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 7

The storm had left a crust of frozen quiet over everything, the kind that made sound feel conspicuous and breath visible.

Fran and Trevor went to the home of George and Chris Ross to ask her some questions.

Fran rang the bell on the modern condo, a moment later, a voice came through the security pad. “Hello?”

“Police. Here to talk to Chris Ross.”

“Just a moment. I'm on my way.”

“On her way?” Fran said to Trey as they waited.

She stood there for a couple of minutes and was beginning to think Mrs. Ross had done a runner when the door opened and a woman sitting in a wheelchair backed up, pulling it open.

“Come in,” the woman said. “I'm Chris Ross.”

They introduced themselves and were directed through the entryway and into a posh living room.

“Sorry it takes me a bit to get places. I'm still waiting for my new, powered chair to come in. Have a seat.”

Is this for real? Fran wondered as they sat down on an expensive, leather sofa.

“Did you find George?”

“No. It appears your husband may have been abducted,” Fran said.

“Abducted?” Chris Ross looked shocked.

“Does your husband have any enemies?” Trey asked.

“Lots. He owns a security company,” she said. “It's been responsible for several people being arrested and convicted.”

“Understandable,” Fran said, nodding.

“Does this have to do with the money that's been disappearing?” Chris asked.

“There is that possibility,” Fran admitted.

“Has anyone contacted you, perhaps demanding money in exchange for George?”

“No, but I suppose that woman, Debbie…. She might not WANT to return him.”

“Who's Debbie?”

“Debbie Thompson. An old girlfriend.” She looked down at her unmoving legs. “She's why I'm in this chair. Paralyzed from the waist down, as a matter of fact.”

Fran raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Six months ago, just before we moved here, I was on my way to the doctor. I was three months pregnant and going to get a checkup. My steering failed. Something about a tie-rod braking.”

She paused and for the first time showed a bit of emotion. “I lost all movement below my waist, and lost the baby. A little girl.”

“I'm on happy pills right now, and they tend to make me apathetic. But that's probably good, because I'd probably kill that woman if I cared. Not George, though.”

As they got into her pickup, Fran turned to Trey. “She's a lot less emotional now than she was on the phone.”

“Happy pills?”

“Maybe,” Fran said, although the difference seemed pretty extreme.

-=#=-

The next morning, Fran received the call: Les Parker couldn’t be found.

Fran and Trevor arrived at the modest, corporate-sterile building that housed the real estate firm. Millie had made the call to Chick, and she was waiting inside Parker’s office, perfectly composed—and just a little too still.

“I saw him yesterday,” she said softly, as Fran crossed the threshold.

Trevor barely glanced up from his notes. “What time?”

Millie hesitated, eyes flicking to the window as if seeking permission. “Five. A.M.”

There was silence. Not discomfort—calculation.

“I was with Les,” Millie said. “When you wanted to talk about Trevor after the blizzard. Les was with me.” Her voice didn’t waver. But her hands clutched the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

Millie slid off her gloves and on her left hand, a ring gleamed. Not flashy, but its purpose was plain.

Fran tilted her head. “And he proposed.”

Millie nodded. “Please,” she whispered. “You have to find him.”

-=#=-

The search started immediately. Fran called in Goldman, who dispatched deputies. The fire department came, again, to comb the surrounding area.

Trish took over the scene as she had with Ross, the procedural rhythm already clicking into place.

Deputy Carlson crouched in the hallway, staring at a line of blood that crept like intention down the carpet. “There’s a line of blood going down the hallway.”

Inside Parker’s office, the tableau was all too familiar: coat, gloves, hat, boots—all in their proper place on the coat rack. A coat rack that matched Ross’s exactly.

Trey frowned. “There’s a closet by the door. Why wouldn’t he use that?”

Fran moved to it. Mud streaked the floor. It had seen use.

She looked back to the blood soaked carpet by the desk. Exactly like Ross. She looked at the line of blood in the hallway. Exactly like Ross.

All of it the same. Wait… all of it?

She looked up at the ceiling. “Trey,” she said, “which ceiling tile had the syringe and rag at Ross’s?”

“Two this side of reception,” he replied, already bracing himself.

“I wonder…” She lifted the tile. “No…”

Wait a minute! “How many from the office?”

Trey exhaled. “Five, I think.”

She pressed upward. The tile resisted—then relented. A syringe dropped to the floor like punctuation. A moment later, with a shake, came the rag.

Trevor’s voice was quiet. “What is going on?”

Outside, Trish examined Parker’s car. More blood. Another arterial spray. The trunk held no second person’s blood, no signs of shared struggle. But it was the same choreography, executed cleanly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Was obvious the body was in the trunk. But this—this feels rehearsed.”

Fran stared at the sky for a moment as if waiting for an answer she knew wouldn’t come.

-=#=-

Fran eased the front door shut behind her and lingered there for a moment, pressing her fingertips into the wood as though it might hold her steady. The conversation with Goldman about Denise replayed in her mind—not just his words, but the weight behind them. She rubbed her eyes, then turned and stepped into the living room.

Denise was curled under a quilt she hadn’t unfolded, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch. Her posture looked practiced—part teenage defiance, part flight readiness. Her eyes flicked up, not quite meeting Fran’s.

“I didn’t want to do this tonight,” Fran said gently. “But I think I need to.”

Denise blinked, her voice thin. “This is about Grandpa.”

Fran nodded slowly.

“Do I have to go back?”

That tremor, barely veiled panic, pierced through Fran’s hesitation. She shook her head. “No, honey. You’re not going anywhere.”

Denise’s shoulders slackened, but only just. “He’s probably furious. I already know what he thinks. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“I get that,” Fran said, easing herself into the chair opposite. “But I’d like you to hear what he said to me. You don’t have to agree, and it’s not about sending you back. Just… perspective.”

