Once she had settled in behind the steering wheel, she leaned over the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. She retrieved one of the bottles of antacids, popped the lid, and tossed two back in hopes of easing the discomfort in her chest.
Hadley recalled Chief Garber as a kind man. He had even checked in on her from time to time until she left town. But what if he hadn’t done so out of the kindness of his heart?
What if those visits had been driven by guilt?
14
Hadley Dawkins
October 2025
Sunday – 1:36pm
The dirt road curved through a stand of oak trees, their branches forming a tunnel of blotchy shadows that caused Hadley to squint against the alternating light and dark. When the trees finally parted, a well-maintained ranch-style home came into view. The porch was surrounded by carefully tended flower beds, though the split-rail fence on the right-hand side of the lawn had seen better days.
She slowly came to a stop behind a familiar red pickup truck. The vehicle had to be at least twenty years old, but the paint shone as if it had just been driven off the lot.
She left the engine idling as she studied the property. When nothing stood out, she focused on the windows. The protective talisman in Amelia’s house should have clued Hadley in on just how strong the roots were regarding the story behind theThreshing Man. She was usually more observant, and shechided herself for not spotting the pentacle when she’d first walked through the door.
Garber's windows were bare.
The absence of a talisman bothered her more than it should have. She didn’t want to believe that Garber had tampered with evidence or fabricated a story to get out of investigating the disappearance of a young woman. If such a theory were proven true, it would only add to the insidious doubt that had plagued her for so long.
Hadley killed the engine. She palmed her keys before stepping out of her vehicle, her presence scattering a cluster of brown and white chickens from beneath an old oak tree. Their indignant squawks faded, replaced by the sound of Johnny Cash's deep baritone drifting from somewhere behind the house.
She followed the sound, noticing that it was accompanied by the rhythmic thud of something heavy striking wood. The air smelled of freshly split timber and impending rain. As she rounded the corner, she spotted Elijah Garber next to a substantial woodpile. An axe was raised high above his head, and he brought it down in a practiced arc against a waiting log.
The implement landed awkwardly, though. It had embedded itself at an angle rather than splitting the wood clean through. He’d noticed her a little too late, and his aim had been interrupted. Despite the mild temperature, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe it away.
“Heard you were in town,” Elijah said, his tone softening as he assessed her. “Might I say it’s about damn time, too. Welcome home, Hadley.”
She offered him a small smile.
Elijah had known her since she was a child. He’d also been there the night Mason was arrested, and he had taken her statement while her ten-year-old hands trembled around a mugof hot chocolate piled high with mini-marshmallows. The weight of those memories pressed down on her until it became difficult to breathe.
“I'm not surprised word spread so quickly,” Hadley responded as he closed the distance between them. He pulled her into an awkward embrace, patting her back without any rhythm. “Apparently, I was the talk of Telfort's funeral.”
Elijah's laugh was short and dry as he pulled away to tuck the handkerchief back into his pocket.
"Small towns. Can't sneeze without someone offering you a tissue from three streets over.” He scrutinized her for a long moment, his expression shifting into something more contemplative. “You look good, Hadley. Life's been treating you well?”
She wished she could say the same of him, but he’d aged drastically since she’d seen him last. His hair had thinned and grayed, and deep lines had formed into his sun-weathered face. His once straight posture had given way to gravity. Then again, all those changes were expected of a man in his early seventies.
“I can't complain,” Hadley finally replied, deflecting the personal inquiry. The burn in her chest returned, a reminder that her body disagreed with her assessment. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“Got some apple cider warming on the stove. Made it just this morning. Care to join me on the porch?”
“That sounds nice,” Hadley responded as they fell into step beside one another. She matched his slow gait. “Though I have to admit, this isn't just a social call.”
“I hope you’ll catch me up on your life just the same.”
The rest of their walk was made in silence. It was sad to admit that part of their conversation would last maybe thirty seconds. More had taken place in his life, such as the loss of his wife and then his retirement three years ago.
The front porch stretched across the entire face of the house, its wooden boards swept clean of autumn leaves. Two rocking chairs waited side by side, positioned to catch the afternoon sun while overlooking the property. Between the rockers sat a small table, a round ashtray in the center with a few cigarette butts. Apparently, the former sheriff still enjoyed his nicotine.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Elijah instructed, gesturing toward one of the chairs. “I'll bring out the cider.”
Hadley lowered herself into the rocker on the far side. The one closest to the door was obviously his favorite if the scuff marks in the wood were anything to go by. She ran her fingertips over the smooth armrests as she collected her thoughts. The manner in which she approached him with her questions was critical to obtaining honest answers.
