In the quiet heart of southwestern Wyoming, a small town clings to its small-town ways. But when a sudden boom brings big money and bigger secrets, what’s left of the town they thought they knew?

As usual, I want to than Malady for beta reading, and helping edit.
I'd also like to thank those who comment for their part in beta reading too! :-)
Chapter 3

Fran knocked on the door to Millie Brooks’ office. It was getting later in the day, and most of the office staff had left. Another blizzard was expected and after the one the night before, everyone wanted to be home before it got nasty out.

“Come in!” Fran heard from inside.

She opened the door and strode in. She had called earlier, wanting someone on whom she could dump. Millie had taken on a motherly role soon after Fran had moved to town, for which Fran was grateful. Her relationship with Trevor had been up and down for several years, and after the talk that morning, she had found it hard to concentrate on things.

She made a beeline for the couch across from the desk, and flopped down, folding her arms defensively in front of her.

She sat there for a moment while Millie finished off something she’d been working on. The older woman set the paper aside, took off her reading glasses, letting them hang on a chain around her neck, and glanced at Fran with a mild look of surprise.

“Are we on the rampage today?” The corner of Millie's mouth took on a slight, amused smile.

Fran looks at the window to her left, seeing the darkening sky that seemed almost as dark as her mood. How to explain her frustration? How much had she told Millie about her past with Trevor? She couldn’t remember, but decided she needed to get this out. She had to talk to someone!

She looked back at Millie and blurted out, “It’s Trevor!”

“Again?” Millie’s amused smile had reached her voice.

“I know,” Fran said meekly. “I picked up a girl who was near frozen last night on the way home. Only she’s not a girl. She’s like me, and Trevor thinks I’m too involved to see things clearly with her.”

“But you think you can handle it,” Millie said, not as a question, but a statement.

“He feels I’m incompetent!”

Millie nodded, “I see.”

Fran was getting close to seeing red and her fingers were clenching and unclenching. “He may as well have said I don’t deserve to be the police chief!”

Millie cocked her head a bit, like she was wondering what she could safely touch. “That’s pretty bold of him.”

Fran nodded, then waved her hands in frustration. “He thinks he can do the job better than me!”

Millie shook her head in agreement. "But that doesn't mean he's right," she says gently.

Fran wasn’t sure how to take Millie’s words, so she tried to redirect the conversation. “Do you know where the Troughtans land was?”

“You know,” Millie said, as if she didn’t hear the question, “Trevor is talking about expanding the church.

“Yes, I’ve heard that.” Fran said, dragged back to the subject of Trevor.

She paused a moment, then said, “I understand what he’s saying about me being too close, but did he have to say it in that smug, self-righteous tone?”

She shook her head in frustrated bewilderment. “It was so much easier when I was Frank.”

“Easier?”

Fran waited for Millie to go on, but the silence was uncomfortable, like she could reach out and grab it. For a moment, she thought maybe she should rephrase her word, but decided she should be honest with Millie. Finally, she went on, her self pity getting stronger.

“When I went onto HRT... You know what HRT is?”

“Hmm?” Millie asked.

“Hormone replacement therapy. I started taking testosterone blockers as well as estrogen, and my emotions went crazy for a little while.”

Again, Millie didn’t say anything.

“Eventually, they stabilized, but by then, our friendship was destroyed.”

She paused, tears starting to wet her cheeks. “I just want my friend back, ya know?”

“You seem to think about him a lot. More than you realize, maybe,” Millie said.

Again, Fran wasn’t sure what to say, so she tried to redirect the conversation to the Troughtan’s farm, but Millie wasn’t having it.

“He’s really a handsome man,” she said wistfully. “I suppose you’ve noticed that. If I were younger...”

Fran bristled and stood up. She grabbed her coat and hat from the couch, and pulled them both on, then wound her scarf around her neck and threw the end over her shoulder. She was hoping it would punctuate her anger, but it was so light, it was a pathetic show.

All it really accomplished, Fran knew, was showing Millie how much she’d gotten under her skin.

-=#=-

Outside Venture Land Development, Fran realized she was angry. What was she angry about, though?

The snow was starting to fall again, and she pulled her scarf up to keep the flakes from getting into her coat. If enough of them got inside, it made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, just like Millie's words did.

She started to walk, and tried to think about her young houseguest. Thoughts about Trevor kept coming to the surface, unbidden.

