Brook recognized him from the picture on the website that Arden had sent to each team member. Eugene was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a heavy canvas coat with a fleece-lined collar. His heavy boots crunched through the snow, leaving deep imprints in his wake. By the time he came to stand in front of them, his eyes had narrowed in scrutiny.
“You must be Eugene Bernard,” Sylvie greeted as she held out her hand. His large ski glove engulfed her leather one. “I’m Sylvie Deering, and this is Brooklyn Sloane.”
“Feds?”
Their weapons weren’t visible, and their rental SUV was standard without government-issued plates. Still, Eugene hadimmediately jumped to conclusions, and it wasn’t due to a slip-up by Arden.
“We appreciate you accommodating us on such short notice,” Brook said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. Deep-set eyes regarded her with undisguised wariness, and his nose bore the distinctive burst capillaries of someone who'd spent decades outdoors in harsh conditions. “And no, we’re not federal agents.”
Her reply was genuine, though she left out the fact that they were former government employees. Eugene would figure that out soon enough. The fact that he’d automatically assumed they were law enforcement told her that he had a friend inside the sheriff’s office.
“We don't get winter requests often,” Eugene said, releasing her hand and rubbing a gloved finger over his upper lip, which was partially obscured by his graying mustache. “Had to prep the cabins special—clean them out, make sure the fireplaces were clear of nests. Wildlife likes to move in when people move out.”
Brook caught Sylvie’s grimace, but Eugene was staring at his handiwork with pride. He gestured toward the four active chimneys. “Got fires going in those ones. I know you requested a fifth cabin, but the two vacant ones aren’t inhabitable. Not enough income to fix them up, so you’ll have to make do with the four.”
Arden had requested a fifth cabin for them to utilize as an office.
They would simply need to work around the inconvenience.
“These aren't luxury accommodations, by any means,” Eugene warned, his tone suggesting he'd dealt with disappointed city dwellers before. “Most of the heat is from the fireplaces, but there are propane space heaters. Running water works but takes time to warm up. The generators can managethe lights, plus a handful of electronics, but they have a mind of their own. Push them too far, and they will trip, leaving you in the dark.”
“The accommodations will work just fine,” Brook replied, maintaining eye contact.
“Stocked each cabin with firewood myself,” Eugene continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “More in the shed behind cabin six if you need to replenish. There are basic supplies in the kitchenettes—coffee, tea, and some canned goods. Town is about ten minutes by car if you need anything else.”
A particularly sharp gust of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it the clean scent of pine and wood smoke. Eugene seemed impervious to the cold, standing motionless as snowflakes began to drift down around them.
He shifted his weight, and for the first time, Brook noticed he was slightly favoring his left leg. An old injury, perhaps, aggravated by the cold or the exertion of preparing the cabins. He carried himself with the rigid posture of someone who'd spent a lifetime engaged in physical labor and refused to yield to its toll on his body.
“Nearest neighbor is a half mile through those trees,” Eugene added, jerking his head toward the eastern edge of the clearing. “But folks around here keep to themselves, especially in winter. Won't hear much besides the wind and maybe some wildlife.”
Eugene removed his right glove before reaching into his pocket. He then extended four sets of keys toward Brook.
“Cabins one through four,” Eugene said as he began to work his glove back on. “They’re all the same.”
Each key was attached to a small wooden tag with numbers carved into both sides. She slipped them into her pocket to keep her hands warm.
“If you’re not Feds, then you’re private detectives.” Eugene continued to push the issue, as if he wasn’t comfortable rentingout his cabins without knowing who was staying in them. “That Moore girl died eleven years ago. Since I know they didn’t hire you, why are you here to stir up the past?”
She kept her expression neutral.
Sylvie wisely remained silent, allowing Brook to take the lead.
“I probably don’t need to tell you that desperation makes people protective of what little they have, and it took Brian and Jillian a long time to get their feet back underneath them.” Eugene didn’t seem fazed by the bitter wind in the least. Brook wished she could say the same. It was a struggle to keep her teeth from chattering as another gust hit her face first. “The past is the past. You should leave it alone.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bernard, but we can’t do that,” Brook replied as she curled her fingers into the palms of her hands. “It’s come to our attention that another murder took place around a year after Heather’s death, with similarities that can’t be ignored, not that your friend in the sheriff’s department would be privy to that information.”
“Boone was just looking out for me,” Eugene warned, lifting a finger to get his point across. “We watch out for our own around here.”
“As it should be,” Brook replied with a nod of respect. “I come from a small town myself, Mr. Bernard. I also know that locals tend to ignore all the warning signs when something…someone…isn’t right. We can sometimes protect the wrong people. All we want is to give closure to the Moores.”
“Well, I knew the young woman, and she was a sweet thing. Good with the children she taught. Always had paint under her fingernails.” The memory seemed to catch him off guard, and he visibly tightened his jaw, as if he could push them away. “She used to buy those little watercolor sets from the drugstore for her students when the school budget ran out every year. Theelementary school eventually shut down and was merged into the district a town over. Thirty-five-minute bus ride on the back roads, but the weather sometimes makes it so they have a lot of snow days.”
Brook stored that information away, making a mental note to speak with Eugene in depth at a later date. She no longer had any sensation in her legs. The cold had saturated her jeans, and it was as if they were stiff as ice.
“I live about a hundred yards north of here. I don’t carry a cell phone, but I do have a landline. Left the number on my contact sheets in the cabins. Call if there’s a problem.” Eugene took a step backward, creating distance between them that was more symbolic than physical. “Just remember, Ms. Sloane, truth doesn't always bring peace. Sometimes it just tears open old wounds, and this town's had enough of that.”
Without waiting for a response, Eugene turned and began to trudge away. Neither she nor Sylvie moved until he’d settled himself on the leather seat of the snowmobile. He turned the key, bringing the engine to life, before pulling down his ski goggles. He finally disappeared among the first line of trees at the edge of the clearing.
