[PROLOGUE]
A WHIFF OF sulfur burned Traveler’s muzzle. The whistle and crack of explosions pained his tall ears as bursts of color lit the night sky. He ran along the river until he heard only night noises—water falling, dried grass rattling, an owl hooting, a flurry of bats. Then he sat howling for his brothers. He’d wandered many rivers since they’d last answered.
The smell of smoke and meat lured Traveler toward a jumble of human noise. He crept along the edges of the trees to where the scent was strongest and people moved in and out of the unnatural light. A blot of darkness moved from the light inside a shelter and tossed a large black bag toward a row of cans overflowing with the stench of food. Traveler inched closer, then crouched in the shadows when the hulk turned.
Traveler’s ears twitched at the sound of a car door opening and closing. A man walked toward the light, his arms around a woman whose long,
straight hair fell forward, hiding her darkened face.
“What happened? She’s not much use to us like this,” the hulk said in a tone that would have made Traveler run if he weren’t so hungry. “Just enough to relax them, make them happy, is what I said.”
“She was going to leave,” the other man said. “She’d already seen us.” Traveler tensed his body, ready to bolt.
“OK, bring her in, put her in the downstairs bedroom. I know a couple of guys who ain’t too picky about their girls.”
The ground darkened, and Traveler calmed when the door closed. He braced his paws on the lip of a can and tore at the plastic inside until it ripped open. The sudden intensity and wealth of smells excited Traveler to push his nose deep, and the can clattered to the ground. He stopped and looked toward the building, but no one came. He devoured scorched meat and bread soggy with fat and tomato, then returned to the forest.
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, June 16, 2014
KELLY FLYNN TRIPPED on a frayed section of the hallway’s worn beige carpeting, distracted as she rehearsed her argument for this afternoon’s hearing. Pay attention. She remembered now why she seldom wore spike heels. She hurried past the scuffed office doors of other attorneys huddled over their cluttered desks. Clara looked up and smiled, gave Kelly a small wave, and returned to staring at her computer screen. The red rug and bright paintings of sunflowers made Clara’s office a welcome bit of color from the hallway’s blank white walls and the beige functionality of most of the offices.
I should do more to brighten my office. Kelly hung her black raincoat on the hook behind her office door. Diplomas and awards and a picture of herself with Justice Ginsburg taken at a charitable dinner at a conference in DC filled Kelly’s walls. Books and overflowing accordion files filled the bookshelves that lined two sides of the room, and stacks of loose papers, pens, and pencils surrounded a picture of Ruth and a computer on her desk. She grimaced at the thought of decorating. She never even took the time to clear off her desk, preferring to have whatever she was working on near at hand. Carmen, the office manager, often complained that if anything happened to Kelly, no one would be able to find anything. Probably true, but who had time to organize? She dropped into her chair, trying to decide which of the many scattered files she should pick up first, dreading another morning of the sad cases that made their way through her office. So many in pain, forgotten by those who preferred tax cuts to social services and ravaged by a judicial system that favored the wealthy and took too long to help anyone in crisis. She often felt
like that little Dutch boy trying to hold back the sea wall with his thumb.
She knew which finger she’d use.
Carmen leaned on the doorjamb, a set of keys dangling from her freckled hand. “Good morning. Somebody found a floating foot along Galmenberg Bay. Boss wants you to head out there.”
“A what?” Kelly asked.
“You know, a shoe with a foot in it, like the ones they keep finding in Canada.”
“OK. But why do I need to drive out to the sticks to see it?” “There’s an issue of jurisdiction.”
Kelly grumbled to herself about needing to get ready for her hearing, but took off her heels, put on the gym shoes she kept in a drawer, and gave Carmen a sideways smile as she slipped the key ring past the Carmen’s long red fingernail. Carmen towered over Kelly’s smaller, softer body, but Carmen’s self-confidence, not her size, subdued Kelly and almost everyone in the office, even the new prosecuting attorneys that changed every four to eight years. Kelly shrugged her coat back on and trudged down the stairs to the underground garage where the office parked its Caprice, an old police cruiser repainted and repurposed for a government pool car.
