Right after the murders, when the first thread was opened on the forum, I used to sometimes go two to three days without sleeping. Half of that time I was reading up on other unsolved cases in the Pacific Northwest, trying to hone in on similarities. The other half of my time was spent offering my keen eye and coding skills to help other families of missing and murdered individuals. I helped them get in touch with private investigators, even paid for PI services a few times. I registered domain names and built entire websites for them.

Part of me did it out of the kindness of my heart. But a larger part of me hoped that, if there was a God or an ordered universe, I was stacking my karma points. And maybe one day, I’d have enough good deeds under my belt to earn the answers I so desperately craved.

As I entered the 50s-style diner off State Street in Boise, I looked around for what I assumed would be a lonely, unshaven, out of shape man in his late fifties. To my left, I found no one sitting alone at the booths or chrome stools at the counter. Turning around, I spotted him right away.

The sandy-haired gentleman at the booth in the corner was neither out of shape nor unshaven. But the way he clutched his coffee mug in both hands, staring into the cup as if he were attempting to glean the meaning of life from its contents, definitely seemed to fit the description Sean had given me of a washed up former public defender.

As I approached the booth, the guy’s head snapped up to meet my gaze. He began to stand, but I waved off the gesture.

“Please sit,” I said, holding my hand out for a shake. “Jack Stratton.”

He took my hand and made no attempt at a firm grip as we shook. “Byron Huxley. Good to meet you,” he said in a voice that sounded younger than I anticipated.

I slid into the booth, glancing at the second glass of ice water on the Formica tabletop, which was obviously meant for me, but I didn’t partake. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Byron. As you know, I’ve been looking into my deceased mother-in-law’s background and I’m fairly certain your adopted son is her biological son.”

His mouth hung open for a moment, seemingly surprised by my attempt to skip past the niceties and get straight to the meat of the conversation. “I’m not sure that has been established, but I suppose that’s what we’re here to find out.”

Spoken like a true defense attorney.

I flashed him an easy smile and chuckled. “Right. I’m getting a little ahead of myself. But I’m on a bit of a time crunch, so you’ll have to—”

A young, dark-haired waiter arrived with a plastic smile and a notepad at the ready. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Are you ready to order now?”

The way his mouth hung open as he waited for our orders made me irrationally angry. I wanted to comment on how he had interrupted something important, but I had to keep reminding myself not to be Hurricane Jack, as Laurel often referred to me. Always leaving a path of destruction in the wake of my wrath. This kid wasn’t the source of my anger or my unquenchable thirst for justice.

Byron glanced at me then turned back to the waiter. “He hasn’t had a chance to look at the menu.”

“It’s fine,” I interjected before the waiter had the chance to leave. “I’ll have steak and eggs and a fruit plate. The steak medium and the eggs over easy, no potatoes or toast.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Coffee, black.”

I looked at Byron as I waited for him to spout off his order, but he seemed to be lost in thought.

“Sir?” the waiter prompted him.

Byron blinked a couple times and looked up. “Sorry. Yeah, I’ll have the oatmeal, no nuts, and a glass of soy milk. That’s all.”

I almost rolled my eyes. This guy was so fucking bland, from his unremarkable features and his tan windbreaker and khakis to his hunched shoulders and the way he chose the booth in the corner. This man was either completely beaten down by life or he was trying very hard not to be noticed. Considering the things Sean and I had dug up on him, it was probably the former and not the latter. This guy didn’t seem to catch many breaks in life.

Once the waiter brought my steaming mug of coffee, I was ready to get this conversation over with. “So, why don’t you tell me a little more about yourself and how you decided to adopt?”

Byron continued to stare into the abyss of his coffee cup as he spoke. “I’m sure you already have most of my background through public records.” He paused and let out a soft sigh. “I was finishing my law degree at Lewis & Clark when I met Dottie. She was a clerk for the City of Portland. We hit it off right away and a couple of years later, I was working as an assistant public defender with the Federal Public Defender’s Office, and Dottie and I were married.” He paused to take a sip of coffee, glancing up at me very briefly before he continued. “We started trying for a baby right away. We both grew up in big families. I had three sisters and she had two brothers and a sister. But after a few years of nothing happening, we finally went to see a fertility doctor and were told that we were both… challenged in that department.”

