Kim's hand moved to her throat, fingers splayed across her collarbone in an unconscious gesture of vulnerability. For a brief moment, the carefully maintained façade slipped, revealing a flicker of raw emotion quickly suppressed.
Brook pushed the door open, the brass bell announcing her departure with the same cheerful jingle that had heralded her arrival. The bitter cold rushed to meet her. As the door swung closed behind her, she caught the sudden eruption of voices, the dam of silence broken by her exit.
Whatever reaction her impromptu demonstration had provoked would ripple through Harrowick within hours, perhaps loosening tongues that had remained stubbornly silent. Sometimes the best way to gather information wasn't to ask questions, but to reveal what one could already notice. In a town built on secrets and silence, Brook had just reminded them all that even the thickest walls had the ability to let in a crack of light.
20
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Friday – 11:00am
The chill of the January morning wrapped around Brook as she stepped out of Deputy Benz's patrol car, the engine rumbling softly before falling silent. She tucked her hands deeper into her pockets, the lingering warmth from her coffee cup fading quickly in the biting cold. Deputy Benz joined her on the sidewalk, his breath instantly small puffs of clouds that dissipated into the frosty air.
The neon sign of the tattoo parlor had flickered to life at approximately eleven o’clock. The red hue of the tubes glowed against the winter gray, the etched skull design resembling a stoplight in the dead of night.
Whereas the bakery had deliciously sweet aromas, the tattoo parlor had a strong, sharp antiseptic odor. The front area was cramped but meticulously organized, walls covered with laminated flash art and framed photographs of completed tattoos. Some of the pictures even featured past customers.Behind the counter, a heavy black curtain hung from a single rod, separating the main area from what she assumed were the private rooms.
Figg Whitlow stood behind a glass counter displaying several books of tattoos to peruse, as well as an array of body jewelry tucked in the back of the two shelves. His posture suggested he'd been anticipating their arrival, which she didn’t doubt in the least.
He was a heavily built man with broad shoulders and thick forearms covered in intricate tattoos that climbed up his neck in dark swirls. The designs weren't chaotic as one might expect, or so she’d been led to believe. They were precisely organized, each image flowing into the next with deliberate artistic intent. His shaved head gleamed under the track lighting, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and the slight crow's feet around his eyes.
“Make it quick, detective.” Figg’s voice matched his appearance. The deep tone was rough-edged. He offered no greeting and no pretense of pleasantries. His gaze shifted briefly to Deputy Benz before returning to Brook, sizing her up with an efficiency that told her he was accustomed to reading people quickly. “I’ve got a client in thirty minutes, and he isn’t too keen on the boys in blue.”
Brook approached the counter while pulling out her credentials.
“I’m not a state police detective, Mr. Whitlow. Nor do I work for the county.” Brook held up her identification. “I’m sure you already know that, though. My name is Brooklyn Sloane, and my firm has been hired to look into a murder that is connected to Heather Moore’s death. It’s my understanding that the two of you were on close terms?”
“I don’t care who you are.” Figg’s voice remained level. “And everyone in this town knows everyone else. What of it?”
“I’ll be more specific, then. You were witnessed having two separate arguments with Heather Moore in the weeks before her murder.” Brook's tone was matter-of-fact, neither accusatory nor sympathetic. She observed the subtle tightening around his eyes. “Once in the school parking lot, and once at the church. Why?”
“People in this town should also mind their own business,” Figg replied, the tattoos on his neck subtly pulsing with his heartbeat. “Heather and I weren’t arguing. We were having a discussion.”
“Mr. Whitlow, I can spend the next several days interviewing everyone in town about you and Heather, or you can be honest with me now, and I move on to more productive interviews. Your choice.”
Brook wasn’t going to play games. She was being brutally honest with him, and he had a decision to make in this moment. The latter would make her job more difficult, but so be it.
Figg's eyes narrowed as he studied her, clearly weighing the two options, and almost certainly calculating what she might already know against what he was willing to reveal. The silence stretched between them until movement could be heard behind the black curtain.
A woman suddenly emerged, dressed in fitted black leather pants and a tight red tank top that revealed ample cleavage, and her arms were covered in colorful, feminine versions of the same intricate style that adorned Figg's skin. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail that accentuated her sharp cheekbones and full lips painted blood red. She moved with the fluid confidence of someone completely at home in her environment.
Her steps faltered momentarily when she spotted Brook and Deputy Benz, her dark eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion.She recovered quickly, crossing to Figg's side and leaning against him with unmistakable possessiveness.
“I didn't know you had company, bae.” Her voice carried a slight rasp that suggested either smoking or too many late nights in loud bars. She made no effort to introduce herself or acknowledge Brook directly. “Do I need to call a lawyer?”
Figg's posture softened slightly as he draped an arm around her shoulders.
“Jasmine, go wait for me in the back.” Figg pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “I'll be there soon.”
Jasmine's gaze flicked from Brook to Benz and back again, her assessment now one of naked curiosity. Her red lips pressed into a thin line of obvious displeasure when no one was willing to speak in front of her. Her fingernails trailed possessively across Figg's tattooed forearm before she stepped back.
“Fine.” The single word carried layers of meaning from reluctance, concern, to territorial marking. “Don’t be too long, though. Jinx is coming in to get his sleeve finished this morning.”
Once the curtain settled back into place, Figg stepped forward and leaned his palms against the glass counter. He studied Brook for a moment longer, then pushed himself upright, resignation evident in the subtle shift of his posture.
“A friend of mine got out of prison about twelve years ago,” Figg began, his voice lowered despite the absence of other customers in the shop. Maybe he didn’t want Jasmine to overhear him. “Talented artist. Could've been working in a place like this instead of boosting cars if he'd had the chance. Part of his parole was taking some reentry courses.”