The morning fog was a bolster of gray along the horizon as Kelly drove toward the coast. She tried to recall what she knew about the spate of floating feet discovered along the Pacific shoreline the past few years. Not much. For years, the bones beach walkers found inside a hiking boot or running shoe had been British Columbia’s problem. Then the feet started showing up in Washington. The media loved them, asked whether a serial killer was at work. Copycats soon followed: pig bones, even a bear claw, stuffed into a shoe. Most couldn’t be identified, and those that were turned out not to be murder victims.
Kelly rolled down her window as she neared the bay to feel the cool June breeze. She loved the constant rush of the waves, the briny sea air that reminded her to be glad she’d left the diesel and factory smells of the South Chicago neighborhood where she’d grown up. She parked between the medical examiner’s gray van and a black and white SUV with Sheriff emblazoned in gold. A strong ocean wind lifted her hair from behind her ears and into her eyes as she passed an old blue van marked Nininpak Nation and followed the increasing roar of waves down a steep path toward the yellow tape.
Twigs, pine needles, and bright red leaves littered the rocks, sand, and tide pools along the shore. She licked the salt on her lips and wiped the sea spray from her glasses. She nodded to a kneeling man in a khaki green uniform with the name Springer embroidered on his shirt. He stopped taking pictures and stood. Young, clean shaven, and sunburnt, his tall, fit body dominated her view. His eyes hid behind reflective sunglasses, but the line of his narrow mouth told Kelly something irritated him.
“Hi, I’m Kelly Flynn from the prosecuting attorney’s office. You asked for us?”
Deputy Springer lifted his camera as a greeting and pointed it toward a group of women talking with a man in the dark blue uniform Kelly recognized as the Nininpak Tribal Police. “Sheriff thought we needed somebody.” He shrugged as if he didn’t. “Those women were crabbing and called tribal police when they found the shoe. He called us because he thinks the Reservation ends around sixty yards north of here. Talk to him.”
Kelly looked north, wondering if they thought she knew where the boundary line lay. If it became important, they’d get the surveyors out. Springer crouched back into the shallow water next to a log sheltering rotting leaves, a dead fish, and a black trainer covered with strings of seaweed. Dr. Green, the county medical examiner, bent over the shoe, her gray coveralls wet above her black waders and along her arms. She used a long-handled screwdriver to prod open a dirty white sock stuffed in the shoe.
“I suppose it was inevitable we’d get one,” Dr. Green said, then looked up at Kelly. “Good to see you, Ms. Flynn. It’s been a while.”
“Can’t assume much from a gym shoe and a sock,” Kelly said.
“Nope.” Dr. Green folded open the sock with her gloved hands to peer at the bone. “Human,” she said as she put the shoe into an evidence bag.
“Time of death?” Kelly asked, putting on a somber face.
Dr. Green looked at Kelly, smiled, and shook her head. It was their shtick ever since they met at an employee picnic years ago and bonded over the brilliance of television coroners who could glance at a body and know. Wish I’d gone to their medical school, Dr. Green had said.
“I’ll try to figure out when this shoe was made and sold,” Springer said, stuffing his camera into its case.
Kelly turned toward the silent women staring at the waves.
Springer raised his arm and shouted, “Officer Sweka,” over the waves crashing ever closer. The Nininpak officer waved them over. He had an intensity his angular features and crisp blue uniform only emphasized. Kelly and Springer stepped over the rocks along the shoreline toward the sandy part of the beach.
“Thanks for calling us,” Springer said, thrusting his hand toward Sweka when they reached the silent group. “My name is Springer, and this here is Ms. Flynn. Is there a boundary marker?”
Sweka grasped, then dropped Springer’s hand. “Daniel Sweka,” he said, nodding to Kelly. “The Nation includes the banks of the Hotsaem River where it meets Galmenberg Bay, including that part that juts out over there.”
He pointed to a thin peninsula of land between the River and the Bay. “We’re well past that.”
“We didn’t know we’d gone too far,” the oldest of the three women said. “It’s fine,” Kelly said to her. “It’s all public land along this part of the Bay.
The boundary just helps us decide who investigates.” “I assume you got statements?” Springer asked.
“Yes. I’ll send you copies when they’re typed, but I’m sure you want to talk to them, too.” Sweka smiled encouragingly at a young woman whose long black hair spilled in a thick strand from the elasticized opening in the back of a ball cap embroidered with a stylized swooping bird. “Margarete saw the shoe first.”