I wonder how Denise is doing, she wondered, again trying to force her mind away from Trevor.

I wonder if I’m really in love with Trevor. The thought materialized out of nowhere. Where’d that come from?

She pulled at her coat, as if trying to shelter herself from the unbidden thoughts. The thoughts of romance with Trevor once again flooded her mind.

I wonder if Denise is running from someone who doesn’t like trans-people. Just like me. She was hoping that the way people had treated her would snap her out of the thoughts.

“He’s really a handsome man, but I suppose you know that. If I were younger…” She’d felt like slapping Millie for saying that. Trevor wasn’t Millie’s, he was hers!

She stopped walking at that thought. She turned her face upward, as if hoping the swirling snow would wash that thought away.

She realized she was shaking, and the cold wasn’t responsible. She stood that way for a moment, feeling the icy chill of the unrealized wants wrap around her.

She finally brought her face down and looked at the road around her. The snow was starting to blanket the road again, falling in large flakes. It wasn’t cold enough yet to cause the smaller, hard snow that she knew would be coming.

It was beautiful right now, though, Just like Trevor, even when we were kids. Once again, she tried to pull her thoughts away… To focus on Denise.

If one of them was a girl, they’d get married. It wasn’t her own voice, however. It was her mother. And Trevor’s mother agreeing with her.

Denise! How is Denise!

Suddenly, she remembered a night so similar to the one she was walking in. They were ten years old, and she and Trevor had gone to see a movie. On the way home Frank had been running and sliding on the compact snow and ice on the street, and Trevor had used the same tone as he’d used when disagreeing with her regarding Denise.

“Don’t do that in the street, Frank! You could get hit!”

“Do you see any cars?”

Denise! Think about Denise!

The blizzard, the weather! She had looked so pathetic, lying in the street, just like I must have to Trevor. The weather had even been the same.

Her mind went, spiraling to that night again. They’d been in the theater, and she’d wished he’d put his arm around her. What? She was thinking it now, but had she at the time?

Her walking slowed as she wondered. How had she felt back then? All she could think of was how she wished he’d put his arm around her, but was that colored by what she thought now?

Her thoughts drifted back to that night, wanting to clarify the emotions of long ago.

“Do you see any cars?” As if the ice was agreeing with him, she slipped and fell on the ice, soaking her side. She hurried to get up, but somehow, her leg was caught in a storm drain, the cold water flowing around her. Suddenly the fun she’d been having was gone.

Once more, she tried to turn her thoughts toward Denise, and once more she couldn’t keep them there. Exhausted from trying to keep her thoughts off of Trevor, she sat down at a bus stop, under the roof, on a dry bench. The thought of the water seeping into her clothes all those years ago made her shudder. The bench was hard and cold, but it was dry.

At least if her thoughts insisted on swirling around Trevor, she didn’t have to be in the swirling snow.

The thoughts had started, and it seemed like they were insisting on finishing the memory rather than stop, so she let them continue.

Trevor had knelt down in the water to help. And then, as they were struggling, a yellow snowplow rounded a corner, two blocks away, and started toward them.

“Hurry, Trey!” Trey. She hadn’t called him that for a long time. Not since she transitioned. Now, Trish called him Trey. He hadn’t let anyone call him Trey, except her. And then, Fran came into his life.

Trevor was working hard, and got her leg free just as the snowplow started to slow down. He pulled her onto the sidewalk, and the driver shook his fist at them as he gave them a wide berth so they didn’t get covered in snow and slush.

She clung to Trevor the rest of the way home. She had wrenched her knee hard, and she was limping. It felt strange because they were both boys, but it also felt wonderful.

He helped her up the steps that led into their mud room and made sure her mother was there to help her in, then, he hurried to his door across the property line, while he could still see it.

In retrospect, Fran realized that all that was missing that night, was her standing on her tiptoes and giving him a kiss.

She realized she’d been looking at a street lamp, and the big snowflakes being illuminated by it as they lazily floated down, seemed romantic. But without anyone to share the sight with, it became lonely, and her heart ached more than she thought possible.

She looked away from the bittersweet sight, and her mind drifted back to the past. Trevor had never said, “I told you so,” nor had he ever been anything less than a gentleman that night. No rubbing in the fact that he’d been right. He had simply helped her home

As she thought about it, he was always a gentleman. He had never been anything less. She wondered, though. Were the terms always and never her idealizing him? Was he always a gentleman and never anything less? Or was she placing him on a pedestal?

