mutilation was something she’d discovered a few months after her nineteenth birthday. That first cut against her right thigh was a moment she’d never forget, like losing your virginity. Removing the blade from her dresser drawer, placing the cold metal against her flesh, pressing down then slowly pulling it up, and the sensation of trickling blood.

It was small, a surface cut, only a quarter of an inch deep and an inch long. But it was enough. She’d been numb to life for years and instantly felt alive. Soon she was going deeper, and longer. Two, three, four, five cuts in a single session. Once, she attempted to count the number of scars but stopped after fifty.

Hannah craved the feeling more than anything, like a heroin addict searching for the next fix, and was scared the urge would never go away.

It’d been sixty-one days since she made a four-inch cut that took over an hour to stop bleeding and completely clot. That one scared her enough to go cold turkey. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made it a month, let alone two.

Bending down, she grabbed a pair of pants off the floor then slipped on an oversized Guns N’ Roses Use Your Illusion Tour T-shirt.

Hannah walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a near-empty half-gallon of whole milk and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch off the counter.

Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she turned on the TV, flipping channels aimlessly with almost every bite before finally stopping on The Jerry Springer Show. The episode was about a mother who was sleeping with her daughter’s boyfriend.

Hannah finished, slurped the remaining milk, then placed the bowl in the sink on top of a pile of dishes. She opened a can of Fancy Feast and dumped the clump of meat and liquid mush onto a salad plate. Then she set it on the floor and called for Milo. The cat was in the kitchen within twenty seconds.

In the vase on the kitchen windowsill, the purple lily bouquet was nearly dead—she probably should have thrown it out days ago. It was hard for her to throw them away because purple was her sister’s favorite color.

Reluctantly, Hannah grabbed the vase, poured the water down the drain, then threw the flowers in the trash can. Placing the vase on the windowsill, she sat back down, watching Milo eat breakfast.

A knock came at the front door, but Hannah ignored it. Another knock sounded a few seconds later, a little louder. After the fourth series of knocks, she got up and walked to the door.

“Hello Alan,” she said, annoyed.

“I heard your TV and figured you were up and thought you might want a cup of Joe,” Alan said, holding out a coffee mug.

“Gotta love these paper-thin walls.”

He smiled. “Cream and a little sugar?”

She nodded, grabbed the cup, and thanked him.

“And I still would love to take you to dinner sometime. I’m open any night that works for you,” he said.

“And for the tenth time, I’m flattered, but like I said the first nine times, I’m going to have to decline,” Hannah said.

“I was hopeful the tenth time would be a charm. You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Alan, you’re a nice guy and need a good, wholesome girl you can take home to your parents. I can promise you, I’m not that girl.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because I’m fucking crazy,” Hannah said.

She thanked him again, then closed the door and sat at the table, staring out the window and sipping on the coffee. Sixty-one days.

---

After a large drink Tom said, “Fraser is one of the coldest towns in the Lower 48, with supposedly the coldest winters. Back in the fifties, town officials got into a legal dispute with some town in Minnesota over trademarking ‘Icebox of the Nation.’ The two towns went back and forth for decades over who got the naming rights. It finally got settled when Fraser agreed to relinquish the name in exchange for two thousand dollars. They fought for decades and gave it away for a measly two grand.”

Marshall dropped his fork onto the plate, then slid the plate to the edge of the table. He took a drink of coffee before looking up at Tom.

“Did you ask me to drive all the way up here to discuss the local climate and your coffee preferences, or would you like to discuss your missing daughter? I’d prefer to talk about Megan, but if you want to talk about random bullshit, that’s your decision. I’m getting paid either way, so it’s up to you.”

Tom knew Marshall was probably his best and last chance of finding Megan, and that scared him.

“Sorry. It kills me to talk about her, so sometimes I just ramble about nonsense.”

“I understand, but if you want me to help, we’re going to have to start somewhere.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Marshall said, opening the notepad.

“Okay,” Tom said, looking out the window. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She is our only child. She was nineteen when she went missing, and is going to turn twenty-two in a couple weeks. Her birthday is December 21, a Christmas baby. She hated having her birthday so close to the holiday and would throw a fit about not having separate presents, so we always planned a separate birthday party the weekend before Christmas.”

