Henry's expression remained guarded, but something in his shoulders relaxed marginally.
“You were close to Loretta in a way few others were. She spent more time with you than she did with any other student. Did you observe other students paying excessive attention to her? Maybe someone whose interest went beyond normal admiration.”
“She helped a lot of troubled kids,” Henry said, his tone defensive. “It was what made her special. She saw potential in students that everyone else had written off. That didn't—doesn’t—make them killers.”
“And once again, we're not suggesting it did,” Sylvie assured him. “We're simply trying to identify anyone who might have had an unhealthy attachment to her. Someone who might have been devastated by her death in a way that could have triggered violence.”
Henry's gaze drifted toward the connecting door. His expression became contemplative, weighted with unspoken thoughts.
“Henry, you claim that those living in Harrowick would know if someone capable of strangling four women was living among them. Did you ever imagine your brother would flee an accident scene to avoid a DUI?” Theo asked quietly, the question landing just as he’d intended. The workshop fell silent except for the soft hum of the heating vents. “It’s a sad fact that we only know what those intend for us to know.”
After a tense moment, Henry shifted his attention back to Sylvie, his expression hardening with resolve.He rolled himself over to one of the benches and retrieved a pen and a notepad. He then positioned the pad of paper against his thigh.
“I can give you about fifteen names of people who thought the sun and moon set on Loretta Whitlow,” Henry said, not looking up as he wrote. “Students who lingered after class with transparent excuses. Even colleagues.”
Sylvie and Theo exchanged curious glances at Henry’s vague implication. Henry seemed to sense their interest, but he continued to write. When he was finished with the list, he tore the paper from its spiral holder and held it out for her to take.
“There used to be some rumors about a teacher whose marriage was somewhat rocky back then. He would always dropin the library when Ms. Whitlow would be tutoring students, and he even accompanied her to the hospital a few times after my accident.” Henry nodded toward the paper in Sylvie’s hand. “You might want to start with him…Principal Watkins.”
26
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Saturday – 1:46pm
The wind cut across the open expanse of the cemetery, slicing through Brook's layers like a razor blade. Her boots crunched over the thin layer of snow as she followed Scotty between the rows of headstones. She'd spent the drive preparing herself for this moment, yet the familiar ache in her chest grew with each step closer to Sally's grave.
“Hasn't changed much, has it?” Scotty asked, his breath forming small clouds that dissipated almost instantly.“Morton, that is.”
“Not really.”
The cemetery had a traditional layout. Weathered granite and marble stones served as grave markers, some adorned with faded photographs and epitaphs. Tall, bare oak trees lined the edges, their skeletal branches swaying in the biting wind. A worn gravel path wound through the graves, leading to a quaint chapel at the far end, its steeple reaching for the grey sky.
Brook tugged her scarf a little tighter.
“Was lunch really that bad?”
“No, the food was exactly as I remembered.” Brook flexed her gloved fingers, keeping her blood flowing despite the cold. “The patrons, though. Let’s just say it was difficult to get through lunch while having most everyone staring at me.”
Those stares hadn’t been because they recognized her personally, but because of the national news. There were a lot of new faces in and around Morton since she’d moved away. Still, they recognized the sister of the monster who had slashed Sally Pearson's face until there was nothing left but blood and bone.
“What exactly do you expect to find here?” Scotty asked as they turned down another row of graves. “The only thing the guy left was a bouquet of flowers, and the groundskeeper probably already tossed them.”
Brook considered the question, weighing honesty against caution. Scotty deserved the former after agreeing to meet her on such short notice.
“I don't expect to find anything tangible,” Brook admitted, lifting her gaze to scan the cemetery. “If Jacob visited Sally's grave, he did it to send me a message. He waited until someone spotted him. Someone who would have access to me. The message was the visit itself.”
“Then why make the trip, Brook?”
“Because I need to see it through his eyes.” It was rather difficult to explain her process, especially to someone who didn’t crawl inside the minds of killers on a daily basis. “Doing so helps me anticipate what comes next.”
They finally approached a modest granite headstone bearing Sally's name. Her laugh echoed in memory, bright and uninhibited. It was the kind of sound that made others join in, whether they comprehended the joke or not.
A recollection of Sally twirling with arms outstretched in a park the summer before their senior year came to mind. The image twisted, distorted, and was eventually replaced by the twitching of Sally’s extremities after Jacob had slit her throat, and she lay dying in the middle of the cornfield.
Brook pressed a gloved hand against her chest, her heartbeat suddenly too rapid. She inhaled deeply through her nose, counting silently to ten before exhaling through her mouth. The cold air burned her lungs, grounding her in the present.