Regardless, she couldn’t remember him being any different.

She was somehow brought out of her reverie by the high pitched crackling of the snow as it got harder, and started falling faster.

How long had she been sitting there? She wasn’t sure, but she was certainly stiff and getting colder by the moment. The wind was starting to pick up. The bad weather was on its way.

She stood up, and noticed that plows were running again, spraying liquid ice melt on the streets.

And just like that night when she and Trevor hurried to get home before the storm hit, she wondered if she’d make it this time.

The snow had been beautiful at first, and like her thoughts, lulled her into the romance. But now, she was hurrying to get out. The wind and swirling snow was starting to sting, just as her memories did. She remembered that sweet smile that he gave her when they were kids. He’d never lost it, but he started to give it to another as well. Trish.

She didn’t want to weep, but when she thought of the two of them together, she felt like it.

Finally, she made it to her front door. She didn’t want to go through it. Just wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but she knew she had to. She had to see how Denise was. It had been a long day to leave her alone, and she felt guilty.

She opened the door and went in.

-=#=-

Chapter 4

Denise was sitting on the couch reading a book when Fran entered. It was the same one about the psychology of criminals that Fran had been reading. She’d left it on her desk, and frankly, didn’t mind Denise reading it.

However, she’d found it boring.

Fran kept the door open and shook her coat out outside, then hung it and her scarf on the coat rack beside the front door. Then she stuffed her gloves in her coat pocket, put her hat on the top, and her boots at the bottom.

She’d been hoping the actions would help her come up with something to say, but it had only afforded more time to dream about Trevor.

When she turned around, she saw that Denise was watching her. “Hi!” the girl said brightly when she saw Fran had noticed her.

Fran sat down on the other end of the couch and discovered that Denise had found a pair of shorts, along with a belt that drew the waistline into a size that would work, as well as a t-shirt. The shirt was a bit long, but it fit the modern style, so that the look worked.

Fran recognized each piece of the outfit as something she owned but never wore. Denise getting some good use out of them was a pleasant surprise. She couldn’t wear the nightie all the time anyway. That hadn’t fit too well, as they both recognized

Denise noticed Fran taking in her new wardrobe and hurried to explain. “Sorry,” she said. “I appreciated the nightie, but it kinda hung on me like a sack.” Turning red when she realized what she’d said, she hastily tried to backtrack. “Not that it’s a sack! You’re just a bit bigger than…”

Fran laughed and held up a hand to signal that Denise should stop digging a hole. “It’s okay. I am a bit bigger than you. Of course, I’m also a few years older.”

Denise looked relieved. “I hand-washed the nightie and hung it up in the laundry room. I really didn’t want to put it in the dryer.”

Fran’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Thanks,” she said. “I do it the same way. I’ve had more than one satin nightie ruined in a washing machine.” She thought for a moment, “I really need to get a front loader. This one tends to chew things up with the agitator.”

Fran was actively elaborating, trying to ease any discomfort Denise was having, and she also very much appreciated the effort Denise was making, especially as the girl continued relating her day

“I saw you had a chicken salad sandwich on your desk. I was going to put it in the fridge, but it looked like it had sat out for awhile, so I threw it away. It looked good, and I saw you had more in the fridge. I hope you don’t mind that I had some.”

“Not at all,” Fran answered, smiling. “Thanks for throwing that out. I made it early this morning, and didn’t even have one bite.”

“It was half gone,” Denise said.

Really? Had she unconsciously eaten some? “Oh! I don’t remember eating any! I had another at Mel’s Bar after I left here.”

span style="font-variant: normal">“It was really good,” Denise told her. “I used a bit of lettuce and some walnuts that I saw in your freezer. It’s real good that way!”

Fran had to admit, it did sound good that way. To her embarrassment, her stomach growled. Her emotions had been running so rampant on the way home that she hadn’t even realized she was hungry. Here she was, trying to make Denise comfortable, and Denise was making her remember what it was like to have people who cared about you.

Smiling slightly, Denise asked, “Would you like me to make one for you?”

Fran would normally have jumped up before Denise could, but she was exhausted after such an emotional day. “It certainly sounds good. Are you sure you’re okay though?”

“You saved me last night. I probably would have died if you hadn’t brought me here. I appreciate what you did for me. I don’t mind helping out.”

