One
On the thirtieth anniversary of the r**e and murder of Amanda Stenson, a news helicopter flew over Beauty Falls and my house as my phone began ringing. It was Sheriff Nate Gunderson.
“Katie,” he said when I answered, “Sylvie Brubaker just walked in and confessed to killing her kids in the woods. She won’t talk to anyone but you. She won’t tell anyone where the bodies are, except you. She’s got blood on her hands. I think it’s real. Can you come over?”
I glanced at the time on my phone. 9:00 a.m. Crap. Scott and his fiancé would be here around 9:30—an unexpected but welcome visit. I needed to be back by then or there would be hell to pay. I hesitated, but then I said, “Be right there.”
Scott would be pissed if I wasn’t back by the time he arrived. But then, he had invited himself ov