“How did Dottie take the news?” I asked, encouraging him to continue.

He shrugged. “We wondered if maybe it was just stress. So Dottie quit her job and started putting all her time and effort into adopting. Three years later, we adopted Brandon.”

“How did you meet Beth Keller?” I asked, eager to get to the specifics of the adoption.

This time he looked me in the eye, seeming a bit peeved now. “Through New Horizons.”

“I understand that,” I replied, keeping my cool. “What I’m asking is if you were formally introduced to her? Or did you never meet Beth during the adoption process? I’m trying to establish that we’re talking about the same Beth Keller. If you met her, can you tell me what she looked like?”

His frustration seemed to dissipate slightly at my clarification. “She was blonde, and pretty. I remember Dottie being a little jealous when we had dinner with her a few weeks before the birth.”

“Do you remember how old she was or if she discussed being married or having any other children?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Is it true you didn’t go to the candlelight vigil on the anniversary of your son’s death?”

This time I lowered my gaze, staring in the abyss of my black coffee. I didn’t know if there was a way I could explain to this man — who’d lost his wife the way he lost her — why I didn’t go to the candlelight vigil. He wouldn’t understand how utterly hopeless I was feeling after one year of no leads on Junior’s case. He wouldn’t understand how futile it seemed to light a candle in the middle of such impenetrable darkness.

“It’s actually not quite that simple,” I replied as the waiter arrived with our food.

“Can I get you two anything else? More coffee? Water?”

We assured him we were all set, then I dug into my steak. The more answers I got surrounding the case, the more my appetite for food seemed to grow. I was beginning to understand why Laurel had trouble eating these last two years.

I hadn’t even realized I’d lost my appetite. I assumed that my ability to see food as fuel was a product of discipline. It was discipline, but it was also a lack of zeal. My hunger for food had been replaced by my hunger for justice. I couldn’t even imagine how much Laurel had to be suffering to be almost completely unable to eat.

“So, what made you decide to move to Boise?” I said as I cut a piece of steak.

Byron grabbed the salt shaker and shook some into his oatmeal. “Ironically, to get away from the crime in Portland. One of Dottie’s ex-coworkers was raped and Dottie was there with her at the hospital all night. When she got home later that day, she insisted that she didn’t want to raise Brandon in Portland. Her family was in Idaho, so she began looking for open public defender positions in Boise, to be near her family.”

The burner phone in my pocket vibrated. As I slid it out and glanced at the screen, my heart nearly stopped.

“Sorry about that,” I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “You were talking about the move to Boise. How did that go?”

The moment he began to speak, I tuned him out. Drea’s words had punctured my faith in the plan.

…she’s starting to feel very comfortable with him… very comfortable with him.

What did that mean?

Just contemplating these words made my insides burn with rage. I tried to stave off the feelings of defeat by imagining the last time I had sex with Laurel. But the last time we slept together was the hate-fuck I wished I could forget. How did I fuck everything up so badly?

Drea was right. I had to hurry the fuck up or I was going to lose Laurel for good this time.

I shook off my tangential thoughts and refocused my attention on Byron. “I’m sorry, my mind drifted away for a bit. What were you saying?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Boy, I remember those days, when I couldn’t seem to keep my focus. My thoughts always turning to… Well, as I was saying. I ended up working at the McClure Federal Building in Boise and Dottie decided to stay home. But it didn’t take long to realize I’d made a mistake.”

“How so?”

He shook his head. “I’d taken a small pay-cut in the move, but the cost of living was so low, I considered it a raise. Unfortunately, I quickly realized I was being overworked and underpaid. I never had fewer than thirty ongoing cases and I was hardly ever there for Brandon. And when I was, I was stressed out about work or fighting with Dottie. She…”

I sensed he wanted to shut down as the conversation edged closer to the reasoning behind the breakdown of his family. “It’s hard sometimes to understand the things our wives choose to fight about,” I commiserated with him.

He hesitated for a moment, then he sighed. “Dottie fussed over Brandon. He had a lot of allergies and missed a lot of school. He fell behind in his studies, so Dottie decided to homeschool him.” He shook his head again as he stirred his oatmeal absentmindedly. “Of course, that only made Brandon feel even more isolated and different from the other kids. Eventually, Dottie found some resources for homeschooled kids; groups that got together for field trips, dance parties, stuff like that. All the things normal kids in public school did. Brandon was finally beginning to come out of his shell when Dottie was abducted from a grocery store parking lot.”

