The windshield wipers had been set on low, the pause between each swipe almost dramatic in its flourish. Snowflakes drifted down, light and endless, settling against the clear surface. They melted right away, leaving behind slender streaks, thin as threads, marking the places where the wipers had just passed. Each snowflake was like a secret, hinting at the stormfront that was just beginning to unfold.
Brook adjusted the vent to direct warmth toward her legs as she thought over the past few hours. Tyler Quinn had run from them out of fear of being arrested for something else entirely. His past crimes had nothing to do with Heather Moore.And though Theo had been supposed to pick Brook up from the police station, his plans had changed after he discovered that Heather volunteered for a reentry program aimed at helping released felons acclimate to everyday life.
“The forecast is calling for six inches by tomorrow morning,” Sylvie said, her hands steady on the steering wheel as she navigated past the town's empty gazebo. The structure stood like a skeleton beneath its white shroud, abandoned until spring breathed life back into the town square. “We won’t be going anywhere tomorrow.”
“We’ll spend the day going over what we’ve discovered so far,” Brook replied as she tracked the wipers. “I do believe Tyler Quinn is telling the truth. He doesn’t fit the profile, either.”
“Drinking and driving tends not to end well.” Sylvie slowed the van as they approached a four-way stop. No vehicle was in sight, so she eased off the brake and continued to drive to their destination. “So, let me get this straight. Quinn sideswiped a parked car two blocks from the pub the night before Heather Moore was killed. He pulls into the convenience store parking lot, spots Heather walking out, and then again makes the horrible decision to continue driving.”
“That about sums it up,” Brook said, recalling Tyler’s confession. “He said Heather recognized him immediately as she was walking out of the convenience store. He claims to have wanted to assess the damage to his truck. He panicked and fled when she approached him.”
“And he never reported the accident?”
“Not a word. And eleven years ago, there wouldn’t have been any footage that could verify his claim. Bit already checked, and the security system at the convenience store was basic. Not enough room for more than three months of stored footage. As for the hit-and-run, the car's owner did file a report. Sheriff Donovan will email it to us later today.”
“And when Tyler heard that Heather had been murdered, he had additional reasons besides drinking and driving to remain silent.”
“Exactly. Tyler admits to driving home drunk, to hitting the car, and to being seen by Heather. But he insists he drove straight home afterward, passed out, and didn't leave his residence again until the following morning.”
The van's tires crunched over a patch of ice, causing a momentary sideways slide. Sylvie corrected without comment, her composure unchanged.
“So, Tyler held back potentially crucial information because he was afraid of a DUI charge.”
“Well, Tyler certainly wasn't about to volunteer that he'd seen Heather that night.”
Sylvie slowed the van as they approached a curve.
“Tell me more about Desmond Brewer.”
“He was definitely eavesdropping on my conversation with Lindsay and Stephanie at the diner,” Sylvie replied. “He made it seem as if he were there to pick up a to-go order, but I think it was a cover to try and gain information about the investigation.”
“Did you stop by the bakery after your breakfast?”
“I did, but Kim said that he wasn’t there. I didn’t push. It wasn’t worth whatever Kim might have said to him,” Sylvie replied as her fingers relaxed on the steering wheel. The town's buildings receded behind them, giving way to open fields buried under snow. Bare black trees stood out against the white landscape. “I reached out to Brett Sorsdal, but he didn’t pick up his cell phone. No landline, either. I was on my way there when you called, but I can drop you off at the cabins if you’d rather regroup.”
“No worries,” Brook said as she adjusted her seatbelt. “I’ll tag along.”
“I overheard someone at the diner say that a town meeting is scheduled for next week,” Sylvie replied before flipping the wipers to a more constant speed. The cascading flurries had thickened, turning into more of a relentless, smothering drift.“I guess there is talk of an auto assembly plant being built on the land that sits between Harrowick and Crescent Ridge. If approved, that would be at least two or three thousand available positions for those living in the area.”
“Harrowick has been slowly dying for years. A factory like that could give this town a second chance.” Brook thought over the logistics of such a town meeting, and it just might be an opportunity they couldn’t pass up. “We might want to attend, as well.”
“I’ll find out all the details, then.”
The van’s back end suddenly skidded sideways, the tires unable to find any tread on a patch of black ice. Brook braced a hand against the dashboard, but Sylvie had gained control almost immediately. They continued to search for any indication of Brett Sorsdal's driveway. Each property they passed seemed more isolated than the last, distances between mailboxes growing wider as civilization thinned into wilderness.
“I’m relatively certain that Bit exaggerated when he said this van could handle extreme weather conditions, even in Antarctica,” Sylvie muttered as her fingers once again tightened on the steering wheel. She nodded toward something up ahead. “Can you read that mailbox number? We’re looking for 1543.”
Brook leaned forward, squinting through the thickening curtain of snow. The numbers finally reflected in the van’s headlights, even though it was the middle of the afternoon.
“That’s it.”
Sylvie basically had the van at a crawl, so she didn’t need to press on the brakes all that much to navigate the turn. The van’s tires crunched over the fresh layer of snow as they continued to drive on the narrow path. Finally, a ranch house materialized like a smudge on blank paper.
The exterior was clearly in need of paint and repair. A half-finished porch extended across the front, abruptly ending whereconstruction had apparently been halted mid-project. Piles of lumber in various states of weather damage were scattered across the yard, some nearly buried under snow drifts, others jutting out like broken bones.
“This place isn’t giving me any welcome vibes,” Sylvie muttered as she finally brought the van to a stop behind a pickup truck in the clearing that served as a makeshift parking area. She shifted the gear into park, allowing the engine to run while they took in their surroundings. “I really wish that Brett Sorsdal had picked up the phone this morning.”
Brook’s attention was drawn to a detached shed positioned about forty yards from the main house. Unlike the residence, the shed appeared well-maintained, with its roof recently cleared of snow and indented footprints leading to and from its door.