Denise pulled the quilt closer, fingers twisting a loose thread. “I can’t take more of his judgment. I can’t even sleep right now—I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

“Well,” Fran said, her voice calm and grounded, “you can be here. With me.”

Silence expanded between them. Denise stared, searching Fran’s face like it might reveal a trap.

“There’s got to be a catch,” she said finally.

“There is.” Fran smiled. “My house. My rules. The rest, we figure out together.”

Denise looked down, blinked hard. “Until I turn eighteen?”

“No,” Fran said. “Until you don’t need a place anymore.”

Her hands were restless again—palms lifted slightly, shaking just enough to betray how overwhelmed she felt. “Why? You just met me. Why would anyone do this?”

Fran leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her voice softened even more. “Because I’ve been where you are. Because my parents turned away when I came out. I remember what that felt like—how cold everything suddenly got.”

Denise looked away, wiping under her eyes. “So this is pity?”

“No.” Fran’s gaze held steady. “This is not letting someone go through what I did. And maybe more than that—I feel something. A kind of kinship. Like we’re sisters, in a way.”

Denise snorted lightly, half-laughing. “I don’t need a sister. I need a mom.”

Fran straightened, that smile returning—a little cheeky, a little serious. “I can do that.”

It took a long time before Denise spoke again. Her hands settled in her lap, her breath evened. She scanned the room, eyes finally lingering on Fran.

“Where do I sleep, Mom?”

Fran gestured down the hall. “Well, I was going to offer the porch, but it’s a little brisk tonight. There’s a storage room we can clear out together. You can make it yours. And tomorrow, we’ll pick up some things for you.”

Denise tilted her head, the tension easing into something uncertain but hopeful. “I still don’t get it.”

Fran shrugged softly. “You don’t have to. Just know it’s because I care.”

Chapter 8

Fran tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook, gaze fixed. “The two murders were almost identical. Same method, same signature.”

Goldman didn’t flinch. “Same killer.”

Trevor leaned forward slightly, voice low but deliberate. “One would think. But were they inside jobs?” He let the question settle. “If so—who?”

The pause that followed wasn’t just silence. It was recognition. Not of guilt, but complexity.

Goldman’s jaw flexed slightly. “Who handles cleaning? Both offices are small—doubt they’ve got in-house janitorial.”

Fran flipped open the duty rosters. “Let’s see… General Alarms contracts Spotless Solutions.” Her finger traced another line. “Venture Land Development is—Spotless Solutions.”

Tevor nodded, brow furrowing. “Same company. Would they hold keys to both?”

Goldman’s voice was already colder. “They should. With the storms, both sites were locked. No active security.”

Fran closed the file quietly. “That gives us suspects.”

Trevor murmured, almost to himself, “Anyone with access to Spotless Solutions... had access to both crime scenes.”

Fran stood, snapping her notebook shut, already moving. “Shall we?”

-=#=-

The bell above the glass door gave a short, reluctant chime as Fran, Goldman, and Trevor stepped into the front office of Spotless Solutions. The young man behind the desk flinched slightly at the sight—three professionals, each carrying an air that meant business wasn’t optional anymore.

His name tag read “Bill Graves – Manager,” though the tremor in his posture suggested surprise, not authority.

Fran kept her voice civil. “Hello, Mr. Graves. Is the owner in?”

Bill swallowed. “I’m the owner. I also manage when everyone’s out and about.” He said it quickly, as if stating two jobs would count for armor.

Goldman stepped forward, voice steady. “We need a list of current and former employees.”

Bill blinked. “Can I ask why?”

“Spotless Solutions provides cleaning for both General Alarms and Venture Land Development,” Goldman said. “There were murders at both locations in the past few days.”

Bill’s eyebrows lifted. “And you think someone from here…”

“You have keys to both places, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Goldman shrugged, palms up—no accusation, just the math.

Trevor produced a small badge wallet. “Trevor Grant. Special Consultant, Venture Police. I’ll need to see your duty logs.”

Bill turned to his computer, fingers typing with practiced familiarity. A moment later, the printer clattered to life, spitting out a list. “That’s everyone who works here or has worked here. The two names with a ‘T’ were terminated.”

He turned to Trevor. “How far back do you want the duty logs?”

Trevor didn’t look away from the printer. “All of them.”

Bill exhaled slowly. “And… sorted how?”

“By date. By person. By business.”

“That’ll be a few pages, sir.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Trevor said dryly.

Fran, arms folded, asked evenly, “Any keys gone missing recently?”

Bill shook his head. “I’m always first one in. I’ve never seen any missing.”

Goldman raised a brow. “Have you checked?”

Bill motioned behind him to a recessed safe in the wall. “We keep all keys in there. General Alarms sends us a random code each day—specific to each employee. It only works during their shift window. Here at Spotless Solutions, same thing: everyone gets a unique code when they come in.”

He said it like it was just another part of the job. But something about the phrasing—the quiet precision of it—made Fran glance toward Trevor.

Trey caught her eye. He didn’t nod yet. He was waiting for the moment Bill said something not quite accurate.

The printer hummed, its steady rhythm underscoring the quiet in the office. Page after page of duty logs spilled onto the counter, and Trey let them accumulate, eyes focused on Bill.

“These daily codes,” he asked, “they’re only valid for the hours your staff works?”

Bill didn’t look up right away. “No,” he said. “They’re good from midnight to 11:59 p.m.—standard twenty-four-hour cycle. If there’s an emergency, our people need access.”

Trevor nodded slowly. “And what if the emergency happens at a client site?”

That drew a pause. Barely a moment, but Fran caught the shift in rhythm—a hesitation masked by professionalism.

“We’ve got a special code for that,” Bill said.

