If the Snowdrop Inn was coming back to life, then I was going to make sure the town noticed. And this time, I planned to do it right.
Chapter Two: At the Station
Ephram
The police station was busy when I arrived, or as busy as a small town police station could be. The air carried that familiar mix of coffee, paper, and winter coats drying slowly on hooks. Gail was behind the front desk, sipping her herbal tea like always. She should have retired twenty years ago, but she was still a feature of the support staff.
“Good morning,” I greeted her as I went past.
Gail saluted me with her mug.
In the small kitchen someone had left a mug on the counter without rinsing it. A faint ring of dried coffee marked the laminate surface. I rinsed the mug, wiped the counter, and set it upside down in the drying rack before getting my own cup of coffee.
Order mattered in places like this. Not for appearances, not because I enjoyed correcting people, but because small lapses multiplied if you let them. A desk cluttered with yesterday’s paperwork turned into a missed follow-up. A missed follow-up turned into a complaint. A complaint turned into questions, and questions turned into doubt about the ability to do the job. In a small town, doubt traveled faster than facts.
I checked the board near my desk and straightened a flyer that had been pinned crooked. The corner of it read CHRISTMAS PARADE in block letters cheerful enough to feel slightly out of place among notices about parking restrictions and lost keys. Someone had drawn a tiny candy cane in the margin. I left it there. I was not a monster.
I sat, logged in, and scanned the morning reports with a practiced eye. A noise complaint on the edge of town. A minor fender bender that had already been handled without argument. A call about a dog that had gotten loose, which had been resolved when the dog decided to return home on its own schedule.
December in Maple Ridge was busy but predictable.There were holiday events, visitor overflow from the skiing, and those who came for the winter events. The town wanted to feel cozy, and it usually succeeded, but coziness did not cancel out the basics of safety and responsibility.
My promotion still felt new. Sergeant North looked unfamiliar on paperwork, like a typo no one had caught yet. I had earned it, and I knew that. My evaluations had been strong, my record was clean, and my judgement had been steady.
Going to my desk, I started up my computer and opened the list of open cases that I had. One file stood out because it was older than the rest. Gavin Wickham had committed financial fraud and it was still unresolved.
It wasn’t a major case since there was no violence, no immediate threat to anyone’s safety. The suspect had fled town so it was unlikely to ever be solved. Yet it hadaffected people within my town.
I clicked it open and scanned the notes. Gavin Wickham had made promises, collected cash, and left without trace, leaving others to clean up the mess. It was a carefully phrased story that had sounded plausible at the time. People didn’t like admitting they had been fooled, so they tended to leave details vague. The file reflected that. Incomplete statements with a timeline that had gaps where embarrassment lived. One note from the previous investigator read,the subject left town before the full interview completed.
I did not care about drama. I cared about closure.
A name surfaced quickly, highlighted in the margins.
Bennet, Lydia. A young woman, recently back in town, too trusting of someone who knew how to sound sincere. She brought the fraudster into her family circle and family business
I didn’t judge her for what happened. I had seen worse mistakes made by people twice her age, and I had seen smart people make foolish decisions when someone spoke to their hopes in the right tone. What concerned me was how unfinished the file was. It wasn’t fully documented, some conversations were summarized with no transcript or recording. A few dates were penciled in with question marks.
If this was going to be closed, it needed to be closed properly.
I opened a blank document and started a clean list of what was missing. Exact amount lost by the Bennets. The date Lydia first met Wickham. Any written communication. Any witnesses to the promises he made. Whether the money had been handed over in person or transferred. Whether Lydia had been alone. Whether she had told anyone at the time.
I paused over that last one.
The Bennets were a close family, but closeness did not guarantee openness. People hid their mistakes, sometimes even from the people who loved them.
A soft knock landed near my desk.
Officer Harris stood there holding a file folder and wearing the expression of a man who had already decided his day would be long. “Morning, Sergeant.”
“Morning,” I said. “Anything urgent?”
“Nothing urgent. Just a stack of minor reports and a call from the parade committee. They want to meet this afternoon about route barriers.”
I nodded. “Put it on the schedule.”
He sat without being invited, which was one of the things I appreciated about Harris. He was capable without being overlycareful around me. He still treated me like the same person, just with a different title. That was rare.
“You are already in the Wickham file,” he said, glancing at my screen.