A big gust of wind chose that moment to hit the house, and the windows rattled and the attic creaked. “Besides, it sounds like I’ll probably be here for a little while longer.”

Fran was glad she’d gotten home when she did, and that she’d have good company, although she wasn’t sure she remembered how to entertain people. “It certainly sounds like it,” she responded.

Denise stood and went into the kitchen, and Fran heard the dishes and the fridge door as she got stuff out to make the sandwich. “Swiss or Pepperjack?” Denise called out to Fran.

Fran smiled. It was really nice the way Denise just made herself at home, and just fit in! Suddenly, she felt another growl ready to sound. “Could you make one of each?” She hated to ask, but she’d only had one sandwich – well, one and a half, apparently around three, and it was now almost ten PM.

Denise laughed. “I don’t mind at all!”

Another gust of wind, stronger than the last, shook the house. It went through the soffit vents on one side of the house and out the other, taking the shortest route through the attic. The square piece of plywood in the laundry room ceiling that covered the access to the attic shook in its mount.

Venturi effect, Fran thought absently. Her mind took that moment to go back to her school days with Trey. She loved science and had helped Trey with his. Just like the venturi effect, my thoughts keep being sucked back to the past, she observed.

Mercifully, Denise chose that moment to come back into the living room. She set two plates down on the desk, then grabbed a couple of TV trays from her side of the couch. She set one up in front of Fran, then set one up on her side. She grabbed the plates and placed a plate in front of Fran.

Two sandwiches cut diagonally with leaf lettuce sticking out on the sides.– Fran smiled. The only way to eat a sandwich. The only thing missing was the toothpick.

“Watch out for the toothpick,” Denise said as Fran picked up a half.

Sure enough, there it was. Fran laughed.

Denise looked a bit worried.

“You read my mind,” Fran said. “The only way to eat a sandwich.”

Denise relaxed and smiled. “I agree! Coffee?”

Fran’s eyes widened, then closed in bliss as she took a bite. “Please and thank you,” she said.

Denise started back to the kitchen. “I didn’t see cream. Do you take it black?”

“Yes, I do.”

Denise disappeared into the kitchen once again, then brought out two cups of steaming liquid. One was black, and the other obviously had milk in it, as Denise was right – there wasn’t any cream in the house.

She must have made it already, Fran thought. It hasn’t had time to brew.

“No offense,” Denise said, “but your coffee pot would be just perfect for a sloth.” Her eyes widened, and she put her hand over her mouth, realizing what she’d just said.

“No offense taken at all!” Fran laughed. “I just realized that you must have brewed coffee earlier. There hasn’t been nearly enough time to brew any since I got home.”

They both sat in almost comfortable silence, munching their sandwiches, but when Denise finished, she seemed preoccupied.

“Are thoughts still going for a penny, or has inflation made the cost go up?” Fran asked.

Denise giggled. “I’m not sure if my thoughts are even worth a penny.”

Fran decided not to interrupt the girl’s thoughts as she knew that interference in a crucial moment could break the spell.

Hesitantly, Denise finally asked, “What did you find out about me?”

She didn’t wait for a response, however. “I may as well come clean. You’ll find it all out anyway.”

She paused for a moment, then said, “Sheriff Goldman is my grandpa.” She sighed, then went on. “I came out to him just a few days ago, and I felt a lot of our relationship deteriorate. Yesterday, it kinda came to a head, and I didn’t see any option but to leave.”

“In a blizzard?” Fran was shocked at her own outburst. “I mean, I understand, but a blizzard is probably not the best time to leave.”

“How can you understand?” Denise asked, bitterly.

Slowly, Fran told her, “I’m just like you.”

“Just?” Denise was skeptical.

“Just.” Fran said in a way that didn’t leave any misunderstanding. She wanted to make sure Denise understood her too, so she went on.

“I came out to my parents in Truckee, California several years ago. And to put it mildly, they weren't very pleased.”

“You’re not just putting me on?” Denise asked, still skeptical.

“Nope,” Fran said, shaking her head.

“So what’d you do?”

Fran shrugged her shoulders. “What could I do? I left. I’d been at the Police Academy in Los Angeles, and I was able to transfer pretty peacefully there. California is quite liberal, so there wasn’t as much opposition as there was at home – my parents were, shall we say, less than liberal.”

“How did you end up here?” Denise wanted to know.

“I’m not sure how I got the job. I suppose because Trevor Grant, one of the town commissioners, was my best friend when we were kids.”

