“Where are you going?” Nick asked in frustration. She had already rounded the side of the barn, and she didn’t slow her pace at his question. “I already explained to you that Gleason isn’t here.”
“And I already told you that I’m well aware of that fact.” Hadley peered over her shoulder. “Old Man Gleason is attending Emanuel Telfort’s funeral, which gives me time to verify something.”
Nick waited for her to expand, but she continued forward until she reached the back end of the barn. Without hesitation, she rounded that corner, as well. A seed of doubt began to grow in a way he wasn’t comfortable with.
“Any search inside this barn requires a warrant, as you well know, Detective Dawkins,” Nick warned as he continued to follow her.
When Hadley had first mentioned Sarah Cox’s journals, he had begun to wonder if her personal history with the residents might actually be an asset, but she seemed to have the same affliction as Langley—they both thought of the residents like relatives.
Then again, she had turned on her brother.
“It's not breaking and entering if an officer of the law believes there are grounds to enter a building.” Hadley finally came to a stop. She tilted her head slightly, cupping one hand behind her ear. “Don't you hear that? Sounds like someone might be in distress inside.”
The mocking gesture pricked at Nick's pride. He ran a hand through his hair, a habit that surfaced whenever his patience wore thin. The slight lift of the corner of her mouth indicated she’d caught his tell.
“Detective Dawkins, I took the same training you did,” Nick replied, doing his best to keep his tone civil. She was making it very difficult for him, and he didn’t want to have to explain to the mayor why he arrested the detective sent to investigate Missy Claymont’s disappearance. “Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is—unlawful entry.”
“I'm aware of your credentials.” Hadley ran her fingers along the weathered boards. Several had warped over time, creating small gaps between them. “University of Arkansas with honors, close to fifteen years with the Arkansas State Police, and then three as sheriff of Cane County. You’re not the only one who does a thorough background check, Sheriff.”
Hadley tested a board, then another, until she found one that moved more freely than the others. Nick had walked the perimeter last year after taking Gleason’s statement, and he was angry with himself for not testing each individual board. With calculated pressure, she pulled it back completely, creating an opening large enough for a person to slip through.
“And can we dispense with the formalities?” As she slipped in between the thin opening, she flashed him a smile. “Call me Hadley.”
Nick muttered a curse under his breath as she released her hold on the board. He stood there for a few seconds debatingwith himself on whether he was actually going to place her in cuffs. The three-ring circus such an arrest would create wasn’t worth it, which meant that he needed to get her out of there before Gleason caught them inside his barn.
“Damn it,” Nick muttered as he shifted the board and then maneuvered sideways through the small space. His broad chest made his own entry significantly more difficult, and he muttered another string of expletives as his shirt caught on a protruding nail. The fabric tore with an audible rip. “Son of a?—”
“Careful,” Hadley called out. He wasn’t sure if that was humor in her voice until she continued with her warning. “You don’t want to cut yourself and, God forbid, leave any DNA behind.”
Nick managed to bite off his response as he finally stepped through the thin opening. He gave his eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting seeping through the holes in the ceiling. The afternoon sun cast slanted beams that highlighted Edgar Gleason's moonshine operation like it was center stage at a concert.
The setup was more elaborate than Nick recalled—copper pots connected by coiled condensers, rows of mason jars in various stages of filling, and wooden crates repurposed as workspaces. The sharp smell of fermenting corn mash permeated the air, too, mingling with the earthier scents of aged wood and dust. Langley had convinced Nick to let him give a warning to Gleason regarding his little side business. Nick was now wondering if Langley had made an investment instead.
"I believe the term you were looking for earlier is 'probable cause’, and we don’t have it," Nick reminded her as he slowly scanned the rest of the setup. He should arrest her on the spot for putting him in this situation. “Every police chief and sheriff over the years has turned a blind eye to Gleason’s operation.”
“The man is also in his seventies and hasn't hurt anyone. His moonshine is practically medicinal for some of the older folks around here,” Hadley explained as she moved deeper into the barn. He turned his attention to her when she seemed focused not on the moonshine operation itself, but on the structure of the barn around it. “Did you know that Old Man Gleason served in Vietnam from 1968 to 1971? Inherited this property from his father in 1972. He started the moonshine operation in 1976 after milk prices dropped, making dairy farming less profitable. Never married, either, though local gossip suggests a romantic tragedy in his youth.”
“And yet, he has somehow maintained this operation for over forty years without a single arrest or citation,” Nick replied wryly as he observed her more closely. She had pulled out her phone and activated its flashlight as if she hadn’t put him in a compromising position. “What are you searching for, Hadley?”
If she wanted to be on a first-name basis, that was fine with him. It still wouldn’t stop him from slapping the cuffs on her wrists if she so much as touched one item in this barn that could taint the investigation.
Nick had taken Edgar Gleason’s statement himself back then. The man claimed to have no knowledge of any jars of moonshine being stolen from his property. Given that there was no proof to the contrary, there hadn’t been a way to prove differently.
“This.” Hadley directed the phone’s light toward the thick wooden support beam near the center of the barn. “This is what I'm really interested in.”
Nick approached her cautiously, sidestepping some equipment scattered across the dirt floor. The beam Hadley illuminated was scored with dozens of initials carved into the aged wood. Some were shallow and recent, and others had been weathered by decades past. She traced her finger along one set that appeared to spell R.M.
“Richie McCarthy,” Hadley stated before moving her light to reveal some of the other carvings. “It's a senior tradition to carve your initials after stealing your first jar of Gleason's moonshine. I just wanted to verify Richie's story before I question him about the night Missy disappeared.”
The dates beneath some carvings went back thirty years or more. The timeline marked a very long rebellion against small-town constraints of Whistlerun's youth. He figured out quickly how she had known about such tradition.
He chided himself for not noticing the markings when he was out here last year.
“And where are your initials?”
“Other side.” Hadley slowly walked around the beam and knelt, holding her phone steady. Nick had followed, but he remained standing while staring down at her initials. It was then he noticed another familiar set, which would explain Langley’s softness toward the old man. “Senior year. A bunch of us snuck in here, each taking a jar. And before you ask, the answer is yes. Edgar knows, and he purposefully leaves that board in the back loose. It's his way of maintaining his reputation as the cantankerous old moonshiner, but he really just enjoys giving the kids some memories to share with their children someday.”
Nick found himself reevaluating both Hadley and Langley. She made Gleason out to be a sentimental old man. And Hadley, despite her years away, still understood the unwritten rules of Whistlerun.
