Page 37

Dinah

A few miles from the ranch, I check my messages. Nothing from the station or from Freddie, who has gone silent since I dropped him off.

Thank God. He’s the last person I want to hear from. Such an incredible waste of time, having to hold his hand through the investigation. And for what? Him to spend that time leaving breadcrumbs just to see if I’d follow them?

It was disrespectful of my time, and of the women we were investigating.

I used to call Oley at this point in the drive and let him know that I was checking out for the next two days.

I would spend the time to catch him up on any open cases and reinforce the transfer of responsibility.

Oley was my comfort blanket, in a unique way that Joe couldn’t be.

While Joe protected me personally, Oley was my shield and cushion professionally.

Was.

Now I feel like I’m going through the job without armor. I’ve been telling myself for years that I was paranoid about the exposure, about the feeling that I was constantly at risk—but now look at where I am. Deep in shit.

Joe slows, putting on his turn signal, and I tuck my phone into my bag and roll down the window, hanging my head out as he turns onto our private dirt road.

I love the ranch—absolutely everything about it.

The way this entry is rutted and often washed out, a journey that leaves its mark on our cars, the dried brown splashes on the wheel wells and fenders an oddity in a city like LA.

I love the smell of the air—free of smog and entitlement, thick with pollen and evergreens and damp leaves and dirt.

I love how we have a rusty gate at the entrance with an old-school chain and padlock, just past the mailbox that says Marino in white paint with a heart next to it.

I painted that mailbox. I sat at the dining table while Joe lay on the couch and watched football, and a chicken casserole was in the oven and the smell of it was heavy in the room.

As I painted it, I thought about all the possibilities on the acreage.

One day, a collection of animals in the north barn.

Air-conditioning in the south barn. A dedicated work and research space for Joe.

A painting studio for me. At the time—six years ago—I saw myself an undiscovered talent, one who might explode on the art scene under a pseudonym and ridiculous price points.

I’d planned out a series of paintings, each one titled after a missing person. It would bring awareness to the crimes and be a great PR pitch for the art.

Unfortunately, my painting skills never developed much further than block letters on a mailbox.

Joe hammered the post into the ground and attached the mailbox.

Every few months we empty it and dump all the political mailers and junk mail into the trash.

It’s useless, but I love it and everything else out here, and how different it all is from our home.

It’s like we live in two different worlds, carry on two different lives, similar only in that we fit perfectly together inside both.

Joe comes to a stop just before the padlocked gate. Reaching up, he pushes the button on the remote that’s clipped to the top of his visor, and the entire gate, padlock and all, clicks into motion. Another secret of the land, just like the electric fences that run along the entire perimeter.

As the gate fully retracts, the dirt path stretches ahead, framed by giant oak trees with heavy woods on either side.

It looks quiet and peaceful, and I lean over and impulsively kiss Joe on the cheek.

“I’m always so happy to be here,” I say, and maybe I will wait until Monday to tell him about the investigation.

“Me too.” He takes his foot off the brake, and the vehicle rolls forward.