Trevor’s gaze sharpened, but his tone stayed neutral. “Is it logged when someone uses it?”

“We haven’t had to use one yet,” Bill replied smoothly, hands still on the desk, eyes steady but just a touch distant.

Fran stepped in before the silence stretched any further. “I get them too, Trey,” she said, voice light, almost casual. “Fire department does as well.”

Trevor glanced at her. It wasn’t the words that caught his attention—it was the angle of her shoulders, the way she didn’t quite look at Bill when she spoke. A signal. Not suspicion, exactly—just a thread waiting to be tugged.

He raised one brow, nodded faintly. Later.

As they turned to leave, Fran glanced back at Bill. “Do you ever have the lights on your alarm system flicker when you’re arming it?”

“Yeah, now you mention it. Is that relevant?”

“No idea,” Fran said, as she shut the door.

-=#=-

Back at the department, Trevor stared down the stack of papers like it had personally offended him. Bill’s printer had chewed through nearly an entire ream to spit out the duty logs—and every page, in theory, held a clue. Or nothing. But he wouldn’t know until he’d waded through all of it.

Goldman watched for a beat, arms crossed, curiosity flickering behind the eyes.

“What are you hoping to find?” he asked.

Trevor didn’t look up. “I’ll know it if I find it.”

Goldman smirked. “I don’t envy you that.”

Trevor slid a few sheets across the table in silent offering.

Goldman raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’ve got people to interview,” he said, already moving toward a different table.

Trevor turned to Fran, holding up another section of the stack. She backed up a half step, thumb pointing over her shoulder.

“I think the Sheriff might need help with his… ah… interviews,” she said with practiced grace.

A moment later, she and Goldman settled at the other table, flipping through names from the Spotless Solutions roster. Within minutes, they circled a few—people still employed, people who’d left, people with gaps in their schedules.

font face="Georgia, serif">Trevor kept scanning. Fran and Goldman headed back out.

-=#=-

Back at Spotless Solutions, the receptionist was someone new. Younger. A boy whose face looked like it had barely survived freshman year—if someone added a wrinkle or two, maybe fifteen. His name tag read Mitch Bernard, and his wide-eyed expression suggested he feared they might arrest him just for walking funny.

Goldman stepped forward, his tone clipped. “We need to speak to Reggie and Debra. Are they here?”

Mitch blinked, caught in the headlights. “Uh… they’re in… uh… I’m not sure if they’re here t–today.”

He didn’t move, so Fran leaned in, voice cooling. “Well, can you find out?”

Mitch startled upright. “Yeah. I’ll just go check.”

He scrambled to the schedule pinned behind his desk, trailing uncertainty like a loose shoelace. “Yeah, they’re here. Or… they will be in about half an hour.”

Goldman gave Fran a look that said, Really?, then turned back. “You weren’t going to check until she pushed. How come?”

Mitch flushed. “Uh… I was… You kinda caught me off guard. I didn’t think I’d be talk–talking to cops today.”

Fran caught Charlie’s eye and shrugged.

Charlie leaned in, calm but firm. “Okay. I get it. But from now on, you answer fully. Okay?”

“From now on?” Mitch squeaked, as if sentencing had just been issued.

Fran kept it even. “We need more answers.”

The shift in Mitch’s posture didn’t escape her—not fear, exactly, but wariness.

“What d’you need to know?” he asked.

Charlie took the lead, which irritated Fran for a blink—but then she saw where he was going and let it pass.

“The duty logs said Reggie and Debra were on last night at Venture Land Development. That true?”

Mitch fumbled. “I’d have to check. If you’ve already seen them, I’d just be repeating.”

Fran nodded. “Makes sense. But you’re sure they didn’t swing by for keys and codes?”

Mitch leaned his head back, thinking. “They might’ve… Wait—yeah! Yeah, they did! I remember now. They were arguing when they came in.”

Charlie perked up. “An argument? About what?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “They stopped when they saw me, but you could tell Debra was pissed. Arms folded, lips tight, full scowl. Reggie kept glancing at her like he wanted her to cool off. She wasn’t having it.”

Fran leaned in. “And you didn’t remember any of that before?”

Mitch went pale. “Honest. I just remembered now.”

Charlie squinted. “So they were arguing, you didn't remember, and you’re not sure what it was about. That sound about right?”

“Y–Yeah,” Mitch squeaked, voice climbing a full octave.

Fran raised a brow. “Mitch, let me tell you something. You don’t just remember something that leaves a deep impression.”

“Honest!” he insisted. “I didn’t remember!”

Charlie pressed. “Then what else do you remember? What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know!” Mitch blurted, his voice now hitting glass-cutting levels.

Just then, they heard the hydraulic door release. A man and woman stepped inside.

Fran looked back at Mitch. His face flooded with color.

“This Reggie and Debra?” she asked.

Mitch nodded.

“Where can we speak with them?”

Mitch pointed across the reception area. “Meeting room. Right there.”

Charlie opened the door and pulled out a chair for Fran, who sat and gestured for the pair to join her.

Reggie sat down, looking smug, while Debra sat with her hands clasped in her lap, eyes wide, and a completely neutral expression on her face.

“You’re Reggie and Debra Thompson?” Fran asked.

“Yes. Why?” Reggie asked.

Charlie didn’t blink. “We’re investigating two murders. That good enough for you?”

Reggie scoffed. “What’s that got to do with us?”

Charlie was unimpressed. “Because you were at both scenes on the nights they happened.”

Reggie shrugged. “So? We didn’t kill anybody.”

Fran gave a sweet smile. “Glad to hear it. You have a way we can verify that?”

In a voice that seemed too deep for her frame, Debra said, “I was with him.”

Charlie shrugged. “Married couples don’t make the best alibis.”