Margarete glanced at Springer, looked down, nodded, and clenched her hands.
“Hi, Margarete. I’m Deputy Springer of the Cascadia County Sheriff’s Office. May I ask you a few questions?”
Margarete nodded.
“How did you come across the shoe?” he asked.
“We were fishing for crabs.” Margarete waved her hand toward a large bucket filled with melting ice and three large crabs. “When I saw the shoe with a sock, I poked at it with my stick. Something was in it, so I lifted it up and saw the bone inside. We called the tribal police and Daniel came.”
“Did you meet any runners or other walkers this morning?”
Margarete pointed to the bluff a few hundred feet from the shore. “I saw a guy on the ridge this morning while we were waiting, but not here on the beach.”
“Did you come past the same place yesterday?” “No.”
As Springer talked with Margarete, Kelly looked at the other women. All wore clear ponchos over their clothes and heavy black plastic boots that reached mid-calf. One woman wore jeans and a puffy vest, her hair tied back with a pink scrunchie, and the other, older woman, wore a loose dress cinched at the waist with a woven belt and a wide-brimmed straw hat atop her long, graying hair. The older woman scanned the beach and the sea as she twisted the ends of her belt in her hands. Together they watched the white caps grow as the tide rolled in.
When Springer finished talking with Margarete, Sweka introduced the young woman as Liz and the older as Therese.
“Did either of you see anything?” Springer asked. They shook their heads.
“I walked here last week and didn’t see anything then,” Therese said. “I was with my dog and he would have found it.”
Springer nodded. “Thank you. If I need to talk with you again, how can I reach you?”
“My daughter’s missing,” Therese blurted, her eyes and forehead tight with worry. “Could it be her?”
A zing of fear shot through Kelly. She’d attended a continuing legal education seminar on missing women six months ago, and the stark and frightening statistics chilled her. To meet a mother of a missing girl made these statistics all too real, too close. She shivered, thinking about her daughter Ruth’s late nights out who-knows-where.
“Do you recognize the shoe?” Springer asked.
“No, but she’s been living in Galmenberg a couple of years now, so I don’t know for sure.”
“How long has she been missing?” Kelly asked.
“I’m not sure. Daniel says he saw her at a party at the Casino on Memorial Day.” Therese pointed to Sweka, and he nodded.
“Then I don’t think so,” Springer said. “The bone looks pretty clean. That takes more than a couple of weeks.”
“Will you help me find her?” Therese had a pleading sadness in her eyes as she looked first at Springer and then at Kelly.
“Have you filed a missing person’s report?” Springer asked.
Therese stiffened. “Of course I did. And posted flyers. Tribal police are helping me but say because she lived off the Reservation, there’s not much they can do.”
Sweka grimaced.
“Galmenberg police don’t do nothing,” Therese said. “Say she’s an adult so her being missing isn’t a crime. But something’s happened to her. I know it.”
“I posted her picture on Facebook,” Margarete said, flashing her phone in Kelly’s face. “Lots of people hope we find her, but nobody’s posted anything about seeing her lately.”
Kelly looked at Sweka. Ah, this is the real issue. Adult missing person cases could be hard. People ran away or didn’t want to be found. Little evidence, no one wanting to talk. And here, not knowing what police agency should investigate.
“Have you contacted the Bureau of Indian Affairs or the FBI?” Kelly asked. The seminar had taught her that much.
Sweka’s face tensed. “I reported Therese’s concerns to the BIA, but I haven’t heard back.”
Kelly remembered the seminar talking about how seldom the BIA and FBI became involved in missing Indigenous person cases. And how the jurisdictional maze of law enforcement and prosecution made it simpler to assume it was someone else’s problem. Kelly knew if her daughter were missing, she’d be raging, demanding attention, not nearly as calm as Therese.
“Is she living with someone who could have hurt her?” Kelly asked. A history of domestic violence should get somebody’s attention.
Therese shrugged. “Tyler never seemed violent to me. They argued, but she never told me he hit her.”
“We have resources at my office if you find out there has been,” Kelly said. She felt around in her suit jacket pocket and pulled out business cards that she handed to Sweka and Therese.
“Will you help me?” Therese asked again, this time looking directly at Kelly.
