Walsh nodded and asked about his car. Sullivan confirmed that he had owned a large dark sedan. He had sold it in 1997 when money got tight.
The detective wrote that down and thanked him for his time. As he was leaving, Walsh glanced back once. Sullivan was still sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought.
Gray ash kept falling silently onto the sticky vinyl tablecloth. The man looked like someone who had spent eight years knowing the truth was wrong but having no way to prove it. Back at the department, Walsh requested records on the neighboring cabin owners.
One useful witness turned up—a seventy-four-year-old retired engineer named Peter Somers. He had never sold his place and had lived there nearly year-round.
Walsh drove out to see him that same day. Somers turned out to be a lively old man in a faded ball cap. He welcomed the detective in and immediately offered coffee.
He spoke slowly, but his memory was sharp. At first he was reluctant to revisit old events. Still, he confirmed that he remembered the Reeds well.
He described them as a quiet young couple who came out on weekends. In June of 1995, they had been at the cabin fairly often. Somers assumed they were getting the place ready to sell.
Then they simply disappeared. Around the subdivision, people said the young couple had moved overseas. Somers had shrugged and figured that was probably true.
But on the night of June 17 into June 18, he hadn’t been able to sleep. His back had been bothering him, so he sat on the porch smoking. At around two in the morning, he distinctly heard an engine coming up the road.
Late-night visitors were rare in that little subdivision. Curious, he looked out to see who it was. A large dark car was moving slowly toward the Reeds’ cabin.
The vehicle stopped by the gate of cabin seventeen. At first Somers assumed it was the owners arriving late. Then he remembered the Reeds drove a small white compact car…