Reggie rolled his eyes. “We’re not married.”

Fran raised a curious brow. “Oh?”

Debra clarified. “Reggie’s my brother.”

Fran nodded thoughtfully. “Siblings aren’t always great alibis either.”

Reggie threw her a glare that could melt steel. Fran found it amusing. She wasn’t warming to either of them.

Charlie leaned forward. “We were told you had an argument yesterday.”

Debra blinked. “What argument?”

Reggie cut in fast. “Are we under arrest or being detained?”

Fran kept it cool. “You’re free to go. But if we need to talk again, it might be at the station.”

Reggie stood hard. “Come on, Deb.”

The door slammed as they left—and seconds later, Reggie’s voice echoed from the front:

“What did you tell them!?”

Fran stepped into the doorway just as Debra called back, “Cool it, Reg!”

Reggie spun and found Fran watching, arms crossed, smirk fixed in place.

He scowled, stomped toward the exit, and disappeared.

Debra glanced at Charlie, then toward the door.

Charlie gave her a simple: “If you’d like.

Before she could take a second step, Fran asked, “Did you mess with the steering on Chris Ross’s car?”

Debra turned, and the was a small smirk… barely detectable on her face. “I was found to be not in California when that happened.”

She followed her brother.

Not that she wasn't there. That she was found to not be there. And that smirk. Was it real, or had Fran just imagined it?

She joined Charlie near the front desk, where Mitch looked like he was mid-transformation between a ghost and a tree frog.

“You know, Mitch,” Fran said gently. “You might climb out of this hole if you stop digging.”

“Y–Yeah,” he mumbled, dropping into his chair. The green stuck. He stared forward, mute.

Charlie tapped the desk. “We’re waiting.”

Suddenly, Mitch bolted for the restroom. Fran blinked—he’d gone into the women’s.

Then came retching.

Charlie glanced at Fran. “Did you expect our first interview to give us this much?”

Fran sighed. “Not really. But if this keeps up, I’ll take it.”

Then—thump.

They stared at each other.

Charlie cleared his throat. “It’s the ladies’ room. I think that’s you.”

Fran groaned, heading toward the door.

She opened it. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

Charlie, right behind her: “We should probably call an ambulance.”

Mitch was unconscious on the floor.

Chapter 9

The Chicken Coop stood at the far edge of The Bird’s Nest like it always had—long, narrow, cheerful against its own history. Outside, above the faux railcar windows, the sign still bounced gently on its hooks: The Chicken Coop, painted in a bouncy, butter-yellow script like someone wanted breakfast to feel like optimism.

Birdie Birdlander, Chick’s wife, had run The Chicken Coop and its accompanying motel for years, and it had provided places to stay for visitors for that entire time. When people came to the area to build the town and the surrounding business district, construction crews and business men alike had also stayed.

Now, the motel wasn’t used very often as a couple of higher class hotels had sprung up where business men could impress their fellows. But The Chicken Coop was an institution for the locals, and the food served there was well loved.

Birdie had cooked in the ‘railcar’ for years, until she had died of cancer the year before. Her granddaughter, Ginny had been learning the trade, while cleaning the rooms in the motel, but when her grandmother died, she took over cooking, making the coop a place where people could find hot food and warm fellowship.

Inside now, the silence wasn’t warm.

Fran stepped through the outer door and into the hum of chilled stillness. The place had been built to look like a railroad car—cozy and stretched, with a long bar that ran nearly the length of the diner. Two four-person tables sat at either end like anchors, one on either side of the doors. Behind the row of barstools, smaller two-tops lined the windows, each with just enough breathing room for gossip or silence. There was ample space to walk, space to think. Today, it felt too open.

Trey moved quietly behind Fran, his gaze catching on the grill-side slogans Birdie had painted herself.

We don’t spread margarine.

We spread gossip.

We SLATHER butter.

At the far end of the diner, a crooked wooden sign declared in fading hand-lettering: Lowfat is a dirty word. Fran’s lips twitched.

Beside the grill, painted directly on the wall, Birdie’s biscuit and gravy recipe stretched in looping flour-colored cursive. There were no exact measurements. Just ratios, feeling, instinct. You had to know how much it took.

The door behind the restrooms opened into the long back corridor. On the left was the freezer and cooler, on the right a storage room. The hallway ran past both into the motel’s management suite, where Ginny had been living. The Nest held forty rooms in total, split across two modest floors—but this stretch of corridor held its soul.

Ginny Birdlander had cleaned those rooms for years. Learned them like they were characters in her grandmother’s stories. She’d been taught to run the whole place by Elizabeth—Birdie—whose biscuits had calmed arguments and quieted grief for decades. Birdie had died a year ago. Cancer.

For the past twelve months, Ginny had taken the reins. Started managing the diner, and eventually hired Spotless Solutions to clean the entire property so she could focus on the grill, on Birdie’s legacy.

Now Ginny was gone, too.

Fran lingered outside the walk-in freezer. She hadn’t opened it yet. Didn’t need to. Chick had let them in but hadn’t come past the threshold. He stood near the entrance, hat in hand, silent but present.

“How long’s Ginny been running it?” Trey asked him quietly.

Chick blinked hard and swallowed.

“’Bout a year. Birdie died of cancer, ya know.”

“Yeah. Everybody was broken up about it.”

Chick rubbed his red, watery eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Birdie ‘uz the best cook 'round here. Could fix a broken marriage with gravy and charm. Ginny was learnin’. Not as good—least not yet—but she was usin’ Birdie’s recipes. Birdie didn’t write nothin’ down. Just taught her with hands and memory. Said the dough oughta sound like applause when you drop it in the pan.”

Fran didn’t speak. Not yet. She stared at the freezer door like it might blink first.

