I used to polish these boots. Kind of regularly, when I was there, in fact. Just because I loved her. Kind of like Jesus' disciples washing one another's feet, I suppose. Simple act of selfless love. 

Kristin did not snag her jeans on a dock cleat. It's a bald-faced lie, coming straight from the mouth of the San Juan County Sheriff's Department. It's a physical impossibility. And, whether they realize it or not, the hipsters at Counterpunch are complicit, with their feloniously insincere post, just following the "accident".

Anyone who knew Kristin, on Orcas, knows that she never wore anything but short, tight jeans and Romeos. Maybe shorts. Maybe a skirt or dress. Most often just what you see, right here. She was in fear for her life and ready to leave. The San Juan Islands are notorious for this sort of thing and several other scandalous scenarios. They simply bury it, so the tourists keep coming. I could not intervene any more than she would allow me to. I will go to my grave standing on these words. This was not an accident, and she certainly didn't do it to herself. She was not clumsy. She was sober. She could dance like a teenager. Kristin was on the climb, ready to take on an MFA in Creative Non-fiction, with the intent to expose the scandal that had been developing around her, over the past several years. I had spoken with her just hours before and was ready to man the pizza ovens for the rest of my life in order to see her through. I just wanted her to sing into a microphone, when she had a spare moment. 

Nancy Sinatra - These Boots Were Made For Walkin