“You sound like a commercial,” Hadley muttered, though there didn’t seem to be any judgment in her tone. “Don’t worry, Turner. There will not be a record of these photographs in any report. If we need something in a professional capacity, I’ll either ask Old Man Gleason’s permission or get a warrant.”
Nick didn’t have to tell her that the first choice wasn’t an option. He’d spoken to the man last year, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d voluntarily give law enforcement access to his property.
Hadley once again tucked her phone in the pocket of her blazer before making her way to the back of the barn. He followed her through the gap, this time angling his body to avoid the nail that had already claimed part of his shirt.
Outside, the afternoon light seemed almost harsh after the barn's filtered dimness. They walked silently to where their vehicles were parked, the air between them charged with unspoken questions.
“I should get back to the station,” Nick replied as he pulled the keys to the cruiser from his pocket. “But before you go, I’d like to know why you think Missy Claymont is part of a long string of abductions. And on that topic, are you suggesting we have a human-trafficking network in my county?”
Hadley came to a stop beside her SUV.
“No, I don’t think you’re dealing with a human-trafficking network.” Hadley shaded her eyes with her hand. “But I do believe someone has been abducting young women from this area for forty to fifty years, possibly longer. They specifically target creative, ambitious girls who express desires to leave Whistlerun behind. The abductions cluster around harvest season, and the perpetrator uses theThreshing Manfolklore as cover.”
Nick couldn't prevent the short laugh that escaped him, though it died quickly when he realized she was entirely serious.
“Hadley, you're suggesting we have a serial abductor who's been active for half a century. That would make our suspect?—”
“Late sixties, early seventies now, yes,” Hadley finished for him. “I’m aware of how that sounds, but he would still fully be capable of continuing to abduct girls at that age.”
“Serial offenders typically escalate over time, not maintain the same pattern for decades.”
“The pattern exists. I’ve narrowed it down to eight young women with striking similarities in their backgrounds. All connected to this town, all vanishing during harvest season.”
Nick studied Hadley’s face, searching for signs that this theory was more about personal vindication than professional assessment. If she were right, it would mean her brother had been wrongfully imprisoned for twenty years. He might need to revise his earlier opinion of her professional motives being genuine.
“I'll keep an open mind,” Nick conceded for now. He pulled a business card from the front pocket of his shirt. He’d already jotted down his cell phone number on the back. “Do me a favor, though? Call me with updates. And if you need any backup or assistance, reach out to me.”
Hadley lowered her hand and took the card. She then opened her car door but paused before getting in, turning back to face him.
“By the way, how did you know I'd be here at Gleason's place?”
“I had the same training as you,” Nick replied, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Remember?”
Nick nodded in her direction before walking toward his cruiser. He kept to himself that his deputy had been in the convenience store when he overheard Hadley asking Rena whether Gleason would be attending Emanuel Telfort's funeral.
Small towns had their advantages. One of which was how information traveled faster than official channels. If Hadley was going to uncover a decades-old pattern of disappearances in Whistlerun, she'd need to remember that very few secrets stayed buried in Cane County.
11
Reed Langley
October 2025
Saturday – 5:56pm
The familiar scents of beer and decades-old wood polish of Gus’ Watering Hole enveloped anyone who walked through the door like an old friend's embrace. The converted warehouse retained its original brick walls and exposed wooden beams, a physical testament to the town’s stubborn refusal to surrender to time.
Amber light from vintage fixtures covered the patrons with warmth, and the quiet murmur of conversations competed with the soft strains of country music from the ancient jukebox that Gus refused to replace despite its tendency to skip every third song on the playlist.
Reed nodded in the direction of a few familiar faces as he made his way to the bar. Saturday nights were typically busy, and this one was no different, especially since most of the locals had attended Emanuel’s funeral.
The last thing he needed after today's press conference was an audience, though.The local reporters had been relentless, peppering him with questions about Hadley's involvement in the Claymont case and whether that meant he and Sheriff Turner had made a mistake in the investigation. He'd stuck to the script—professional courtesy, interagency cooperation, fresh perspectives—while carefully navigating the politics.
He hated politics, but the mayor had left him little choice but to address the situation.
Reed settled onto a stool in the middle of the bar. He checked his watch, noting that he still had another thirty minutes or so before meeting up with Nora for dinner.
“Well, is it true?” Sam Cashman asked as he approached with an iced cold mug in hand.