Tom half smiled. He told Marshall about their decision to move because they thought Denver was getting too dangerous, and that Megan was pissed that they’d moved her away from her friends right before she started high school.

“She didn’t talk to us for almost a week. I thought it was just a teenager going through a phase, and after she started at the new school she’d have a new group of friends, but she didn’t. She had some friends, but I don’t think she ever found a best friend up here. I guess you could say she was socially withdrawn from her peers, and the small social circle she did have felt more like acquaintances, except for her boyfriend Jack Gardner.”

Tom picked up his coffee but set it back down without taking a drink.

“They started dating during her junior year, and to our knowledge it was her first real boyfriend. He was a nice kid—quiet, polite, came from a good family.”

That was the first time Tom could remember seeing her happy since moving to Granby.

“Her and Jack were pretty much inseparable. They both loved the outdoors. They hiked, camped, fished and skied. After graduating, they planned this huge two-week road trip. Moab, Capitol Reef, Zion, Las Vegas, and ending up in Los Angeles. I thought they were going to be together for years, but something happened on that trip, because when she got home, she was a different person, withdrawn and depressed. She finally told us they’d broken up and she didn’t want to talk about it, and she never did, to me or Lisa.”

He sighed. “She left for CU a couple weeks later, but only lasted that first semester.” Tom suspected Jack was the reason why she quit school.

“I told her if she wasn’t going to school, she’d have to get a job and pay rent. I really thought that would motivate her to go back, but it didn’t. A week later, she got a job at Fraser Market and worked there until the day she disappeared.” Tom paused for a moment. “I wish I would’ve fought for her to stay in school.”

Marshall stopped writing and looked up, “Tell me about the day she disappeared.”

“Thursday, December 12, 1996. I was eating breakfast, and Megan came downstairs, seemingly in good spirits. She poured a bowl of cereal and sat at the table with me. That was a rare occurrence; most days she’d skip breakfast and say goodbye from the hallway.” Tom tapped on the table with his thumb. “I asked about work, and she told me it was good, but she wanted a change. She was going to start looking for a job down in Denver in January. I asked what she wanted to do, and she wasn’t sure. I asked if it was because of a boy, and she said no. When I asked what she wanted for her birthday, she just shrugged her shoulders.”

“Not much of a talker?” Marshall said.

Tom shook his head. “Then she told me she had to run some errands before work and she’d see me later. I told her I loved her, and she said, ‘Bye, Dad’ and walked out the door. That was the last time I saw her.”

Grand County was massive, spanning over 1,800 square miles of mostly mountainous terrain. The county had six National Wilderness areas, two National Forests, and one National Park—Rocky Mountain. To the west was the Continental Divide and Trail Ridge Road, the highest paved mountain pass in the United States. The land was beautiful, but unforgiving. And despite its size, the county was sparsely populated, with under ten thousand residents. Hot Sulphur Springs, the county seat, had a population of less than five hundred. There were countless places to get lost, or bury a body.

At any given time, there were at least two dozen missing people in the county, mostly hikers or backcountry skiers who were lost to an avalanche. But there were missing people who mysteriously vanished, like Megan. Another tally to the county statistic.

“What time was that?” Marshall asked, scribbling notes again.

“8:45.”

“And where’d Megan go after she left your house?”

“She got gas at the Conoco on Fifth Street about fifteen minutes after leaving home. There’s CCTV footage—it’s grainy, but definitely her. She’s alone, and the surrounding pumps were empty. She fueled up, climbed into her car, and turned west onto Highway 40.

Tom opened the binder and removed three low-resolution pictures, sliding them across the table. Marshall studied the pixelated images of Megan pumping gas. Tom avoided looking at them. They always gave him a haunted feeling.

“I’ll need a copy of that video.”

Tom nodded. “The next time she’s seen is between 11:15 and 11:30 at the Outlet Mall in Silverthorne. Three different witnesses saw Megan at the mall: one in the Nike Store, one in the parking lot, and another on the bike path behind the stores. They all stated she appeared to be alone.”

“No video?”

“No. Either the stores didn’t have them, or they weren’t working, or Megan stayed out of view.”

