The Edge of the Light by Elizabeth George Page A

now as she scrolled through the stories she’d already read to collect new information on where matters stood, she saw that things had undergone a significant change in San Diego. Connor West hadgiven an interview to a reporter, and what he’d said was paraphrased in the midst of the newspaper article:
    According to Mr. West, the stepdaughter of his partner Jeff Corrie was also involved in what went on at Corrie-West investments. His claim is that without the girl’s participation, nothing would have come of Corrie’s scheme to embezzle money that was placed into their hands. West also suggests that the girl’s mother, Laurel Armstrong, had from the first known what was going on and it is this that prompted her to flee with her then fourteen-year-old daughter when the scheme began to fall apart.
    The reporter had then, it seemed, spoken to Jeff Corrie about the assertions his former partner had made, for Jeff was quoted as saying, “That’s so ridiculous a claim that I’m not even going to comment.” But then he’d gone on anyway, and what he’d told the reporter was paraphrased in the same manner as Connor West’s words had been:
    When it was pointed out to Corrie that his wife and stepdaughter’s disappearance suggests they were indeed involved, Corrie’s claim was that he’d come home one day from work and they were gone. He revealed that the only clue he’d ever had as to their whereabouts was a single telephone call from the sheriff’s department on Whidbey Island in Washington State.
    Becca’s blood went to ice when she saw this last part. The only thing she could think of doing was to look into the identity of the reporter who’d uncovered this information.
    There was, luckily, a byline with the story. It had been written by one Olivia Bolding. Becca searched her out as she’d searched out the stories on Jeff Corrie. What came up was a slew of articles written by her along with links to her blog, to her website, to her Facebook page, and to Wikipedia.
    Becca chose the last option. In short order she learned that Olivia Bolding was twenty-nine years old and that she had already been nominated twice for a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. These nominations had been, Becca read, for a story about a twelve-year-old Detroit boy’s descent into heroin addiction and for another story about Mexican girls being smuggled into the United States and sold into sex slavery. Becca wanted desperately to believe that, compared to these stories, she was far beneath the notice of a reporter. But she had a feeling that if Olivia Bolding became intrigued by something, she didn’t let go of it.
    It seemed to Becca once again that her only hope was going to come from finding her mom. So she logged on to an e-mail account that only a single individual on the planet even knew existed.

9
    T here were families out and about when Becca left the library. People were beginning to crowd Cascade Street, not only the main route into the village but also usually the best place from which one could observe the Cascade Mountains—topped with snow—in the far distance. Today, though, beyond the gray veil of fog, there was little visible in the waters of Possession Sound. This fog would make biking to her next destination risky. But she felt she had little choice in the matter. She needed to recapture some kind of tranquility, and there seemed to be only one way to do this.
    She headed out of Langley on her bike. Although she passed churchgoers, she could hear nothing of their whispers. This was just as well. The freedom inside her head allowed her to consider what she’d learned from her e-mail.
    Her correspondent was Parker Natalia, a talented fiddle player whom she’d come to know the previous autumn. A native of British Columbia, he’d been in town for Langley’s yearly gypsy jazz festival, and for a time he’d played with Seth and his group.