My newly acquired appetite was extinguished in an instant as his face became twisted with anguish. I hated to make him even talk about this, especially knowing how difficult it was for me to talk about Junior. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how broken I’d be today if Laurel was stolen from me as brutally as Dottie was taken from Byron.

I wondered if I should say something to encourage him to continue talking, but I opted against it. I couldn’t bring myself to push this guy to go beyond his limits. I’d never seen a man who looked more broken and pathetic and worthy of my compassion. Setting down my fork, I was about to thank him for chatting with me, when he straightened his back a little and began to speak again.

“He took her to an abandoned apartment building, where he… He raped her before he killed her. She was found by a homeless squatter the next day. Her killer was never found. As you can imagine, Brandon didn’t take it well. I had to put him in public school, and he began hanging out with a bad crowd and doing drugs.” He turned toward the window and looked out at the parking lot as if he was expecting to see someone. “Somehow, he managed to graduate from high school, but he became obsessed with trying to find out who killed his mom. I thought maybe it was okay because he’d found a purpose in life, a reason to do better. He stopped doing drugs and went to college, majored in criminal justice. I thought he might be considering following in my footsteps, and, boy, did that fill me with pride.” He smiled as he grabbed his coffee cup again. “But his demons came back and he dropped out of college less than a year later. He took a job as a large machinery mechanic and started keeping to himself again.

“At first, I would drop by his apartment and visit every month or so. But then he was hardly ever there. His cell phone got disconnected for not paying the bill and he never called me. I haven’t spoken to him in almost three years. The last time we spoke, he said he was thinking of moving to Portland and I might not hear from him again.” Suddenly, he looked me straight in the eye. “I hope you never know what it’s like to realize your child has become a stranger.”

His statement filled me with pure, unadulterated fury. Because of this man’s son, I would never get the chance to watch my son grow into a man. At least he’d had a chance to be a good father. I couldn’t judge Byron’s parenting skills, but his empathy skills were abysmal.

“We tried to raise him right,” he continued more forcefully. “We wanted him so badly. We loved him so much.”

The rage cocktail pumping through my veins simmered as Byron’s eyes shimmered with fresh tears.

“Never,” he said with a sniff as he clutched the coffee mug so tight I worried he’d crush it. “Never in a million years did I consider Brandon was looking for his birth mother. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

I left the diner feeling as if I’d dug my grave even deeper. Byron confirmed my worst fears. I didn’t accuse him of it, but he basically admitted that he had suspected his son of killing my son and my mother-in-law and doing absolutely nothing to alert the authorities in the wake of his crimes. He couldn’t be bothered to consider the possibility that his son should be stopped, or at the very least investigated.

If I wasn’t trying to approach this situation from a completely different, more even-tempered point of view, I would have throttled that asshole and ripped his bland head off.

I entered the hotel room and sat at the desk, where my laptop awaited me. The phone call I had with Sean on the way here made it clear that he didn’t want me doing anymore solo interviews. He didn’t want me taking any action from this point forward without being accompanied by him or a law enforcement official. He didn’t want me to go off the rails.

I had a choice. I could open up my laptop and work on expanding PNW Checkmate to other states. Or I could go to Brandon Huxley’s apartment with a special delivery.

I knew what Sean wanted me to do. I knew what I wanted to do. But I didn’t know what Laurel would want me to do, and that was really all that mattered.

I’d never felt so fucking confused in all my life.

It felt like when I found a line of code I didn’t remember writing. I didn’t know how it got there or what it did, but I was afraid to delete it. That’s what Brandon Huxley was: bad code. You can delete it, but you risk rendering the entire program inoperable. Or you can learn the language, trace the origin, and figure out how it got there and where it belongs.

As much as I hated to admit it, that was also what my marriage felt like: bad code. It could be fixed, but only by learning the language, tracing the origin of the problem, and figuring out how we got here and where we belonged.

I didn’t know where Brandon belonged, whether it be a mental institution, a jail cell, or a grave. But I knew where I belonged. I belonged with Laurel, and I would do anything and everything it took to get there.