“Any receipts, or credit card transactions?”

“She didn’t have a credit card, and we never found any record of her making a purchase.”

“How long does it take to get from Granby to Silverthorne?”

“An hour and fifteen, maybe on a good day you can do it closer to an hour.”

“What route would she most likely take?”

“The fastest way is west on 40 to Kremmling, then south on Highway 9. It’s about sixty miles.” Tom had probably driven that route thirty or forty times since Megan vanished.

“Do you find it strange she would’ve driven over an hour to a mall just to window shop?” Marshall asked.

“I know she was saving money, but it does seem out of character for her to drive all the way to Silverthorne and not buy anything.”

“Could she have been meeting someone there?”

“Possibly, but I didn’t find any evidence that she was.”

“Okay. Where does she go after the mall?”

“Work. She arrives at 2:50, ten minutes before her shift.”

“In Fraser?” Marshall said.

Tom nodded.

“How long is the drive from the mall to her work?”

“About an hour and twenty minutes.”

Marshall tapped the pen on the table. “Would she have gone back up Highway 9 to 40?”

“No, driving up through Granby adds about twenty unnecessary miles. The fastest route is east on I-70 through the tunnel, then north on 40 over Berthoud Pass, about an hour and twenty minutes.”

“So, she basically did a big circle from Granby to Silverthorne to Winter Park?”

“Yes, pretty much. About a 125-mile round trip.”

“To window shop at an outlet mall?” Marshall said.

“Yes.”

“How was the weather?”

“It was a beautiful December Colorado day—clear skies, highs in the low forties.”

Marshall stared at the notepad for a few moments. “And she worked at the grocery store in Fraser?”

“Yeah, the Fraser Market. It’s a family-owned store that’s been in town since the seventies. It’s small, but it has a meat department and a decent produce selection. They have anywhere from fifteen to twenty employees, mostly part-timers in their teens or early twenties. Ski bums, students, stoners.”

“Any of the employees have any type of criminal record?”

“Minor stuff—MIPs, marijuana possession, trespassing, a couple DUIs.”

“Did she have any disputes with any coworkers? Customers?”

“No. The owners said she was well liked by everyone. Her managers said she was amazing, everyone loved her. She didn’t have a single complaint in the ten months she worked there.”

“And what about her shift that day?” Marshall said.

Tom remembered every detail by heart, like an actor in a Broadway play. Megan had clocked in at 2:58 and worked register two for her entire shift. She’d completed forty-four transactions—twenty-seven by credit card, seven checks, and ten in cash. The last transaction was at 8:25 by Jim Wells, a sixty-eight-year-old retired English teacher who purchased a loaf of bread, a can of Copenhagen, and a pint of vanilla ice cream.

Tom had interviewed Jim twice and was confident he wasn’t involved.

“What about the customers who used credit cards and checks?” Marshall asked.

“Yeah, nothing. All locals.”

“Does the store have video?” Marshall said.

“Yes, cameras over every register, two pointed at the inside entrance, and one at the loading dock. Nothing in the parking lot.”

“I’ll need a copy of those as well.”

“Of course.”

Tom knew it was pointless. He’d watched those videos hundreds of times, and there weren’t any clues.

“And what happened after Jim made his purchase?”

“The store closed at 9:00. She counted the drawer, cleaned the register, and clocked out at 9:18. She said goodnight to a few coworkers, then walked out at 9:21.”

“Did anyone see her after she left the store?”

“Yeah, a mom who was waiting to pick up her daughter, another cashier there. She was parked toward the front of the parking lot for roughly twenty minutes and didn’t see anyone until Megan walked out of the store. She said when Megan walked past her car, they waved to each other. Then a couple minutes later, Megan drove away and turned north onto Highway 40.”

“And she was the last person to see Megan?” Marshall said.

Tom nodded.

“Did you expect her home that night?”

“No. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for her not to come home after work. Sometimes she’d be gone for a couple days then come home, shower, do laundry, and be gone for another few days. It bothered us, but we knew she was trying to figure her life out, so we gave her space.”

“When did you realize she was missing?”