Kelly flinched, feeling guilty she wanted to put off this sad woman. Obligations already overwhelmed her. “I’m sorry, but missing persons are a police matter, and right now I need to get back. Be sure to file a report with the sheriff’s office, OK?”
Therese’s shoulders slumped as she nodded.
IN THE SILENCE of the drive back, Kelly’s stomach clenched, and her thoughts raced. Someone needed to help Therese find her daughter. Why wasn’t the BIA taking more of an interest? What was the matter with the City of Galmenberg? Their inattention pricked her anger and resentment. Do I really need to get involved? Years of parochial schools and homilies about the Good Samaritan and bearing each other’s burdens made Kelly’s body heavy and weak. I need to spend more time with Ruth. She pushed thoughts of Therese out of her head. I’m already away too much with this job that never lets up.
Kelly forced herself to concentrate on this afternoon’s hearing as she opened her office door. She was waking up her computer when Carmen loomed in the doorway.
“I’m starting to dread seeing you,” Kelly said.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just the messenger,” Carmen said. “What now?”
“The boss wants to hold a public event, make us more visible, and wants you to organize it. You can pick two others to help you.”
Kelly groaned inside. Organizing a program took time, energy, and interest she didn’t have. “Another one? Does he remember I’m already part of next week’s community event?”
Carmen raised her shoulders and gave Kelly a pitying smile. “I guess it comes with being a senior deputy. He said you could delegate if you preferred. And it doesn’t need to happen until October.”
“OK.” Kelly twirled her gavel pencil, a souvenir from the trip she took with Ruth to the Supreme Court last summer. Its hopeful inscription, With liberty and justice for all, seemed ironic today. Prosecuting Attorney Richard Paltik was an elected official. And a good boss. A lot better than her supervisor in Seattle. She’d ask Clara and Dave when they met about the community event in a few minutes. Dave was the youngest attorney in the office, two years out of law school, and always eager to share his opinions. Clara and Kelly had worked together for many years now, and Kelly relied on her political smarts.
Dave and Clara arrived together at Kelly’s office promptly at eleven- thirty. Dave’s short sleeved shirt revealed a glimpse of a colorful geometric tat as he held the door for Clara. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and Kelly wondered whether he didn’t think he had anything important to do today. Dave was like many of the younger attorneys she’d seen at bar association meetings lately—casually dressed, long hair pulled into a low ponytail, sometimes an ear cuff. She had to get used to it. Clara was older, nearly Kelly’s age, and wore a beige linen suit with a high-necked blouse.
Dave looked quizzical, then irritated when Kelly explained the proposed October session.
“Don’t worry, I’ll ask for other volunteers,” Kelly said. “I was just hoping you could help me brainstorm. We’re ready for the next week’s presentation unless you have concerns.”
Dave shook his head. “I figured this would be a short meeting, though.”
Kelly recognized the frazzled I-have-too-much-to-do-for-this tone of his voice.
“I think we’re good,” Clara said.
“You should do something controversial if you want people to come,” Dave said.
“How about something related to all the missing Indigenous women?” Kelly said. “I could set the date for Indigenous People’s Day formerly known as Columbus Day.”
Dave scrunched his face, jutting out his chin and furrowing his brow. “That seems more like a resource issue than a legal one.”
“A pay-attention-and-do-something issue,” Clara said. “But not in our wheelhouse.”
“We could do privacy and DNA testing,” Dave said. “Cases where police used those genealogy services are working their way through the courts. Or police use of facial recognition software. You could invite somebody from ACLU or the defense bar to counter the state’s position.”
Kelly kept her hands hidden underneath the desk as she ravaged her cuticles. The muscles in the back of her neck tightened, and she pushed up her glasses. “I was thinking something helpful to the average person. And since we’re focusing on county regulations next week, maybe this one should focus on something less . . . arcane.”
“You know, whatever we do, people will just use it as a forum to complain. I know Paltik wants these sessions to be informational and as apolitical as possible, but that’s the truth. And privacy is important to everybody. Just because we represent law enforcement doesn’t mean we’re blind to the constitutional issues,” Dave said. “We’re about justice here, aren’t we?”
Justice. Kelly had always thought that was the side she was on. But sometimes it felt cloudy, dark, inconclusive. The big databases frightened her, and she was suspicious of those genealogy sites that collected DNA for who knows what purposes. Should everybody in a family be a suspect because of one bad third-cousin once removed? But she wanted killers off the streets, too.
