Before they could knock, the door swung open. Brett stood in the threshold, his posture rigid with undisguised irritation. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the deputy, and his beard couldn't hide the way his jaw clenched.
“I’ve already answered your questions,” Brett exclaimed, his voice low and controlled despite the tension evident in his frame. “I have nothing more to say.”
“Mr. Sorsdal,” Brook began, reaching out and placing her hand on the door to prevent him from closing it in their faces. “I'd like to speak with your brother.”
“No.” Brett didn’t mince words. “Get off my property.”
“Is that a police officer, Brett?”
“Eat your breakfast, Zeke,” Brett called out in return, his voice softening just a touch. He then focused on Brook. “My brother can barely remember what he had for breakfast yesterday. I won’t have you upset him.”
“That’s not my intention,” Brook replied truthfully, lowering her arm when her fingers started to become numb.
Brett's gaze darted between them, calculation evident in his eyes.
“Unless you're here to make an arrest, you can?—”
“Brett?” The childlike quality of Zeke's voice was close, and it wasn’t long before he was peering over his brother’s shoulders. “You’re the police lady.”
“I am,” Brook responded with a tender smile. “I was hoping to talk to you about Heather. Do you remember her?”
“I already told you that?—”
“Brett, you shouldn't be angry,” Zeke interrupted, his voice carrying a note of gentle admonishment that contrasted sharply with his brother's tension. “The police are good. They want to help Miss Heather.”
Brett's eyes closed briefly, a fleeting gesture of defeat. When they opened again, the previous determination to have them leave the property had been replaced by resignation.
“Fine,” Brett muttered, stepping back from the doorway. “You can come in and talk to him. But I'll be present forevery question, and if he gets upset, this ends immediately. Understood?”
Brook nodded, sensing the shift in power dynamics. They had gotten their foot in the door—literally and figuratively. As she stepped across the threshold, the warmth of the house enveloped her, carrying the unmistakable scent of frying bacon. The closer they got to the kitchen, the richer the aroma.
Brett immediately positioned himself against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest, his posture making it clear that hospitality was not on offer. Brook took in the modest space, from the worn linoleum flooring scrubbed clean to the dated appliances meticulously maintained. The cabinets bore chipped paint, touched up with a slightly mismatched color. The room spoke of care within limitation.
Zeke had walked straight to the table and sat in what was obviously his usual chair. A plate containing the remnants of his breakfast and a half-glass of orange juice waited for him. His large frame seemed almost comically oversized for the wooden chair, which creaked slightly with each of his movements.
She noticed the wall calendar beside the refrigerator almost immediately. Each square was meticulously filled with handwritten notations. She easily spotted the week blocked out for Zeke’s visit.
“I don't know what you expect from Zeke, but he’s been in a care home most of his life. He was there when…well, when everything happened.”
“Not continuously,” Brook countered, though she kept her tone conversational. “According to the care facility's records, you started checking Zeke out for a week every other month after Heather's murder.”
Brett's eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening further. He understood the insinuation. The kitchen was immediatelycharged with unspoken tension, though Zeke seemed oblivious to it all. He was methodically lining up two pieces of bacon.
“Who gave you that information?” Brett's voice carried a dangerous edge. “I thought all that was covered under HIPAA.”
“I'm curious about the timing, is all.” Brook wasn’t sure if Brett would allow her to sit at the table next to Zeke, so she didn’t ask for permission. She also didn’t volunteer how she’d obtained such personal information. Instead, she unzipped her jacket, mindful to keep her weapon covered. “What changed back then, Mr. Sorsdal?”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft hum of Zeke's pleasure at finally taking a bite of his bacon.
“Not that it's any of your business,” Brett finally said, his voice lower, “but I found faith. And my faith made me realize that nothing is more important than family.”
The words hung in the air between them. Brook studied his expression for any sign of deception, but found only a guarded sincerity. On the refrigerator, she noticed a magnetic cross and several church bulletins pinned beneath it. The physical evidence supported his claim.
“You took Zeke to church before Heather’s death.”
“Yes, I did.” Brett’s gaze briefly shifted to his brother. “Life-changing events tend to make people reevaluate their priorities, though. Heather's death affected everyone in Harrowick. It made me stop and think about what really matters.”
Religious conversion following trauma wasn't uncommon. People often sought meaning and structure in the aftermath of violence or loss. Yet something in Brett's explanation felt incomplete, like a story with pages missing.