She glanced at the peeling wallpaper and the faded motel carpet, the kind of wear and tear that came with years of footsteps, late check-ins, and early departures. “Did Ginny own the place?” she asked, voice steady.

Chick’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Not yet.”

Trey shifted beside her. “She was buying it?”

Chick shook his head slowly. “No. I was giving it to her. For her twenty-fifth birthday. Next year.”

Fran exhaled, low. “That’s quite a birthday present.”

Chick didn’t speak. He just nodded, eyes locked on the crime scene ahead of them.

A silence settled between them, heavy and dry, like dust in the corners Ginny never got to clean. There was still a coffee ring on the counter. Still a chipped plate on the desk. Still a future folded neatly into plans that would never be lived.

Ginny lay inside the freezer, just steps past the threshold. The light caught flattened cardboard scattered across her frozen form, warped like brittle leaves. It was packaging from meat, vegetables, bulk food orders—stripped of their contents, stacked hastily, maybe hopefully. An improvised shroud against the freeze.

Her small body looked even more delicate, curled beneath the layers. The way her limbs tucked inward gave the sense she tried to conserve warmth, protect herself. Her hair, once lively, clung to her scalp in icy coils, rimmed with white. The floor around her was scraped—as if she shifted position, tried to build some kind of barrier.

Fran crouched instinctively, the cold seeping into her knees. "She tried to keep the cold out," she said, her voice catching. “She thought… boxes might help.”

Trish didn’t answer right away. She looked at the door latch.

And that realization—that Ginny tried to survive—settled like frost in the back of their throats.

The latch was cold. Trish didn’t flinch, just studied the metal under her flashlight like it might confess something. “Got prints,” she said softly. “We’ll run ’em back at the lab.” She didn’t sound hopeful. She sounded meticulous.

Trey had already peeled off toward the office. The door was locked, the frame clean—no signs of prying or shoving. When he opened it with the motel key, nothing inside looked out of place. Desk neat. Files alphabetized. The kind of order that felt like it had something to hide.

Fran slipped the till key from the drawer, already knowing it wouldn’t matter. She opened the register anyway. Empty. Clean. No false bottoms or stashed notes.

“Kinda what I figured,” she muttered when she brought it back. “Key was in the office. No signs of tampering.”

Trey scanned the sales ledger. “Modest take the day of the first blizzard. But considering the menu prices? Definitely profitable. Enough to live. Not enough to die over.” He flipped the pages back and forth. “No entries after that.”

Trish rejoined them, her gloves still on. “I dusted the register. Probably pointless. But you know how it goes.” She turned to Trey. “Not surprising there’s not any entries for a few days. She’s frozen solid, so it’s been a few days. It’s a good thing she was hunched in trying to keep warm...”

Trey covered his ears. “Don’t finish that sentence, Trish.”

“Well, it’s a good thing her arms weren’t sticking straight out from her sides. That door’s only forty-eight inches w...”

“Trish!” Fran exclaimed

They moved through the corridor to the manager’s suite. Ginny had lived there for five years. The room still breathed her—mismatched curtains, a quilt with uneven stitching, a mug on the nightstand that said “Man cannot live on bread alone... He needs GRAVY!”

Trey stopped at the dresser, motioned with one hand. “Look at that.”

Fran leaned in for a better look. “Now isn’t that interesting.”

Trish called Trey over to look at the desk calendar

“Moving day,” Trey read. “Hey, Fran. Check this out.”

Fran, however, was looking in the closet. “Moving Day?” She said. “Looks like someone was moving in with Ginny.”

Trish stepped to her side and looked. “I’ll bet you those clothes will fit Mister Thompson.”

“I never bet, Trish. Especially against sure things.”

“You want me to get him and take him to the police station?” Trey asked, standing near the window, tension etched into his voice.

Fran let out a breath through her nose, sharp but steady. “I so much want to do it myself,” she admitted, voice low, “but you’d better. I don’t think I’d be nearly as nice as you will.”

Trey nodded once in agreement. Nothing more needed saying.

He left the manager’s suite without ceremony. Fran and Trish stood near the door, half listening. Outside, they could hear Trey’s voice in quiet conversation with Chick. Whatever he said, it ended abruptly—Chick’s truck roared to life and peeled out of the lot, gravel slinging behind it like dust off a bad memory.

Fran reached for her phone and called Trey.

They watched from the window as his Jeep rolled away—slow, deliberate, no chase in the tires.

“You gonna stop Chick and give him a ticket?” Fran asked.

“Not today of all days,” Trey answered.

Fran nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right.”

There was a pause, the line between them hanging open.

“He said he hopes we can catch whoever did this,” Trey said, the weight finally pushing into his voice. “Because he’d hate to have to do it himself.”

Fran shook her head. “We don’t have any proof someone killed her.”

“Do you believe it was accidental?” he asked. “It’s sure not a suicide.”

Fran’s voice came quiet. “No, I don’t.”

“Me either.”

She paused, then spoke with measured calm. “Trey, why don’t you talk to Chick. I’ll go pick up Mister Thompson.”

Trey hesitated, sounding slightly offended. “I’m pretty sure I can handle Mister Thompson.”

Fran didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve no doubt. But you can handle Chick better than I can in this situation.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because he didn’t trust me on his own. He trusted you. I think Chick will listen to you when it counts. And we need that kind of trust on our side.”

Trey didn’t argue. He turned the wheel toward the Conoco station and pulled into Chick’s driveway, gravel whispering beneath the tires. The porch was quiet, just a single flickering light overhead. He knocked once.

The door opened slowly. Elroy stood on the threshold, eyes red and glassy. His voice rasped out through grief.

“What d’ya want, Rev’ren?”

Trey stepped forward, careful not to speak too fast. “I just wanted to know if I can help you all.”