“OK, thanks,” Kelly said. “We’ve got thirty minutes to figure out the schedule and what we still need for next week. The boss will talk first, of course, but then what?”
Dave tore a handwritten sheet from his yellow pad. “I worked one up.
What do you think?”
As she and Clara scanned Dave’s notes, Kelly didn’t know whether to be grateful or irritated at Dave’s preempting discussion with his proposal, but the sequence would work and she decided she didn’t care enough to quarrel. “Clara?”
“Looks good to me.” Clara shrugged. “OK. Thanks Dave,” Kelly said.
“Lunch?” Clara asked once Dave fled the room.
“I brought mine. And I have a hearing this afternoon,” Kelly said. “I’ve got a box in the freezer,” Clara said.
“OK. But only a half hour.”
Kelly followed Clara to the break room and pulled her own microwave meal out of the freezer.
“How’s Ruthy?” Clara asked as they took turns waiting for the microwave. “The same. Sometimes it feels like one night elves substituted a changeling
for my sweet, beautiful child.”
“Don’t all parents of teenagers think that? And what about those terrible twos?”
“Ruth didn’t go through that. She was very quiet at first. I was always so proud of what a great mother I must be when the day care workers would say how well-behaved she was. Until now.” Kelly wondered if abandonment fears kept the young Ruth quiet and compliant, fears the foster agency said all foster and adopted kids had and showed in different ways.
“You are a great mother,” Clara said as they pushed aside papers to clear a space on the small round table in Kelly’s office.
“I don’t know,” Kelly said. “I’m gone a lot. Distracted when I’m home.
At least my mom was around when I got home after school.” “C’mon. You wouldn’t wish your childhood on Ruthy.”
True, she wouldn’t. Despite having lost her faith years ago, the guilt and fear of her upbringing haunted her. She wondered what would haunt Ruth years from now. Everyone has something.
Kelly ate quickly. “I need to prepare,” she said, and Clara rose. “Why don’t you come over to the house sometime and have a glass of wine? Or we could organize a happy hour?”
“Good idea,” Clara said as she left.
After reading through the file, Kelly drove to the courthouse as she’d cut it too short to walk the half mile in spike heels. She waved to the parking attendant checking juror passes. The courthouse complex was relatively new and convenient, but she was glad her office remained in the elegant red stone building of the old one. All this concrete and glass just didn’t give the same sense of weightiness as the old spires and nooks and columns. Kelly remembered the political firestorm when the sheriff’s department needed more room. Years of failed bond elections forced the county to rent space in old vacant buildings across the city, and the expense of that was borne by cuts in other departments. When a scaled down version finally passed, the old courthouse’s neighbors didn’t want to sell, and the county commissioners built this complex down the street, then fixed up the old courthouse into offices for themselves, county administration, and the prosecuting attorney’s office. The judges grumbled, but Kelly supposed it made sense to build holding cells below the courtrooms and house the sheriff’s office in this cold monstrosity. Efficient instead of charming.
Kelly passed Sheriff Nisser standing tall and straight in his crisp dress uniform near the courtrooms.
“I hear you were at our crime scene this morning, counselor,” he said. “What did you think? Pretty sure Springer thought I’d sent him on a fool’s errand.”
“Only time will tell,” Kelly said, rushing into the courtroom when she saw defense counsel enter.
THREE HUGE FLAGS in front of the building snapped in the wind, and an untethered rope clanged against the flagpole, sounding like a buoy in a summer squall as Kelly pulled out of the garage after the hearing. The darkening sky threatened another big storm, and Kelly twitched with anxiety. She needed to make sure Ruth was all right, home safe. The rain intensified as she drove, and thoughts of the missing girl alone or worse in this wild weather tumbled with her fears about Ruth, adding to the familiar panic that started the day she first left Ruth at the daycare. Fear was a big part of her being a mom, part guilt over her many hours away and a nagging sense that no matter what she did, it was never enough.
Kelly feared it was her fault Ruth was so prickly, so antagonistic, so willing to ascribe the worst motives to whatever Kelly said or did. Feared their endless conflicts about homework and boys and curfews and clothing would drive Ruth to rebel in stupid ways, maybe even run away. Is that what happened to the missing girl? She ran away and couldn’t get back?
