I went to the office and dragged the old evidence bin out from under the desk. Something was gnawing at my gut, like I’d missed something—an address, a phone number. My thumb jammed. “Agh—perfect,” I muttered, shaking it out and yanking it free. The brick sat inside the basket, covered in a bag and secured with tape, ugly and accusing.
“Huh. Now isn’t that interesting,” I murmured.
I set it on the table, pulled at a strip of yellowed tape that had flipped up at the corner. A scrap of paper clung beneath the light—ink ghosted but legible enough:…omas.
I studied it a bit longer, then angled it closer—part of a store logo. My pulse steadied.Carl’s Hardware & Stone.
Scrolling through old photos on my phone, I zoomed in on details I’d missed or didn’t think important at the time. There—the sliver of receipt, torn and uneven. Carl never tossed a record; he kept carbon copies like they were heirlooms.
The back door sighed open, letting in a draft. Milly stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tucked beneath a knit hat with a few rebellious strands escaping. She looked like she’d grown up here—like a natural Montanan.
“You’re really getting down to work early,” she said, tugging her gloves off.
“Technically, I never stopped.”
Her eyes flicked to the bin, the photos, the coffee half gone. “Another late-night security date?”
“Maybe a breakthrough.” I slid the picture toward her. “Receipt scrap from the brick. I think it came from Carl’s.”
She leaned in, studying it. “That’s his old logo—before he switched printers.”
“Exactly.”
“So, someone local bought the supplies.”
“Or someone who used to be local.”
She folded her arms. “You’ll ask him.”
“Today,” I promised. “And you’ll get every word of what I find.”
Her eyes lifted to mine—soft around the edges. “Good.”
For a moment, everything stilled. She adjusted the compass at her throat, morning light scattering silver across the table. Then she turned toward the stairs, boots creaking on the boards.
I watched her go, the warmth of her nearness lingering longer than the coffee steam.
The porch air bit when I stepped outside. Frost still clung to the fence rails, glittering like crystals. The world was still half asleep—sky the color of worn denim, frost sketching the grass in silver veins. I pulled out my phone, the scrap of paper folded in my palm.
We’re not finished. Not by a long shot. It was time to start asking questions.
Palmer answered on the second ring. “Palmer.”
“It’s Austin. Found something.”
I told him about the brick, the bit of receipt stuck under the tape, the logo that matched Carl’s. The wind kept shifting, carrying my voice toward the pasture and back again.
When I finished, Palmer let out a low whistle. “You think whoever threw it bought their supplies in town?”
“Or close enough to think they wouldn’t be noticed.”
“Leave it to me to ask the boring question—why keep a receipt?”
“I don’t think it was intentional, maybe they felt hurried,” I said. “But here it is.”
He made a sound that could’ve been approval or a yawn. “All right. I’ll log it. You headed into town?”
“Yeah. Gonna talk to Carl, see what he remembers.”