Elroy didn’t hesitate. “Just catch whoever killed my little girl.”

Trey held his gaze, heart heavy. “Trevor the policeman will do that,” he said quietly. “Right now, I’m Trevor the pastor. How can I help you, Elroy?”

Elroy’s shoulders buckled as the tears came, quiet but unrelenting. Trey stepped beside him, resting a hand gently on his back before guiding him toward the living room. Elroy dropped into the worn-cushion couch without a word. Trey sat across from him, knees close together, eyes steady.

Lizbeth followed, her face drawn and pale, settling beside her husband with both hands folded tightly in her lap. Chick came in behind them, taking the recliner across the room with a slow, deliberate sigh. His eyes flicked between his son and Lizbeth, then settled on Elroy.

Trey cleared his throat—not to speak as a police officer, but as something else entirely. “I want you to know,” he said gently, “I’m sitting here right now as the pastor of our church. Not as a policeman.”

He let the quiet hold for a beat. “This isn’t the end of knowing Ginny. She’s not lost. She’s waiting for you—in Heaven.”

Lizbeth looked up sharply. “But how do we know that?” Her voice trembled. “She was living with that Reggie boy. Moving him in. They weren’t even married…”

Trevor didn’t flinch. His tone stayed calm and warm. “The Bible says God doesn’t want anyone to perish. He loves us all. And if Ginny accepted Jesus—even once—then that promise is hers.”

Elroy blinked through tears. “Far as we know… she did. Years ago.”

Trevor nodded, then leaned forward slightly. His voice lowered, but every word carried weight. “The thing about eternal life—it’s not temporary. If it could expire based on what we do or don’t do, then it wasn’t eternal to begin with. But the Lord’s promises don’t have loopholes.”

He looked toward Lizbeth now, with gentleness in his eyes. “Romans 11:29 says, ‘For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.’ That means God doesn’t take back what He’s given—not salvation, not eternal life. And Ginny didn’t earn her way into Heaven—none of us could. But if she was saved, then she was sealed. And she’s held by a grace stronger than anything she faced.”

The words hung in the quiet like a balm against the grief.

Trevor softened his voice even more. “I know your heart’s aching, Lizbeth. And I know it’s easy to wonder if Ginny’s choices mean she turned away from the Lord. But that’s not how grace works.”

He opened his Bible slowly, already turned to the page. “Ephesians 2:8–9: ‘For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God—not of works, lest any man should boast.’ That verse’s not for perfect people—it’s for real ones. Ginny didn’t earn salvation, and she couldn’t lose it by stumbling. If she belonged to Jesus, then she still does.”

He closed the Bible carefully, almost reverently. “John 10:28 says, ‘And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’ That includes Ginny. That includes every child of God who’s ever wandered and been called home.”

Trevor let the words sink in, a long moment of silence wrapping around the room. “We don’t measure salvation by perfection,” he said quietly. “We measure it by the cross. And if Ginny placed her trust in Christ, then she’s with Him now—whole, forgiven, and loved beyond anything we can imagine.”

Chapter 10

Bill was on duty at Spotless Solutions. His eyes seemed to drill holes in her as she walked in.

“Gonna knock me out too?” he asked.

“I had nothing to do with Mitch passing out, nor did the Sheriff.” she replied. “If Mitch has a guilty conscience, that’s not my fault.”

“Why do you think he has a guilty conscience?”

Fran just cocked her head and her expression silently asked, “What are you smoking?”

Instead of that question however, she asked, “Where are Reggie and Debra?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because they work here.”

Bill shook his head. “Not anymore they don’t. They left yesterday before their shift, and they haven’t shown up today. If they show up, they’re fired.”

“Okay. So where do they live?”

“Well, Reggie told me to change his address to The Bird’s Nest as of today. I suggest you look there for him. Debra, that psychopath, lives at 236 Lincoln Street. Up till yesterday that was Reggie’s address as well.”

“Well, Reggie’s not at The Bird’s Nest,” Fran commented.

“That’s not my concern,” Bill said, dismissively.

“I suppose it’s not your concern that Ginny Birdlander was killed the night Reggie and Debra were on duty, working for you?”

Bill’s mouth dropped open, but he seemed to have nothing to say.

Finally, “You think I’ve got something to do with that?”

“Do you?” Fran asked. She turned to leave but glanced back. “Don’t leave town, Bill.”

The tightening of his jaw was not lost on her.

Before she exited, however, Fran turned back and asked, “Why do you call Debra a psychopath?”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Once,” Fran said. “I intend to have another opportunity.”

“Well don’t expect to get any useful information. She can lie and you’ll never know it.”

“I see,” said Fran as she turned back to the door. She thought about the extremely brief meeting she and the Sheriff had had with Reggie and Debra. She had to admit. Debra was a very controlled person. Not a flicker of emotion, and that deep voice. She wasn’t sure if it was put on or real, but it seemed designed to command respect and attention.

She didn’t waste time. Debra’s duplex was tucked behind a row of junipers near the old bowling alley. A child's bike lay on the front lawn of the other half, 238, half-buried in snow.

She knocked.

Waited.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

The blinds were drawn. Mail spilled from the box near the door—three flyers and a thick envelope with government markings. Fran peered in through the side window. No movement. No light.

Before she left, a young woman stuck her head out of the other side. “Ain’t seen either one of them for two days.”

“Any idea where I can find them?” Fran asked, showing her badge.

“I know who you are, Chief,” the woman said, waving her hand. “Wish I could help you, but they kept pretty private. I just know they worked for that new cleaning place.” At that, she gestured at the truck that showed a couple of bubbles, complete with eyes, intent on cleaning up a stain on something, its eyes protruding in fear. Above was the logo for Spotless Solutions.