She paused for a moment as her thoughts threatened to head back to him. “We went through the Los Angeles Police Academy together. His wife, Trish, is also a close friend of mine.”

Denise’s eyes widened. “Pastor Grant is a policeman?”

Fran nodded. “Was. Right now, he’s working as a chaplain in the prison and for the Sheriff’s department.”

“I knew that,” Denise said, “But I didn’t know he was a policeman.”

Fran laughed gently. “I figured you would’ve heard, Sheriff Goldman being your grandpa and all.”

That seemed to take Denise back to the subject at hand, and Fran was sorry she’d brought it up.

“I’d hoped he’d accept me when I came out.”

“Sometimes people don’t react the way we hope they will,” Fran said, understanding wholeheartedly. “What will you do now?”

Denise shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Fran grimaced. “I’m supposed to take you home.”

“Please don’t!” Denise almost screamed, terrified.

“What did he do to you?” Fran hoped she would get more to work with. She had to know if there was any abuse.

“He just doesn’t like me.”

“Denise, I can’t keep you here for that,” Fran said gently. “There must be something more.”

Denise didn’t answer directly. “Does he have to know I’m here?”

Another huge gust of wind hit the house, and Fran looked up at the ceiling.

“Well,” Fran said, “right now, the whole question is moot. Neither of us is going anywhere until the storm ends.”

The lights flickered and went off.

“And the power comes back on,” Fran finished.

-=#=-

Chapter 5

Fran woke up to the sound of the most annoying ringtone she had been able to find. Ringing wasn’t really descriptive of it, however. It included two types of sirens, a telephone, and an old windup alarm clock, plus several exhortations to answer the phone, please, although not in those exact words.

Although she woke immediately, and reached for the phone beside her bed table, she still answered with a half hearted, “’ello.”

Chick Birdlander was on the other end of the phone. “Hi, Chief. I’ve got Chris Ross on the line. Says she can’t find her husband, and wants some help.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Uh, Chief,” the man’s voice came slow and patient. “Have you looked outside?”

Fran’s eyes opened and flicked toward the window. “It’s still snowing isn’t it?”

“No, but it’s a real nice ground blizzard out there.”

Fran sighed. “Put her on.”

She heard a couple of clicks, then she heard Chick say, “Mrs. Ross, I’ve got Police Chief Smith on the line. Go ahead, Chief.”

“Mrs. Ross?” She heard a couple of sniffles. “What’s your husband’s name?”

“George,” came the response.

That clicked for Fran and she asked, “George Ross of General Alarms?”

“Yes.”

Fran had been working with George Ross. When she found Denise, she had been on her way home from the General Alarm offices, where she was working with Ross, searching for some clue to who might have been embezzling funds from the company.

Now she wondered if Ross had been getting closer than they thought.

“Are you still on the line, Chick?”

“Yeah, Chief.”

“You said it’s a nice blizzard outside. What’s visibility like?”

Chick sighed. He didn’t like this type of situation. He knew Chris wanted her husband found as soon as possible, but he also knew that they couldn’t risk losing a searcher. “Not good, Chief.”

Fran knew and liked Chick, and she realized he didn’t want to say no to Chris, but she had to press him. “What’s not good mean?”

Chick was going to have to answer her, he knew, and it could deflate Chris’ hopes. “In a Hummer, you could probably find your way to General Alarms, but in a car or on foot,” he paused. “I don’t think so.”

“What’s the forecast?"

“Supposed to calm down this afternoon.”

Fran didn’t like it. If Ross had gotten lost in the blizzard, they needed to get on his tail as soon as possible. But there was also the possibility that he was holed up at his office. “When I left his office, Julie Madsen was there too. Can you try to call her, Chick?”

Chick agreed, and there was a click while he got off the line, leaving Fran and Chris connected. Chris’ breath was ragged, and Fran was afraid she might hyperventilate. “Chris, you need to calm down. We’ll find him, but you understand, I can’t take people out there until the winds have died down. You can get lost in weather like this ten feet from your front door.”

Immediately upon saying it, Fran wished she hadn’t. There came a gasp, then she heard a sob.

-=#=-

Fran reluctantly punched Trevor’s number on her cell and stood near the front entrance of General Alarms, snow crunching outside the windows. She hated calling him in—but George Ross was missing, and the rust-colored carpet in his office had started whispering bad news.

