“Bit would love to help you set up an Amazon account,” Sylvie offered, ignoring Bit’s glare. “In the meantime, what else happened regularly in the neighborhood back then?”
Paula took a satisfied sip of her tea, her gaze never leaving Bit's face. He couldn’t help but glance at her teeth when she flashed him a smile.
“Mrs. Henderson used to love to bake. Not so much anymore since her arthritis grew steadily worse. Anyway, she would bring Heather cookies on the first Monday of every month. Mr. Lattimore from the corner house would borrow eggs about once a week. That man can't seem to remember to buy them at the store. He knocks on Mrs. Henderson’s door now.” Paula shook her head in mild exasperation, as if he should have learned a long time ago to buy an additional carton. “And that wedding photographer, Kyle Wheat. He stopped by multiple times thatmonth, discussing an anniversary party, I believe. For her parents. Sadly, that celebration didn't happen, of course.”
“Kyle Wheat visited Heather?” Sylvie repeated with interest. “On multiple occasions, you said?”
“Yes, several times,” Paula confirmed, adjusting the blanket across her lap. “I assumed Heather had specific requests for the photography job. Some people can be very particular about those things. My niece insisted on having all sepia-toned pictures at her wedding. Looked like they got married in the Dust Bowl, if you ask me.”
Bit was having trouble reconciling that Kyle Wheat had anything to do with the murders. While his connection to photography was indisputable, he didn't fit the profile.
“How many times would you say Mr. Wheat visited Heather?” Sylvie asked, her voice carefully neutral despite the significance of such a revelation.
“I don’t know why you’re overly interested in Kyle. He’s a sweet man. But to answer your question, I’d say at least three times. Always with his portfolio case, too. Very professional.”
Bit began to jostle his knee up and down as he mentally went through the profile again. Brook had mentioned several times that she believed something was wrong with the initial draft. What concerned him most was that Kyle and Faith Wheat had been at the town hall meeting when he and Sylvie had left the church.
“Mrs. Stillman, do you recall when Kyle married Faith?” Bit asked as a sinking sensation occurred in his stomach.
“My memory is quite good, but if you’re asking for a specific date, I don’t believe I know that,” Paula said somewhat defensively. “Kyle has photographed half the town over the years. School events, weddings, family portraits. He helped me put together my Harold's funeral program. Beautiful work.”
Bit caught Sylvie's attention, recognizing the same alarm he was experiencing at the connection. She slowly set her untouched teacup down on the coffee table.
“Do you recall if he was married when Heather was alive?”
“Oh, no. I think it was a year or two after her funeral that Kyle and Faith began to date. Everyone was so happy for them.”
Both Sylvie and Bit stood in unison, their abrupt movement causing Paula to blink in surprise.
“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stillman,” Sylvie said, her voice gentle but urgent as she pulled on her coat. “We truly appreciate the tea and the conversation. You’ve been a tremendous help, but we really should get back to the town hall meeting.”
“It's the weather, isn't it?” Paula said with a nod of understanding. She leaned to the side and set her teacup on the small table next to her recliner. “The roads are getting slicker by the second. Let me pack some cookies for you to take?—”
“No need, Mrs. Stillman,” Bit said, too quickly by the frown on her face. He softened his tone, adding, “But thank you. And I’ll stop by sometime tomorrow to help you set up an Amazon account and to answer any other questions you have regarding your phone.”
By this time, Bit had slid his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. Sylvie was already at the front door with her earmuffs in place. She twisted the knob, and they both braced for the frigid air.
“Be careful out there,” Paula called from behind them.
The snow was falling more heavily now, thick flakes swirling in the glow of the porch light. The street beyond was now a blank white canvas, unmarked by tire tracks or footprints. Not surprisingly, given that most of the residents were at the church.
“I’ll drive.” Sylvie held out her gloved hand as they walked side by side toward the van. “You reach out to Theo or Brook. Letthem know that there is a very good chance Kyle Wheat is our unsub.”
31
Brooklyn Sloane
January 2026
Sunday — 8:28pm
The mayor's voice faded into the background as Brook stepped away from the podium. Residents rose from their seats, some huddled in whispered conversations while others made direct paths toward the exits. She searched for Kyle Wheat's face among the sea of attendees. He had been seated in the third row with his wife during the profile presentation, but now that distinctive space had been swallowed by the movement of bodies eager to escape the uncomfortable truths she'd unveiled.
“...thank you all for coming tonight.” The mayor brought the meeting to a close. “Please drive safely in these conditions.”
Brook narrowed her focus to the sole task of locating Kyle.
The churning crowd made visual tracking nearly impossible. Bodies shifted and blocked her line of sight in unpredictable patterns. She caught a glimpse of Faith's cream-colored blousenear the middle aisle, but then a group of older men moved between them, and the visual connection was lost.