“I wonder how much they had to pay Dow for that image?” She wondered as she walked back to her F150.

She hated to burst in on Trevor, but she needed to get some information, so she steered toward Chick’s house.

As she navigated over slush left from the snow the day before, she wondered what information Chick would have. She needed information on Reggie and Debra. Chick had to know something.

Before she got to Chick’s house, she looked at the time. The Birdlander estate was partway between Venture and Grade. She decided to continue down to the county courthouse at Grade before returning to the Birdlander’s.

At the courthouse, she talked to Judge Gutierrez and obtained a search warrant for Debra’s house. She had reasonable belief that either Debra or Reggie had committed a crime -- a murder, but technically, Reggie’s address was now The Bird’s Nest and if she found something of importance implicating Reggie, she wanted no chance that it could be kicked out of being evidence.

She got some information from the judge that took her by surprise.

“You said Ginny Birdlander?” The judge’s extreme surprise showed on his face, and in his voice.

“Yes, Judge.”

The old man seemed to consider for a moment. “You’re gonna find this out anyway, Chief. My grandson, Jaime, and Ginny were high school sweethearts.” He pronounced the name Jaime, Hi-may, in the Mexican fashion. “If this Reggie or his sister had anything to do with this, go get ‘em. If Jaime did...” He suddenly seemed twenty years older. “Well, if Jaime did... Go get him.”

Fran hesitated before the obvious question. “Do I have your official permission to investigate him, Judge?”

If it was possible for one so defeated, the judge seemed to age even more. He reached for his pen and rose to get one more form from his file cabinet. The form which might seal his grandson’s fate. Perhaps even his own.

-=#=-

As Fran left the courthouse, the weight of Judge Gutierrez’s signature lingered in her thoughts.

He’d authorized a search warrant against his own grandson—Jaime Gutierrez. The grief in his eyes hadn’t been theatrical; it was the quiet kind that settled deep, like dust in an old chapel. Fran had seen it before, but rarely from someone signing away the fate of their own flesh and blood.

She considered, then pulled out her phone and texted Trey and Trish. How are things at Chick’s?

It was a few moments before she received a response from Trey. I wouldn’t try to get much information from them tonight. They’re pretty broken up.

We need some questions answered.

A few more minutes, then the text came through: Do you trust me to ask them?

Did she? She thought for another few minutes, then typed back. Yes.

As simple as that. She realized that she did trust him to ask the necessary questions.

And, it freed her up to search Debra’s apartment.

Trish, can you meet me at 236 Lincoln Street? I’ve got a couple of search warrants. One is for Debra’s residence.

I’m almost done at the Bird’s Nest, Trish sent back.

Want me to join you there after I’m done here? Trey wondered.

Yes, please.

What’s the other warrant for? Trish asked.

Ginny’s former boyfriend, Jaime Gutierrez.

-=#=-

Fran watched as the curtain on 238 fluttered back and forth a couple of times. The size of the hand pulling it back varied. The first time it was a very small one. Perhaps the owner of the bike with training wheels. The second time it was an adult hand with painted fingernails.

Well, they were undoubtedly curious. The reason for her interest in Debra and Reggie wasn’t public yet, but it would be in the morning. One of the anachronisms from Grade was the Grade Reveille -- Rise and Shine! Yesterday’s News with Today’s Values. It would be out in the morning, and the reporter who handled Venture would quickly have the relevant information published.

Meanwhile, Fran had only to wait before going into Debra’s apartment. As soon as Trish arrived, she’d go in. She didn’t want to be responsible for damaging any evidence Trish might find. That was never a good idea.

A few minutes later Trish’s Explorer pulled up and she got out. Rather than break in, Fran used her phone to find out who owned the duplex. It was listed as being bought by Debra Thompson. Fran sighed. It seemed she’d have to break in.

She went back to her F150 to get the proper tools, but fortuitously, Trey pulled up as she was rummaging in her passenger footwell. Ironically, Pastor Trey was one of the best lock pickers she’d ever met. She’d certainly never seen him bested by a residential front door.

He grabbed his kit and quickly opened the door. As soon as it opened, the atmosphere drifting out gave them a good idea what they were going to find.

Chapter 11

Trish put her hand in front of her husband, stopping him from entering. “Smells like I’d better go first, Trevor.”

He nodded and sighed. This was not how he expected to spend his Thursday. He had a sermon he needed to write, but it looked like that would have to wait.

Glancing at Fran, he saw a similar weariness in her.

But, maybe it wasn’t a person. Maybe a dog? A cat? Even a bird?

“This is gonna be a long night!” Trish called from the kitchen, effectively squashing his hopes.

Fran and Trey both slipped some plastic over their shoes and taking pictures along the way, carefully followed Trish’s voice into the kitchen.

What they saw there didn’t encourage them about any sleep in the next few hours. Fran turned to Trey. “Wanna call the Sheriff? We’re gonna need some help on this.”

Trey nodded and stepped back into the living room.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Fran heard him say. “We’re gonna need some help again. We’ve got two bodies. Apparently four deaths in just a few days. This is gonna be a pain in the posterior.” A pause, then, “Yep... Yep... 236 Lincoln Street.” Another pause. “A Debra Thompson... The other? Ginny Birdlander. She was found in The Chicken Coop’s walk in freezer... No chance, Sheriff.” He listened again, then said, “See ya soon.”

His phone sounded that it was hanging up, then he stepped back into the kitchen.

Fran had kept part of her attention on his call, but now she looked at what Trish was doing. The dark haired form on the floor was covered in blood. There was a knife protruding from the chest but it looked like the knife made other wounds than just the one into the heart.

At least Fran assumed it went into the heart. It disappeared into the left breast.

