“Were you aware that Heather taught Thursday night art classes at a reentry program for former felons?”
“No, but then again, that doesn’t surprise me. Heather used to save every stray that strolled through this town.” Brett began focusing on his project, silently conveying that the conversation was coming to an end. “She probably didn’t want her parents to know about it, though I’m sure if you ask Lindsay or Steph, they can fill you in on any details.”
Brook kept to herself that not even Heather’s best friends had been aware of her decision to volunteer for such a program. Apparently, she had believed they wouldn’t approve of her being surrounded by former felons, either.
A soft creaking sound drew Brook's attention to the workshop doorway. A young man stood there, his frame silhouetted against the gray afternoon light. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, though something in his posture and expression suggested a disconnection from his physical age. His gaze was intensely fixed on Sylvie with undisguised curiosity, his head tilted slightly as if trying to place her in some internal catalog of familiar faces.
“Zeke,” Brett's voice sharpened, the single word carrying both warning and command. “Go back inside the house.”
The young man didn't move, his attention still riveted on Sylvie. His hands fidgeted with the zipper of his too-large coat, pulling it up and down in a repetitive pattern that spoke of nervous energy or habit.
“Hello, Zeke,” Brook greeted softly, drawing his focus to her. “We’re here to discuss?—”
“Zeke, I said go back to the house. Now.”
The man blinked, his hesitation evident. He glanced back at Brook with an expression that might have held curiosity or recognition; she couldn't be certain which, before turning and shuffling back outside into the cold. His departure left behind a tension that seemed to thicken the air in the workshop.
“My brother doesn't need to be involved in this,” Brett exclaimed, setting the carving tool down with deliberate care. “He wouldn’t understand what you're asking or why you're here, anyway.”
“It wasn’t my intention to upset him.” Brook wouldn’t have been opposed to hearing whatever Zeke had to say about Heather, though. “It was my understanding that your brother lived in a care facility.”
“I bring Zeke home for a week every so many months,” Brett replied, his posture softening marginally now that his brother had returned to the house. “Zeke nearly drowned when he was four. He was underwater for almost eleven minutes before my father got him out. He functions at about a ten-year-old's level on his good days.”
“I know how difficult being a caretaker can be,” Sylvie said, referring to when she took care of her father in the last few months of his life. “I also know those with Zeke’s condition tend to observe more than most. Is it possible that?—”
“I understand you're just doing your job, but Zeke gets upset easily. Confused. He doesn't need strangers coming around asking questions about a woman who's been dead for eleven years.” Brett smoothed out his beard before gesturing toward the door. “I think it’s time you both left.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sorsdal,” Brook said, inclining her head toward Sylvie. “We’d better get back before the roads turn slick.”
Brett’s silence made it clear the interview was over. His posture had stiffened, his polite nod as much a dismissal as a gesture of gratitude. Brook didn’t press him. Some doors were best left unopened.
The air outside was heavier somehow, thick with the smell of damp wood and exhaust. Snow drifted down in broad, wet flakes, muffling the world into eerie stillness. Their boots sankinto the accumulating layer with soft crunches. The gusts had died, yet the bare tree branches beyond the clearing seemed to whisper with movement.
Brook drew her coat tighter, her breath pluming in the air. The SUV’s windshield was now completely covered with a thick layer of snow. As she reached for the door handle, movement flickered in her periphery.
Zeke stood at the door’s window, framed by the dim glow from within. His pale face was ghostly behind the glass, his expression unreadable. When their eyes met, he lifted his hand and pressed it flat to the windowpane. The gesture struck Brook as deliberately communicative rather than merely coincidental.
The faintest sheen of condensation formed beneath his palm before the curtain twitched, then fell back into place, sealing him from view. Somewhere between Brett’s measured calm and Zeke’s wordless stare lay something misaligned.
Something that hadn’t yet surfaced.
15
Bobby ‘Bit’ Nowacki
January 2026
Wednesday – 4:32pm
The fire crackled steadily in the small stone hearth, sending faint pops into the otherwise quiet cabin. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows in long, low groans, occasionally sweeping a dusting of snow against the glass in faint, ghostly streaks. Each gust made the old timbers creak, a tired sound that reminded Bit just how far he was from anything resembling civilization. He shifted in his chair, trying to shake the faint unease that came with being alone in the middle of nowhere.
He wasn’t built for quiet.
He preferred the steady pulse of data streams and the comfort of background noise—the hum of servers, the chatter of networks, the static of city life. Out here, the silence had weight. He’d reinforced their satellite connection with every trick he knew, but even that wouldn't hold forever in this weather.
“Come on,” Bit encouraged the connection as he stared at the screen. The signal bars flickered as the satellite uplink fought the storm’s interference. He’d rigged a dish on the roof and run extra shielding through coax lines to stabilize the signal. He didn’t trust the setup long-term, but all he needed was for it to get through the evening and night until he could adjust the equipment in the morning. “Just another hour or two.”
The spreadsheet data he'd pulled from various social media archives was finally compiling into a searchable database. The software would analyze connection patterns between all four victims, including their extended social networks, employment histories, and public affiliations. If the unsub had crossed paths with any of the women before killing them, the algorithm would find it.