She also called for backup. The fire department responded quickly, boots pounding in from the storm. Trevor arrived not long after, Trish at his side.

Fran greeted them with a nod. “Trish, can you start sweeping for evidence? I need a moment with Trevor.”

Inside Ross’s office, the dim light did little to hide the irregular patches of darkened carpet that snaked toward the desk. Fran froze mid-step. The stains weren’t fresh, but they also weren’t just water damage.

She called, “Trish? Could you look at this?”

Trish stepped in, crouched down. Her voice was brisk. “Looks like blood. If this is homicide, and not just a missing person, your one-woman police department plus me occasionally, isn’t going to cut it.”

Trevor shifted beside Fran. “Why exactly did you want me here?”

Fran hesitated. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Trish studied her silently, then turned to her husband. “Are you blind?”

Trevor frowned. “What?”

Trish rolled her eyes. “Men.”

She looked like she was trying not to say something sarcastic, but couldn’t help herself. “You grew up together. You were best friends. Only—Frank wasn’t Frank. He was Fran. For years. You think that doesn’t leave a mark?”

Trevor’s expression fell slack, then clicked into recognition. He looked between them slowly.

“Oh.”

Fran turned to Trish. “How long have you known?”

Trish smiled kindly. “Since I saw you two together. Clueless over here can read other people’s emotions like a map, but when it comes to himself?”

Trevor rubbed his jaw. “Okay. So how do we work together?”

Fran’s voice dropped. “I don’t know. But I know I need your help with this.”

Trevor nodded. They both looked at Trish.

“I just call what I see,” Trish said. Her tone softened. “Honey, I love you very much. You two need to shelve this—for now.”

Before Fran could answer, a knock sounded at the door frame. The fire chief stood, half apologetic. “Uh… I can come back later?”

Fran flushed deep red. Trevor inspected the far wall as though he’d never seen paint before.

Trish took charge and stepped forward smoothly. “We’ve got blood on the floor. This may be a crime scene. CEO’s coat, boots, gloves—still by the rack. Tell your crew to stay along the edges of corridors and be careful. And outside? Look for a live person first, but search like you're looking for a body.”

The fire chief nodded, grateful to have marching orders.

After he left, Trish turned to the others. “Okay, you two. Time’s up. This evidence isn’t gonna examine itself.”

Fran shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

Trevor echoed her with a sigh.

Trish leaned closer. “Fran—do you love him?”

Fran nodded, her chin trembling, “Trevor?” Trish prompted.

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay, now you know. Deal with it later. We’ve got a missing man who may be dead.”

Fran straightened, resolve returning. “I’m making you a special consultant, Trey…vor.”

Trevor grinned. “Trey is fine.”

Trish opened her mouth to speak, but paused. Fran had always called him Trey. She gave Fran a small thumbs-up.

“Sorry I can’t pay you,” Fran added. “Still wrangling City Council about staffing.”

“Keep at it,” Trevor said. “You never know when something finally sticks.”

Fran squinted at him, but he was already scanning the room like he hadn’t said anything loaded.

Out in the hallway, the fire chief had returned to linger uncertainly. Fran waved Trevor forward. “Come on, Trey.”

As they walked, Trevor pointed to the marble floor beneath their boots—white streaked with cinnamon veining, interrupted by a narrow trail of rust-colored smear.

“Trish?” he called back. “You see this line?”

Trish appeared in the doorway. “What line?”

He gestured again. “Here.”

Trish's eyes sharpened. “Well, well, well… What have we here?”

The fire chief joined them, gaze lowering. The stain was faint, like someone had tried to clean it hurriedly.

Trish retreated to the office, and returned with spray bottles.

“Get the shades, please!” she barked to a firefighter. “Trey, lights off!”

Fran watched as Trish misted luminol and hydrogen peroxide side by side. A faint glow bloomed—a smeared trail of blue down the corridor, curving toward the front door.

The fire chief leaned in. “Is that what I think it is?”

Trish smirked. “Depends on what you think it is.”

“Blood?”

She held up her hands—one bottle in each. “This is luminol. This is hydrogen peroxide. And what we’re seeing is a trail of blood.”

Around them, the firefighters exchanged nervous glances.

Fran stepped forward. “We don’t know that Ross is dead. This just means someone was bleeding.”

Trevor added quietly, “Could’ve been anyone.”

Fran nodded. “Inside and out. We search both. I want two inside with me—and Trevor will coordinate outside.”

