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because he kept having to deal with accidents. The state people responded right away. The original survey, signed by Joseph Knapp, licensed geologist, and Charles M. O’Neill, M.S., did indeed constitute a Class II warning of landslide hazard. Rob called Professor Knapp, who turned out to be head of the geology department at Pullman. A genial fellow, Knapp praised Rob’s cousin as an exemplary graduate student, experienced, looking at a career in hydrology, whatever that might be.
    Rob thanked Knapp. Just in case, he also ran a police check on Charles Morris O’Neill. Nothing questionable turned up. He was who he said he was, born in Chicago to Thomas and Mary O’Neill, B.S. from the University of Wisconsin and the M.S. from Washington State. He had worked in construction off and on, so he probably didn’t object to development on principle.
    O’Neill was teaching a geology class for rockhounds in Klalo and was listed to teach academic classes in Vancouver when the new semester started. He had no criminal record and had served four years in the army without distinction or discredit. He was thirty-three, which meant he was born several years after Rob’s father was killed.
    Thanks to a reserve generator, the courthouse and the annex that housed the county’s emergency and police services had power. After a morning wasted freezing his buns on a logging road north of State Highway 14, Rob set his cousin’s laptop to charge and slipped around to the courthouse to look at the records.
    Slipped was the operative word. When he had crawled up the icy main stairway to the entrance of the Art Nouveau structure, Rob found only two offices open. That meant the records clerk would pay more attention to him than he liked, but he was too impatient to wait. She brought him the relevant documents, including Fred Drinkwater’s approved plan to develop the site.
    Rob double-checked the plat numbers to be sure. The geologist listed in the county’s records was not Joseph Knapp but Martin Woodward of Vancouver, also a licensed geologist. The site was rated as Class III, approved for residential development. Construction had begun the previous May. Rob checked the date of Woodward’s survey. About three months after Knapp’s. He wondered how it had come to replace the original recommendation.
    When he called Woodward, he got voice mail. Rob didn’t leave a message. Frustrated, he settled in to write up the nine accidents he had responded to in the previous seventy-two hours. He called again, before he went out to tend to one last wreck, but still got voice mail.
    It was eight in the evening when he returned to Meg’s warm and welcoming kitchen. The pickup had been removed. Meg’s garage door looked awful but could probably be coaxed to work. He found Meg and Charlie at the kitchen table playing dominoes by lantern light. Charlie thanked him for charging the laptop. He looked better—shaven and wearing a WSU sweatshirt that clashed with his hair.
    Kayla had already slid off to work in her little Civic, they said. Meg hadn’t waited dinner for Rob, but she’d saved some pot roast. He could have eaten roadkill. He took a hot shower while Meg dished up.
    “Have you had time to check yet?” Charlie demanded.
    “Let the man eat,” Meg said. “Your turn.”
    He grumbled but placed a tile on the Mexican train. Meg laid a double on the train, a double on her own train and another tile on that one. “One,” she announced, smug. Charlie groaned.
    Rob wanted to think through what he should say. The pot roast was caramelized to perfection and the vegetables tender as young love. Meg had made horseradish sauce. He ate, savoring, and edited what he knew.
    The domino game progressed; Meg went out. While Charlie tidied the tiles away, she dished up ice cream that was on the edge of melting, she said, so they’d better eat it. She also set out a plate of cookies.
    Rob smiled at her. “I’d like to see what you serve after