As if summoned by her observation, the workshop door swung open. A large silhouette stood in the doorway, the man’s stance rigid with displeasure at their arrival. Even from this distance, the tension in his shoulders was obvious.Within seconds, the figure turned and disappeared back into the workshop, leaving the door ajar behind him.
“I'm guessing that's our invitation,” Brook murmured, reaching for her gloves. She didn’t put them on. Instead, she placed them on the dashboard. Her jacket pockets would do just fine in this situation. She was loath to leave the warmth of the vehicle, though. “We should?—”
“Brook.”
Sylvie’s tone spoke volumes, and Brook shifted her attention to the house. The movement had occurred in one of the bedroom windows, and the curtain was already falling back into place.
“Sorsdal isn’t married, though he does have a brother who lives in a care home that specializes in brain injuries. Girlfriend, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Brook responded warily, lowering the zipper on her jacket and ensuring quick access to her weapon. “You’re right about there being a feel about this place.”
“Ready when you are,” Sylvie murmured as she tucked the keys into her pocket. She, too, left her gloves in the console.
They stepped out of the van, and the chill of the air numbed Brook’s cheeks instantly. Thick flakes fell heavily from above, while gusts of wind whipped through the area. She didn’t want to lower her head, so she dealt with watering eyes as they crossed the yard.
She had a tight grip on the upper part of her jacket, keeping the lapel closed for the time being. The closer they got to the workshop, the more details emerged.The structure was larger than it had first appeared, with windows positioned to catch natural light throughout the day, though they were experiencing little of that at the moment. The scent of freshly cut wood reached Brook before they even made it to the doorway.
She stepped inside first, blinking away the moisture from the cold.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she shifted to the right so that Sylvie could enter, as well.The interior was a craftsman's haven—tools hung in precise arrangements on pegboards, each implement polished and maintained with obvious care. Sawdust covered the floor in a fine layer, except for clear pathways that had been swept between workstations. Pieces of furniture in various stages of completion occupied the space. She spotted a rocking chair missing its seat, the skeleton of what might become a bookcase, and a dining set with three completed chairs and one still in progress.
The air inside held the rich, complex aroma of different woods—oak, cherry, pine—mingling with the sharper notes of varnish and wood stain. A small wood-burning stove in thecorner explained the smoke she’d spotted from the roof, its heat creating a pocket of welcoming warmth.
“What can I do for you, folks?”
Brett Sorsdal stood at a workbench near the far wall, his hands moving with practiced precision as he guided a carving tool along the back of an unfinished chair. He hadn’t bothered to shift his gaze as they entered, his focus seemingly absorbed by the intricate pattern emerging under his careful attention.
Brook noticed that his hair was longer than what his DMV picture displayed, and he’d allowed a beard to grow since his renewal.
“Mr. Sorsdal, I'm Brooklyn Sloane, and this is my colleague, Sylvie Deering.” Brook didn’t like having her back so close to the front entrance, so she advanced around the left side of the shed, mindful of a small stack of wooden planks next to the wall. “I’m sure you’ve already heard, but we’re looking into Heather Moore's murder.”
“You mean you’re looking for the Photograph Killer here in Harrowick,” Brett amended, the carving tool pausing for just a heartbeat before resuming its methodical path along the wood. “I wish I could help you, but I already told everything to the police eleven years ago.”
“We were hoping for some fresh insights.” Brook had moved close enough to the workbench to notice the slight tension building in his broad shoulders. “Heather's parents mentioned that you and she were close.”
A sound that might have been a laugh escaped him, though it carried no humor.
“Brian and Jillian always did have active imaginations when it came to their daughter's social life.” Brett leaned slightly forward and blew sawdust from the carving. “We weren't close like that. Just friends, and not even the kind who met up for abeer. We went to high school together, acknowledged each other at church, and sometimes ran into each other at the diner.”
“Did you notice anyone unusual around town in the weeks before Heather was killed?” Despite the question, Brook kept her tone conversational. By this time, Sylvie had moved closer to the wood-burning stove. “Or maybe hear about anyone who had taken an interest in her?”
Brett’s focus finally switched from his project to her. She was startled by the color of his eyes. Blue, but with a crystal tint that made them appear as if they were tiny pieces of broken glass.
“You have someone in mind?”
“Figg Whitlow.”
Brett frowned, as if that was the last name he expected to hear from her.
He slowly shook his head at the thought.
“Let’s just say Heather wasn’t Figg’s type.”
Sylvie had filled Brook in on her conversation with Lindsay and Stephanie, and the two women had claimed the same. Whatever Figg and Heather were arguing about in the school’s parking lot hadn’t been personal.
“Look, I've got orders to fill and daylight's burning. I don't know anything that could help you solve her murder, so you're wasting your time here. Heather taught art. She went to church. She died. That's all I know.”
Brett had described a life reduced to its barest outline, devoid of the details that might lead to uncomfortable revelations. She had encountered this strategy countless times during interviews, the instinctive human response to protect what mattered by saying as little as possible. He had cared for her, even if it was only from a distance.