It had to change. Kelly couldn’t bear the thought of Ruth missing. They needed to be kinder to each other.
“Anybody home?” Kelly yelled as she unlocked the door between the garage and the house.
But the house was dark and cold and silent except for the quick flap of Babs coming in through the kitty door. Babs stood in the kitchen and meowed until Kelly filled her bowl with kibble and the fishy wet food that made it palatable to the spoiled cat.
“Where’s Ruthy?” Kelly asked, but Babs was too busy to answer.
Kelly peered into the darkening yard with its fraying lawn chairs placed haphazardly on the patchy grass, then checked her messages and the calendar hanging on the refrigerator. She wracked her brain trying to remember if there was anything going on, any place Ruth might expect her to be. Finally, she called, no response, then texted.
“Home soon. Chill,” Ruth texted back.
A wave of relief flowed through Kelly. “Want to go out for supper tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you have an ETA? Where are you?” “20.”
“OK.”
Kelly changed into loose navy sweatpants, their elastic waist a relief after spending all day in shaping pantyhose. She wanted to lose weight, but who had time to go to the gym or scour the internet for, and experiment with, low- cal recipes? She refused to try those meal plan services that promised great taste and good health. That was admitting defeat. She hung her suit on the door and threw her blouse in the laundry before removing her bra and putting on a loose T-shirt. She found fuzzy socks near the bed. She preferred bare feet, but the tile in the kitchen was still cold in the evenings.
As Kelly browned onions and peppers on the stove and breathed in their comforting smell, a familiar exhaustion crept over her. Why did it have to be so hard? She’d read enough books and articles to know the teenage years were difficult. Hell, she’d rebelled against her parents’ rules, justified as religious precepts, too. But she longed for a little respect, a little affection. Ruth assumed every question was a criticism, every suggestion a reproof.
Ruth came into the kitchen with a thud of dropped books and backpack, and she unlaced, then kicked off her Doc Martens. A small, dirty puddle formed as she shook off the rain and hung her hoodie over the nearest chair. She tucked a strand of blue and black hair behind her ears and looked at Kelly accusingly, of what, Kelly had no idea.
“Want some spaghetti?” Kelly said, straining pasta over the sink. Ruth nodded.
“Should I brown meat or do you just want marinara sauce?” “Mom, you know I’m a vegetarian.”
Kelly filled a cereal bowl with noodles, ladled red sauce on top, then put the bowl on the kitchen table. This week she’s a vegetarian, but last month she wanted steaks on the grill. Who can keep up? She dumped a bag of premixed salad into a bowl and set out a tub of grated parmesan.
“Is that vegan cheese?” Ruth asked.
“No,” Kelly said. She drew the line at fake cheese. “But no animals died in its production.”
“Not the only issue, Mom,” Ruth said, but sprinkled cheese on her pasta before turning back to her phone.
“How was your day?” Kelly asked to break the silence.
“Good,” Ruth said, scrolling through her phone as she ate. “Want to Skype grandma tonight?”
Ruth had a soft spot for Grandma, was more generous in her affection than Kelly found herself able to be. Kelly was dutiful, calling weekly and visiting once a year, but the unspoken formed a wall that had only hardened over the years. Having Ruth on the call lessened the tension, and her mom smiled more.
Ruth lowered her phone. “Aren’t we going to call on Sunday?”
“We can. But I thought we should start planning our trip to Chicago.” “I’ve got plans tonight.” Ruth went back to her phone.
“What plans?”
Ruth gave Kelly a withering look. “Emily’s house. We’re finishing our final project.”
“During exam week?”
“It’s due on Wednesday, so yes, time’s tight.” “What’s the project? Anything I can help with?”
“Global warming,” Ruth said without looking up. “And no.”
Kelly didn’t want to give up on conversation that easily, but the minutes dragged on as she tried to figure out what might interest Ruth. “I met a woman today whose daughter is missing.”
No response.
“We could post flyers for her. Can you think of any place to put them?” “Not really.”
Kelly stifled her irritation. What about the high school? What about showing your friends? Posting on your social media? What about offering to take some and asking around? Do you have no social conscience at all?
Ruth got up, rinsed her bowl, put it next to the sink, and left the kitchen.
A few minutes later, the front door slammed.
How hard is it to put it in the dishwasher
