“I thought seagulls were supposed to stay by the sea,” says Gio Rossi. My assistant producer has his hands sunk deep into the pockets of his black trench coat. The hem whips in the wind. It’s cold. Wet cold. The kind of cold that seeps deep into one’s bones and lingers for hours after.
“Gulls have moved inland everywhere,” I say absently. Because my attention is riveted on the woman driving the tractor. A black-and-white border collie sits at her side. Rachel Walczak. Organic farmer. Retired detective. A recluse by all accounts. The earth churning in her wake is black and wet. “Scavengers,” I say quietly. “Survivors. The gulls adapt to humans. See them as a food source. Like the bears around here. Like raccoons in urban environments. Besides”—I glance at Gio—“we’re still pretty close to the ocean.”
Rachel’s farm, Green Acres, nestles deep in a valley between plunging mountains carved by glaciers and scored by avalanche chutes and raging rivers. It feels remote. Hostile almost. But it’s only a forty-minute drive from the town of Twin Falls, which lies at the northern tip of the sound. Twin Falls itself is about an hour or two north of the bustling Pacific Northwest city of Vancouver, yet it feels many more miles away, lost in time.
“Maybe as the crow flies,” Gio mutters, hunkering deeper into his coat. “You probably need a snowmobile and snowshoes to get around here in winter. Can’t imagine a snowplow coming along that shitty, twisting dirt road that leads out here.”
I smile to myself. Gio in his designer shoes that are now caked with mud. Gio who is better suited to the streets and bars and coffee shops of downtown Toronto. Or Manhattan perhaps. Gio who parks a bright-yellow Tesla in his high-end condo garage back home, and who’s not terribly impressed with the utility van I’ve rented for our West Coast podcast project. The van, however, is ideal for our sound and recording equipment and can serve as a makeshift studio. I parked it up on the shoulder of the road, behind a line of bushes, when I spied the tractor approaching the farm gate. Gio and I navigated on foot down a steep bank and through the mud, going around the side of the barn that lists alongside the old farmhouse. This time, I wanted to avoid Rachel’s partner, Granger Forbes. Last week, when we drove all the way out to Green Acres in an effort to meet with Rachel, Granger told us in no uncertain terms that Rachel would never agree to speak with us.
Rachel Walczak never returned my countless phone messages, either. And I really need to interview the lead detective who worked the twenty-four-year-old Leena Rai murder case. She’s key. Without Rachel, our podcast on the brutal sexual assault and killing of the fourteen-year-old Twin Falls resident will fall short of maximum punch.
Wind gusts. A cloud of drizzle kisses my face, and I shiver in the fresh bite of cold. It was a day just like this—same month—that Leena’s battered body was found by Rachel’s team in the dark water beneath Devil’s Bridge. The tractor starts a wide turn.
“She’s heading for the barn. Come!” I say. “Let’s head her off there.” I begin to pick my way quickly across the wet field. Mud sucks at my Blundstones. Gio curses as he follows in my tracks.
“She obviously doesn’t want to talk to us!” he calls out behind me. “Or she’d have returned your messages.”
“Obviously,” I echo. But Rachel’s avoidance has only sharpened my determination. People who don’t want to talk have the best things to say. Interview subjects who eschew social media and society in general usually have something good to hide, which is why getting Rachel Walczak to open up on the record will be a freaking coup. I can almost taste it. Success. This project has the early markers of a breakout. Ratings and reviews skyrocketed after the first episode went live a week ago. The second episode, which aired yesterday, brought even better stats. Media interest is swelling. Every true crime aficionado awaiting the next episodes is expecting to hear from Detective Rachel Walczak. How she hunted the killer down. How she interrogated him, got him to confess. Put him behind bars.
“Don’t look now, but I can see her husband up in the attic window,” Gio says, coming up behind me. “He’s watching us. Probably loading his shotgun. We’re trespassing, you do know that?”
I keep going, excitement building as the tractor nears the barn. I move faster. The rain intensifies, wetting my hair. Mist thickens, swirls as it fingers around the barn.
Gio stumbles and curses. “Have you seen these?” he yells. “Freaking Franken-potatoes. Buried just under the surface of this mud. Big as my head.”
I see the giant potatoes. Left behind at harvest—too big for market. But my attention remains locked on the green tractor. It comes to a stop outside the barn doors. The dark-haired woman climbs down. She’s wearing a ball cap, rain pants, a rain jacket, and muddy gum boots. The dog jumps down behind her and starts barking as it runs toward us, hackles raised. We both stop dead in our tracks. It’s obvious she’s seen us, but she continues to ignore us as she removes a bucket of rutabagas from the tractor and proceeds into the barn. The dog keeps yapping, holding us at bay.
“Rachel?” I call over the barking dog. “Rachel Walczak? Can we please talk to you?”
For a moment Rachel hesitates just inside the doors, but then she enters the old structure and whistles. The border collie gives one more yap and runs into the barn behind the ex-detective.
I take the opportunity and quickly enter after them, wiping rain off my face.
“Rachel Walczak, I’m Trinity Scott, cocreator and host of the true crime podcast It’s Criminal, and this is Gio Rossi, my ass—”
“I know who you are.” Her voice is rich. Husky. Authoritative. She sets down her bucket and faces us. Her eyes are an icy gray, her lashes long and dark. Lines bracket her strong, wide mouth. Silver strands streak through the thick, damp braid that hangs over her shoulder. She’s tall. Lithe and strong-looking despite the fact that she’s almost old enough, technically, to be my grandmother. She makes me feel short even though I’m not. Rachel is everything I hoped she would be.
“I’m not interested in talking to you,” Rachel says. “I’d like you to get off my land.”
Hesitation sparks through me. I shoot a quick glance at Gio. His dark eyes meet mine. The expression in his gaze mirrors my thoughts: This is our one last shot. Lose it, and we won’t get another window.
“It’s been almost a quarter of a century,” I say calmly, my heart thudding inside my chest. I think of Granger and the possibility of a shotgun, and the fact that we are trespassing. “It was the same time of year when your dive team found Leena’s body in that brackish water. Cold. Misty. Rain hovering on the verge of sleet. Wind driving off the sea.” I pause. Rachel’s sharp eyes narrow. There’s a subtle shift in her posture.
“Same scents in the air,” I say. “Smell of woodsmoke. Rotting leaves. The dead fish. Winter coming.”
Rachel’s gaze remains locked on mine. I take a tentative step closer. I see that the lines that fan out from Rachel’s eyes are deep. Not laugh lines—tired lines. A sudden empathy washes through me. This cop has seen things. Done things. She just wants to be left alone now.
The dog growls softly. Gio stays back.
“Your husband—”