Trevor organized his crew. Poles in hand, they began probing snowbanks. The chief walked with him, a thermal imager blinking cold readings.

A cadaver dog joined them. No one held out much hope.

Near Ross’s car, something changed. As they passed the driver’s door, snow shifted underfoot—revealing a red stain.

Trevor called Fran. “You might want to see this. Bring Trish too.”

Fran answered grimly. “Got something for you. A towel soaked in blood and a syringe—large enough for testosterone injections.”

Trevor frowned. “Testosterone?”

“Not unless testosterone glows under luminol. Your turn. What’ve you got?”

“A snow-covered blood stain beside Ross’s car.”

Fran’s voice lifted. “To quote Alice, ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’”

Trevor grinned. Of course she said that. It was her signature phrase.

Soon, Trish and Fran joined them outside. Trish knelt beside the car’s side panel, studying the disturbed snow.

“You want to check the car before I pop it?” Trevor asked.

“Definitely. Can you open it?”

“Not without a slim jim.”

As if summoned, a firefighter approached, a ring of keys dangling.

“Sidewalk ice melt uncovered these.”

Trevor held up a fob—one was clearly for a Mazda. He clicked it. The door unlocked.

“Guess I won’t be jimmying anything.”

Trish opened the door, sprayed her usual cocktail across the seat and floor, checking with UV light. A few scattered flecks, nothing conclusive.

Trevor tapped the trunk button.

Inside, the gray carpet wasn’t uniformly gray. Trish sprayed luminol and peroxide.

As she did, the carpet started glowing softly and it became certain what was on it.

-=#=-

Chapter 6

Since it was clear that the investigation was going as smooth as an investigation could, Fran left Trish to gather evidence from the crime scene and went to tackle other matters.

Much as she didn’t want to do it, she needed to talk to Sheriff Goldman. She’d talked to him, and even worked with him once or twice in the six months since she’d arrived in Venture.

But now, she needed to talk to him about his granddaughter. Not grandson, Dennis, as she assumed he’d refer to her, but granddaughter, Denise.

As she drove down Highway 497, to the junction with 7, she gritted her teeth, and tried not to think of her own past.

“Frank, we just want what’s best for you.”

“How come what’s best isn’t what my brain tells me?”

The highway was snow packed, but there was sand on top, supposedly to make it less slippery. But it didn’t help. Slippery and gritty. Just like that conversation with her parents fourteen years ago.

“You transitioned in the academy?”

Her mother was livid. “How could you? Our reputation!”

“What reputation? You don’t live in LA! You don’t know anyone there.”

She slammed her F150 into 3rd as she prepared to go down a particularly steep hill. The old 4 speed didn’t like her mood anymore than she did. It protested, gears grinding, then finally gave in. The 6 cylinder engine revved up, faster than she would have liked. Chagrined for letting her still present anger affect her driving, she patted the dashboard and murmured, “Sorry.”

Her father came to her mother’s side. “We’ve got a reputation in Truckee.”

Fran looked her father in the eye. “Who cares?” She thought a moment then said, “No. That’s wrong. You care, and honestly, so do I. Let people think I was corrupted in LA. I really don’t care what they think about me.”

Her mother was aghast. “You were going to join the police force here!”

“Mother, if you are concerned about your reputation, I won’t ruin it. I’ll go elsewhere.”

“You’ll abandon us because of your fantasies?”

Suddenly, her father was on her side, or at least backing her up. “It’s not a fantasy to Frank, or rather, Fran. Let him… uh… her go.”

Before she realized it, she was topping a hill with the Sheriff’s office on her left. About 100 yards beyond the driveway into Goldman’s sanctuary was the sign showing that they were entering Grade. Not that there was very much of a town there. It looked like Mayberry but mounted on a slope.

She parked her truck and sat for a moment, not wanting to go in and face Goldman. She'd always found him nice, but now, she wasn't so sure.

Something Trey had once told her suddenly came to mind. ”Sometimes people just don't know how to deal with Trans people. It doesn't necessarily mean they hate you. Just that they're unsure what to do or say.”

But what motivates a person to do what her parents did, or what Goldman did? She didn't know.

Well, she thought, opening her door. I may as well get this over with.

Inside his office, Sheriff Goldman looked up from a cluttered desk. The wood-panel smelled faintly of old coffee and pine soap.

