Sylvie deliberately took her time responding. She tucked the receipt inside her purse with deliberate slowness. When she finally spoke, she kept her voice level but loud enough to carry throughout the bakery. This had never been a private conversation.
“We're not here to accuse anyone, ma'am,” Sylvie said as she zipped her purse closed. “We're here to learn more about Heather in hopes that it helps lead us to her killer. I realize that it’s been eleven years, but if she came in here often, did you notice someone following her? Someone who didn't belong? Maybe she drove into another town, and someone followed her home. It’s important to understand that we're not the enemy, ma'am. We're here because another set of parents wants answers as to why their daughter is gone, and we believe we can find those answers here.”
The cashier's expression faltered slightly, her certainty disrupted by the unexpected direction Sylvie's inquiries and statements took. The young barista, putting together the orders, had stopped pretending to work and was openly observing the exchange. A mug clattered against a tabletop somewhere behind Sylvie. She didn't turn around, keeping her attention fixed on the cashier, who hadn’t expected Sylvie to counter her advice.
“Heather was one of ours,” the woman finally said, her voice less confrontational but no less certain. “We would have known had someone been giving her trouble.”
“I believe you,” Sylvie replied gently. “But someonedidhurt her. And we’d like to find out who that was, for Heather's sake. For her parents. For all the parents who deserve to know what happened to their children taken from them too soon.”
“My name is Kim,” she replied with a short nod, neither in agreement nor disagreement. She appeared to be merely acknowledging Sylvie's words. “Your tea will be ready in a minute.”
The dismissal was clear, but Sylvie counted it as a small victory. She'd managed to plant a seed. The notion that she and the team were hunting a predator, not accusing a neighbor. Whether that seed would take root remained to be seen, but it was a start.
In her peripheral vision, she noticed someone behind the display. She hadn’t realized that a man had been listening to the entire exchange. He was holding a tray of freshly baked scones. As if he realized she’d detected his presence, he met her gaze. Keeping an impassive expression, she recognized him as the same man from the photograph with Heather Moore.
He was older now, of course.
The photograph had been taken over a decade ago. Fine lines had formed at the corners of his eyes, and his dark hair wasn’t as thick. Behind him, partially obscured by a shelf of bread loaves, hung another framed photograph. This one with him standing beside an older woman with similar features—the same straight nose, the same set to the jaw.
They stood in front of the bakery counter, the woman's hand resting on his shoulder with maternal pride. The small plaque beneath the photo read ‘Margaret and Desmond Brewer, 2010’.
Desmond Brewer, owner of the bakery.
Sylvie turned her attention back toward the bulletin board. In most of the pictures, Desmond stood straight-backed and formal beside brides and grooms, high school graduates, and beaming parents, maintaining the same careful distance in each image.
Except in the photo with Heather, where they stood close enough that their shoulders touched. The proximity in the picture spoke of familiarity.
“Chai tea,” the barista called out, setting the steaming cup on the counter. “Lids are over on the back counter.”
Sylvie murmured her appreciation as she collected her drink. The initial hostility from the patrons had morphed into a mixture of wariness and curiosity. Conversations had resumed, though in hushed tones. A woman near the window was texting rapidly, no doubt spreading news of the exchange throughout the small community.
Sylvie closed the distance to the back counter. She lifted a white lid off the small stack, taking the time to ensure it was sealed around the rim of the to-go cup. All the while, she debated going to the bakery kitchen to ask Demond questions about his relationship with Heather.
Deciding to wait for a more appropriate time when there was some privacy, she glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the exit. To her surprise, she caught Desmond Brewer's gaze, fixed on her with an intensity that hinted at unspoken knowledge.
7
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Tuesday – 10:03am
The Moore living room was like a shrine to a life paused mid-breath. Brook sat across from Heather’s parents, experiencing an intense moment of déjà vu. How many times had she witnessed the same thing with the families of other victims?
Too many times to count.
Framed photographs crowded every wall. Heather at a high school art fair, Heather in cap and gown, Heather caught mid-laugh beside her mother. The colors in the pictures had softened with time, but the grief of loved ones in the room hadn’t dulled.
Theo had settled beside her on the couch, a small notebook in hand. Brian Moore had claimed a recliner, while Jillian Moore had taken a seat on the smaller couch. Brook didn’t get the sense that they didn’t want to be near each other, just that they had grown accustomed to their own space after so many years of marriage.
“I realize that our presence in town might come across as an intrusion into your lives,” Brook said, keeping her voice professional but gentle. “And I understand how difficult it must be to revisit these memories, but I also believe you want closure.”
“Nothing you do will bring back our baby girl.” Brian’s voice was thick with emotion. “We accepted a long time ago that we would have to live without answers. We don’t want you here. The town doesn’t want you here.”
Brook nodded, acknowledging his pain without empty platitudes. She reached into the leather tote she usually reserved for her electronics, pulling out a replica of a picture of Lila Hartman. The original Polaroid had been sent to a federal crime lab for testing, in hopes of extracting any trace evidence. Brook wasn’t counting on it, but she would always follow through on the process.
“This is Lila Hartman. She was strangled in her apartment with a yellow scarf over a decade ago, about a year after Heather.” Brook noticed that while Brian glanced down at the picture, it was Jillian who leaned forward for a better view before pressing a hand to her heart. “We believe she was killed by the same person who killed Heather.”
