“Not at the moment,” Sylvie replied, reaching behind her chair and into her purse. She pulled out her business card. “If, by chance, you recall anything from back then that could help our investigation, please give me a call.”
Desmond took the card and stared at it, as if he were suddenly at a loss for what to do next. He half-rose from his chair, then settled back down, his movements awkward and uncertain. Neither Sylvie nor Theo uttered a word, giving him time to make up his own mind if he’d like to add anything to his previous responses.
He slowly leaned forward, his upper body angling into their shared space. His voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing Sylvie and Theo to incline their upper bodies closer to hear him.
“I think maybe you should look into Zeke Sorsdal.”
The mention of Brett Sorsdal's younger brother caught Sylvie by surprise.
“I don't want to talk out of turn about someone who is disabled,” Desmond continued, his words coming faster now, as if he feared he might lose his nerve if he slowed down. “But I saw Zeke get verbally and physically aggressive with Heather in the church parking lot the weekend before she was killed. Brett had to practically force his younger brother into the truck. I offered to call someone—her father or maybe even the sheriff—but she said it wasn't necessary. That there was a miscommunication, and Zeke didn't understand what he was doing.”
“Did you mention this to the authorities at the time?”
“No,” Desmond admitted, shame flickering across his features. “I was...distracted. Rachel had just left town. And then Heather was killed. The police focused on strangers passing through, and by the time the FBI came rolling through town, it just didn’t cross my mind.”
Desmond seemed to reconsider his admission.
“Listen, Heather was probably right. Zeke is slow, and he thinks like a child. He wouldn’t have the mental acuity to get away with murder, anyway.” Desmond slipped Sylvie’s business card into his apron as he stood, stepping away from the table so that he could tuck his chair underneath. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I mentioned it.”
Desmond had to understand that the information couldn't be unshared, but Sylvie and Theo merely nodded at his request. Desmond was right about one thing—Zeke didn’t have the mental acuity to kill four women and not leave a trace of evidence behind. If nothing else, though, it established another connection to Heather that warranted further investigation.
18
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Friday – 9:02am
The engine of the SUV hummed softly as Brook studied Brett Sorsdal's rural property through a windshield framed by delicate frost patterns. She adjusted the heat settings, though the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in her bones during the drive through town. She should have given the vehicle more time to heat up before leaving the camping site, but she hadn’t wanted to hear from Bit one more time that he didn’t need a babysitter.
The patrol car she’d requested from Sheriff Donovan had arrived at approximately eight o’clock, which was when Bit realized she’d arranged for someone else to be on-site while he remained behind to pull together the information his applications were gathering on certain individuals involved in the investigation.
Her gaze swept over the half-finished porch that wrapped unevenly around the front of the house, the constructionmaterials still scattered across the yard like abandoned toys. Brett had been less than forthcoming during their previous visit, but this time she had come for Zeke. She’d known on Wednesday that there was something more to his demeanor, and Sylvie’s text this morning proved it.
Brook glanced at the clock radio, noting that the deputy who was supposed to meet her at the Sorsdal residence was already several minutes late. She reached for her phone in the cup holder to check her messages.
Nothing from Graham, either.
She hadn’t spoken to him since Tuesday night, and while his silence wasn't unexpected given his warnings about communication blackouts, she still experienced a twinge of disappointment. There was something she wanted to discuss with him.
She scrolled through her other messages—updates from Sylvie and Theo about their upcoming interviews with Lindsay Sharpe and Figg Whitlow, as well as Bit confirming that his search into the reentry program had yielded a few more names to investigate. She also noted several automated notifications from Bit's tracking algorithms. Everyone was doing their part, pushing the investigation forward as much as possible.
Brook silenced her phone and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket. The SUV rocked slightly as a gust of wind cut through the property. The second half of the cold front moving through was supposed to either arrive Sunday night or Monday morning. She was still holding out hope that any additional precipitation would shift to the north.
Her rearview mirror suddenly caught the reflection of approaching headlights, the beams slicing through the morning gloom like searchlights. She killed the engine and stepped out into the frigid air. The cold attacked instantly, slipping beneath the scarf she’d secured around her neck.
“Ms. Sloane?” The deputy slammed his door shut before taking the time to hook the key ring to his utility belt. He was young, maybe in his late twenties. His nose and cheeks had quickly turned red with the steps he’d taken toward her. “I’m Deputy Lucas Benz.”
“I appreciate you meeting me out here,” Brook replied, adjusting her scarf to better shield her face from the biting wind. Lucas was wearing thick gloves, while she had already shoved her hands into her pockets. “We had a visitor at the cabins where we’re staying, and I thought it best that my team work in pairs. I’m here to speak with Brett Sorsdal’s brother. He may have information relevant to our investigation.”
“I'm familiar with Mr. Sorsdal,” Lucas replied as they both minded their steps. Given that Brett’s truck had a snowplow attached to the front, she assumed that he had been the one to clear the immediate area yesterday. “He keeps to himself. We’ve never been called out here, but I’ve heard that people come from all different places to try and commission some of his furniture.”
“And Zeke?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him at all, ma’am.”
Their boots crunched through the packed snow, leaving little impression. She noticed some boot impressions near the porch, in a region that probably had grass beneath. There was no noticeable gouge out of the soles.They reached the uneven steps of the half-finished porch. The replaced wooden planks were sturdy, and Brook noted the construction was solid. The finished product would be a sight to behold.