On a shelf, high above a couch set against the wall, an AM radio was playing George Strait, singing about how wonderful his ex looked now that she was in love.

“I found your granddaughter during the blizzard,” Fran said. Her voice felt hollow—leftover from Ross' vanishing act.

“You should’ve called sooner.”

“She didn’t want me to know who she was until last night.”

Goldman rubbed his temple. “Internet’s been garbage. Not that it matters.”

“She’s safe.”

“Where?”

“At my place.”

He blinked. “Could she… stay there?”

Fran’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m not prepared to deal with a trans girl in my home.”

Fran tilted her head. “She’s your granddaughter.”

“I’ve called her Dennis for seventeen years.”

“She’s always been Denise. You just didn’t know yet.”

The announcer interrupted the music with breaking updates: Ross and Julie officially listed as missing. Goldman stiffened but didn’t respond.

“Now there’s an interesting case,” Fran commented.

His expression flickered. “You gonna need help?”

“Maybe.” She let the edge show. “So. Denise.”

He looked down. “She was dressed up. I told her not to come back like that.”

Fran blinked. “Why are you calling her ‘she’ now?”

Goldman’s pacing started—boots knocking rhythmically against the floorboards. “Because I was wrong. I didn’t want to be, but I was.”

“She needed you,” Fran said.

“She scared me.”

“She needed you,” she repeated. "You abandoned her."

“I was overwhelmed. She showed up all at once, like she’d been waiting to explode.”

“She didn’t explode. You imploded.”

Goldman stopped pacing. “You taking her in?”

Fran looked at him for a long time.

“Yes,” she said. “But it makes me sick, what you did.”

She walked toward the door, her boots heavy now—not from snow, but from the weight of too many vanishings.

“You’ll find,” she said quietly, “that no matter how sick you make me... I’ll still work with you.”

Then she was gone, leaving a ripple of radio static and pine behind her.

-=#=-

Fran hadn’t made it halfway back to Venture when her phone buzzed on the dash. She swiped it into speaker.

“Chief? I’m Jonathan Fields, HR at General Alarms.” He had the kind of voice that tried too hard not to sound nervous.

“I just wanted to pass along something I thought you might need. One of our freelance accountants—Julie Madsen—she had a close relationship with Ross.”

Fran tapped the wheel, staring at the snow-streaked shoulder. “I know Julie. We worked together on the internal audits. Embezzlement case, remember?”

Then realized the inference that was being implied. “Wait a minute, how close a relationship?”

“Right, of course. Embezzlement.” he said quickly. “As to how close, I don’t know. She’s remote most of the time, lives on the west edge of the county. But she was still at the office that night—after you left.”

Fran’s breath slowed. “Thanks,” she said, eyes flicking to the cold creeping down the windshield. “That’s useful.”

He hung up after a short farewell, and the cab fell back into silence—except for the crunch of snow under the tires and the whisper of her thoughts.

She dialed Trish.

“Hey,” Fran said.

“You’re not gonna like this,” Trish answered.

“Try me.”

“It looks like there was enough blood around the car. Doesn’t look good for Ross. I don’t think it was enough to fake.”

Fran rubbed her temple, bracing against the headache she felt the case had already earned.

“There wasn’t that much inside the building. What’d they do—stab him and drag him out for the finale?”

“No. You were right. Blood on the floor was staged. Likely from the syringe you found in the ceiling.”

Fran blinked. “That ceiling stash. And the rag. It just seems sloppy.”

“Maybe intentionally. Could be the killer wanted it to look like someone from outside.”

Fran sighed. “Or maybe they just wanted it to be indecipherable. Maybe they wanted us to think someone from the outside was too obvious, or maybe the other way around...”

“Which lands you,” Trish said, “right back where you started.”

Fran slowed the truck. “I know. It’s a damn mobius.”

The silence paused before Trish added, “There’s more.”

Fran pulled over, set the brake, and let her head fall against the headrest.

“What now?”

“There’s another blood type in the trunk.”

Fran sat up. “What?”

“I ran it through the database. No hit yet. Still double-checking what I think is Ross’.”

“How much blood?” Fran asked. “Is it the killer’s?”

“No traces in the passenger compartment, so probably not. But in the trunk? Enough to suggest a decent injury. Not lethal, from what I can tell.”

Fran leaned back, the cab colder than before.

“Any other wonderful news?”

Trish didn’t miss the sarcasm. “Not yet. But I’ll call if it gets more exciting.”