A plate hit the floor and shattered—they both looked to the kitchen for a few moments, then turned back.

“I received a call from her manager at 4:22 the next day, the thirteenth, and he told me Megan didn’t show up for her shift. She was never late and had never done a no-call, no-show. I initially thought she had her days off mixed up or something.”

“What did you do after that call?”

“I called a few of her friends, but none of them had seen her, or even talked to her in months. That’s when I really started to get concerned.” Tom cleared his throat. “I called two guys on patrol that day, and they began an unofficial search, and Lisa and I did our own search from Granby to Fraser. There wasn’t any sign of her. Nothing.” He trailed off on the final word, lost in thought. It took him a moment to start talking again. “We filed the official missing person report a little after ten that night, and by the next morning, there was a search party of almost a hundred people—cops, search and rescue, neighbors and volunteers. They searched by car, by foot, on horseback, ATVs, hikers in the backcountry, and a tracking dog. There was even a guy who volunteered his Cessna to do an aerial search. Fliers were hung up in what felt like every gas station, grocery store, liquor store, post office, and trailhead in Grand County. All the Denver TV stations did a segment on the ten-o’clock news, and a reporter from the Denver Post wrote a feature about it.”

“I remember seeing it on Channel 4,” Marshall said, not looking up from the notepad.

“Watching everyone come together gave me confidence that Megan would be found, but Saturday turned into Sunday into Monday. Then on Tuesday morning, a storm rolled in and dumped about eight inches. Temperatures dropped to the low teens. That pretty much incapacitated the search, and it felt like each following day, the search party continued to dwindle. By the third week, it was down to four people, and after a month I was the only one left.”

“Have there been any other organized searches?”

Tom nodded. “In June, divers searched a section of Will Creek Reservoir. There was a tip about her car being in the lake. I, umm, parked on the road and just watched them go in and out of the water for hours.”

That was the worst day of his life, and he’d give anything to get the images of the divers out of his head. For months, every time he closed his eyes, he’d see the divers submerge into the water.

“We can take a break if you want,” Marshall said.

“No, I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

“Do you have any other leads?”

“No, it’s been pretty slim. There was an anonymous call that a guy who owned a cabin and some property outside of Idaho Springs was involved. We questioned him. He was cooperative and had a solid alibi. Then last summer, some hikers stumbled across a decomposing body about twenty feet off a trail while taking a piss on Morse Mountain. I was really optimistic it was Megan.”

He instantly realized he’d never said those words aloud—that he was hopeful that a rotting corpse deep in the forest was his baby girl. The thought had crossed his mind countless times, but to speak it so nonchalantly made his stomach turn, and he swallowed audibly.

“But the dental records identified the remains as a twenty-three year-old girl from Denver who didn’t return home after a day hike a few years back. It’s been ruled accidental. She probably got lost and died of exposure.”

“How would you consider your relationship with Megan?”

Tom started to speak, then quickly stopped, thinking about the question.

“Growing up, we were really close—dinners, Broncos games, movies, skiing, camping—but as she got older, she became less interested in spending time with me, and it pretty much stopped when she started dating Jack. I really tried to be involved in her life, but she became very distant that last year.”

“Do you think she kept secrets from you?”

“What teenager doesn’t keep secrets from their dad?”

“What about your wife?”

“Lisa knew about as much as I did about Megan’s life.”

“Tell me about her ex, Jack,” Marshall said.

“Grew up outside of Tabernash in an upper-middle-class family with two younger siblings. Parents still married, dad is a high-end real estate agent and mom is a nurse. Clean record, not even a speeding ticket. From all accounts, it seems like he’s a pretty good kid. He was living in Boulder when Megan went missing, a freshman at CU majoring in Engineering.”

“Was he ever considered a suspect?”

“Yes, briefly. And he lawyered up within a few days, but he cooperated with the investigation and passed a polygraph. After that, he was no longer considered a suspect.”

“Do you think he could’ve been involved?”

Tom scratched his beard. “I honestly don’t know. I go back and forth about him, but at the end of the day, I don’t think it was him.”

“Do you have any other suspects?”

Tom paused momentarily, then slowly said, “Kevin Strand.”

“The Rocky Mountain Killer?”