The remembrance of the exchange between her mother and Emanuel had come out of nowhere. She instinctively slowed as she approached the funeral home, wondering if Emanuel had any family to take over his dairy farm. She didn’t recall him being married or having any children, but she’d been gone a long time.
Checking her rearview mirror, she noticed a pickup truck tailing her closely. Realizing that she was nearly coming to a stop, she pressed the gas pedal, sped up, and passed the funeral home before continuing to drive through town.
The winding road eventually led her to the town's outskirts, where expansive fields extended toward far-off rows of trees. Just ahead, the temporary structures of the Cane County Harvest Festival were beginning to take shape. Workers in jeans and t-shirts hammered supports for booths and stalls, while others unloaded equipment from trucks.
Two media vans were already stationed at the perimeter, their satellite dishes aimed skyward like mechanical flowers seeking the sun. No doubt, they were gathering B-roll footage for their next sensationalized segment on theThreshing Man.
The Cox property lay just beyond the festival grounds, separated by a thick strip of woodland that had always marked the boundary between public celebration and private land.
The road narrowed, forcing her to slow as she turned onto a dirt path that seemed determined to return to its natural state. Tall grasses scraped against the undercarriage of her SUV, and she winced at the grating sound. She'd forgotten how quickly nature reclaimed spaces in these parts.
The path curved through cornfields, some thriving with abundant crops and others neglected and dying. It seemed Martin Cox had scaled back his efforts, and it was only a matterof time before a neighbor or a corporation stepped in to make an offer on the property.
The early morning sun continued to rise slowly in the sky, casting gentle shadows across the landscape. Despite the chilled air, she lowered her window, allowing the familiar scents of earth and vegetation to fill the SUV. She’d never imagined she could miss the countryside, but she found herself almost nostalgic for hot apple cider and pumpkin pie.
The farmhouse came into view as Hadley rounded the final bend in the path. The two-story structure had aged like its owner. The white paint had cracked under countless battles with the harsh elements. The wraparound porch had a layer of debris that hadn’t seen the bristles of a broom in quite a while, and the porch swing tilted at an awkward angle.
As she pulled her vehicle to a stop, one word surfaced in her thoughts—loneliness. She turned the engine off as she couldn’t help but compare the home’s windows to vacant eyes staring out over what used to be thriving terrain. The landscape that had once been so vibrant and alive now appeared desolate and lifeless.
Hadley stepped out of her vehicle while taking in the rest of the property. The silence seemed absolute except for the distant sound of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. The weathervane swung indecisively, as if objecting to her presence. There were no dogs to bark a welcome, nor any chickens to scatter at her arrival. The absence of life on what had once been a working farm was profound.
The steps leading to the front door gave slightly under her weight, but they were sturdy enough to last a few more years before succumbing to the weather. Hadley’s heart ached at the sight of Sarah's flower beds, once the pride of the property, overtaken by weeds.
It hadn’t been Hadley’s intention to suggest Martin Cox was responsible for the abductions during her conversation with Reed yesterday. While he didn't appear convinced by her theory that several cases were linked, she still stood firm in her conclusions. And though it was possible Martin Cox was guilty, she found it hard to believe he would risk drawing attention to himself by using his own land as a personal hunting ground.
Hadley rapped her knuckles against the smudged black paint of the door. She half-expected no response, wondering if Martin would even be home at this hour. He still worked one or two of his fields, but she hadn’t wanted to call ahead. In her line of work, the element of surprise usually gave her the upper hand.
Just as she prepared to knock again, she heard slow, deliberate footsteps approaching from inside. The door gradually opened until Martin stood in the entryway holding a ceramic coffee mug.
“Well, now,” Martin greeted knowingly, his voice roughened through the years. “If it isn't Hadley Dawkins.”
She offered him a gentle smile, noting the pronounced lines around his mouth and the prominent crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His hair was more silver than she remembered, though he still sported the white and grey plaid shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
“Mr. Cox,” Hadley greeted him through the screen door. “I was hoping I might have a word with you.”
His eyes—still sharp despite his years—took in her badge clipped to her belt. She’d once again donned a pair of jeans, a cream blouse, and a navy blue jacket with the purpose of blending professionalism with a casual touch.
“Come on in. You caught me finishing my coffee before heading into the fields to check on the irrigation system. It’s been giving me a fit since the start of the season.” Martin opened the screen door, holding it wide enough for her to step through.“I paid my respect at the Telfort viewing last night instead of today. Let’s just say you were the main topic of conversation.”
Hadley found herself at a loss for words in response to such a statement. She was acutely aware of the complex dynamics that governed a small town. How whispered secrets traveled faster than the wind, and the unspoken rules that dictated interactions were best left alone.
Still, that didn’t mean she had to like it.
“I noticed the cars in the parking lot this morning,” Hadley replied once she stepped fully into the house. Martin released his hold on the screen door, but he didn’t bother to close the interior one. The house smelled of coffee and cherry pipe tobacco. “I didn't know Mr. Telfort well, but he was kind to my mother after my father passed.”
“That sounds like Emanuel. Didn't talk much, but he always went out of his way when folks needed help.”
Martin led her through a living room that hadn’t been updated in years. A floral-patterned couch with a matching loveseat and recliner surrounded an older model television. A brass lamp that Hadley was sure had been similar to the one in her living room growing up sat on a side table atop a doily that had yellowed with age.
Traces of Sarah were visible throughout the kitchen. Two embroidered dish towels hung over the oven handle, a set of decorative plates was neatly arranged on a wall rack, and three ornate suncatchers were attached to the window with suction cups overlooking the backyard.
“Getting old isn't for the faint of heart,” Martin murmured, following her gaze to a photograph of him and Sarah decades earlier. He gestured toward a kitchen chair before walking toward the counter. “Sit. I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Black, please,” Hadley requested, figuring the small task would give Martin something to do. She pulled out a chair andmade herself comfortable. “I appreciate you seeing me without calling ahead.”
“Those media folk have been busy stirring up a hornet’s nest.” Martin retrieved a mug from the cupboard and set it next to his own on the counter. He then proceeded to pour the coffee from a glass carafe that could have been older than her. “I’m not gonna lie, though. I was surprised the State Police sent you.”
Hadley was in agreement, but she kept her opinion to herself. The seat she had chosen offered her a clear view through the window of the back door. The dense lines of trees that separated Martin’s property from the Cane County Harvest Festival grounds shifted in unison with the light breeze. The mesmerizing sway gave the impression that the trees were alive…waiting…observing.
