Betrayal by Gregg Olsen Page B

of Olivia’s luggage. “I’m sure we can manage. We managed the long drive from Seattle to this,” she paused, “—this charming outpost.” Her words, of course, didn’t match her sentiments. Without saying so, it was clear that she’d thought very little of Port Gamble.
    Taylor wondered what Olivia’s mom would have really liked to have said just then.
    â€œWe found our way to your insufferable little hamlet in the middle of nowhere.”
    Or, maybe:
    â€œI would have rather had my daughter die in Seattle than here. In Seattle, at least, they have some decent hotels.”
    â€œI think we’ll be going,” Hayley said, looking at her sister and Colton.
    â€œThanks for coming,” Beth said.
    Kim put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We’ve had a very long, sad day.”
    â€œYou haven’t the slightest idea what long and sad is,” Edward replied, in his clipped British accent.
    Kim did, of course. She let it slide, however. There was no point in arm wrestling to see whose loss was greater. Things like that could never really be measured. There’s no getting over it. No setting it aside. She knew that Olivia’s father’s bitter affect was all about his deep, unabated grief.
    As a final parting shot, Winnie turned to Kim and commented, “I told that girl to take a different set of luggage. But she didn’t listen. She never did. I warned her that American people get killed every single day for wearing status shoes. I told her she’d be a target walking around the airport with her Louis Vuitton. I saw on the news that a couple from Germany was killed outside of Disneyland for the husband’s Rolex. America is a very dangerous place.”
    Kim wanted to defend her country and point out that no one killed Olivia for her designer luggage.
    The truth was that no one, not Kim or the police, knew why Olivia had been savagely murdered Halloween night.
    And only one person, maybe two, knew who the killer was.
    BRANDY CONNORS BAKER FANNED OUT the bills that had piled up on the copper-topped dining table of her Seattle condominium. All around her, boxes of her belongings sat in three neat piles: Sell, give away, and keep. The Sell boxes had dwindled over the past few months. She’d put everything of true value up on Craigslist and watched as her assets dwindled. She had nothing left. No second husband. Though she hadn’t told a soul—especially her daughter and ex-husband—Robby had left her months ago. No youthful face and not enough money for Botox.
    In the place of what used to be her perfect life was a stack of bills and a kind of emptiness that she’d never imagined. Her emotions swung back to something more familiar: disappointment and unbridled anger.
    How could things have turned out the way they had? It was so unfair.
    She surveyed the mess all around her and then picked up her phone. Brianna had put her photo on the contact button, and Brandy pushed it with her glossy red fingernail.
    There was no answer. The call went to voice mail.
    â€œHey! This is Bree. Leave a message. But make it short. I get bored easily. Bye!”
    Brandy left a message. “I hope you are all right, Honey. . . . I love you so much.”
    It was a brief message. But it was also as long as it needed to be.
    Brandy got up and passed by the mirror as she went to the bedroom. She barely glanced at herself. Seeing her reflection in the afternoon light was so unforgiving, and it made her feel even more bitter.
    The bedroom was in complete disarray. The bed was unmade; the nightstands were littered with the obvious remnants of a party for two. A pair of Diesel jeans, a black T-shirt, and Armani Exchange underwear were scattered by the door to the bathroom. Brandy wasn’t alone, but it dawned on her that being with someone didn’t mean an end to loneliness.

Chapter 12
    DESPITE THE LATE AFTERNOON DOLDRUMS and a protein