“Several contusions on her hands,” Trish was saying into her phone, recording what she saw. “Looks defensive... Missing fingernail on her middle right finger.”

“Missing left index finger,” Fran commented.

“I’m getting there,” Trish said.

“Looks like this might be where it went,” Trey commented, looking into the sink.

“Bruises on her wrists,” Trish continued as Fran looked into the sink.

She had a strong stomach, which was exceptionally good in her chosen field, but the implications of what she saw almost made her gag. The perimeter of the white enamel sink was rust colored and there was the ominous opening into a garbage disposal in the bottom center.

Trish had stood up and was looking into the sink as well. “We’re gonna need to check what went into that garbage disposal,” she said.

From the living room, they heard Sheriff Goldman’s voice. “Wagner, get some tools for removing a garbage disposal.”

“Hey, Sheriff,” Trish called. “How’s your stomach tonight?”

“Empty,” he said as he entered the kitchen. “Oh, crap!” He exclaimed when he saw the carnage.

“Is that a trash compactor?” He asked, pointing to a built-in appliance beside the dishwasher.

“Looks like it,” Fran said. “Who wants to open it?”

“I will,” Fran said. Looking at the blood trail leading to it.

“Oh!” She said when she had it opened. She turned back to the corpse. “I hadn’t noticed a missing foot."

Goldman shook his head in disgust, then asked. “Where’s her brother?”

Fran felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at the blood splattered throughout the kitchen and wondered what they were going to find in the rest of the apartment.

“We haven’t searched the apartment yet,” Trey admitted. “This kinda captured our attention first.”

Goldman nodded. “I understand that.” He looked at Fran and gestured toward the dining room off to one side of the kitchen. “Shall we?”

“Catalogue whatever you see. Even if you don’t see,” Trish called as Fran, Trey, and the Sheriff started toward the other room.

“Want me to take that drain apart, Ma’am?” Wagner asked as he looked around for a place untouched by blood where he could set his tool box.

“Take pictures first!” Trish ordered.

-=#=-

The apartment was old enough that there wasn’t an ensuite bathroom. Debra’s bedroom had a vanity against one wall, but was rather sparse in decorations.

Her closet was about half filled with power clothing, mainly of slacks and low heeled shoes. There were a couple of power suits with skirts, one charcoal, and one black. There was one pair of black pumps, with about a one and a half inch heel.

“What in the world?” Trey said, looking back at the room and almost bare vanity. “Was she actually a woman?”

Fran gave him a dirty look, but understood why he would question it. It just didn’t seem like enough for a normal woman.

Goldman snapped some pictures, then moved back to the vanity. He pulled open the drawer in the center and found a couple of mascaras, some powder, and a lipstick. He snapped a picture, then opened a couple more drawers. Instead of makeup, they contained undergarments.

In the garbage, Fran spotted what appeared to be an unopened envelope. She retrieved it from the waste basket and saw that it seemed to be a card. One side was slit open, but it appeared as though that was it.

Looking back at the room, it was spotless. It stood to reason, Fran mused, that someone who worked for a company named Spotless Solutions should have a spotless bedroom. She thought back to the kitchen and realized that, under the blood and gore, there seemed to be nothing out of place.

Fran crossed the hallway to the bathroom. It was disturbingly sterile, and like her bedroom, it was immaculate.

The towels, washcloths, and floor mat seemed like what would be found at a hotel or motel. All white.

She moved back to the living room and discovered that it too was spartan. There were mini blinds on the windows, and the drapes were beige. In the corner was a bookshelf, and on it were self-help books. No fiction. All non-fiction.

She turned and saw that Trey and Goldman had followed her into the living room. “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said to them. She was developing a theory, and the next words by Goldman only added fuel to the fire.

“This fits what I noticed about her when we, sort of, interviewed her and Reggie.”

Trey hadn’t been there and asked, “What was that?”

“Reggie was brimming -- no, make that overflowing with emotion. Debra showed none.”

“Let’s see what his room looks like,” Trey said.

“He was moving to The Bird’s Nest,” Fran pointed out.

“He hadn’t yet,” Trey countered.

Goldman hadn’t heard that yet, and sardonically he observed, “That couldn’t have been popular around here.”

“It wasn’t,” Trey agreed.

“It may have gotten her killed,” Fran pointed out.

“Ai-ai-ai,” Goldman said, obviously not liking the sound of that.

They went past the bathroom to the second and last door on the left. Opening it, they found a room that was substantially smaller than Debra’s, and the clutter inside made it feel smaller yet.

“I feel for Ginny,” Goldman commented as he stepped in and surveyed the mess. Socks were scattered on the floor, and there was the smell of mouse cage. It wasn’t from unwelcome visitors, however. There was a cage on the top of the dresser, with a white mouse in it. It was currently running in a wheel, as if trying to get away from its unwelcome visitors.

Fran opened the sliding closet door with a pen and inside, there were a few hanging shirts, and a pair of corduroys.

“People still wear those?” Trey asked from beside her.

“Only farmers on old British television,” Fran answered.

The rest of the clothes, clean and grungy alike, lay scattered on various surfaces around the room. Fran assumed that what was on the floor was dirty, but she wouldn’t swear to it.

Goldman picked up one of the numerous pop cans and gave it a small shake before putting it down. It sloshed. He moved to another and got the same result. “You couldn’t be more different,” he observed.

“That’s for sure,” Trey said looking at the ceiling above the bed. Pinned there was a vintage poster of Farrah Fawcett in a white bathing suit.

Fran snerked, remembering her friend had had a copy of that exact poster on the inside of his closet door. Until his mom found it, putting away his clothes one day.

Goldman noticed something sticking out from under the pillow on the bed, and using his own pen, slid it out. It was a picture of Reggie and Ginny, beaming at the camera.

Fran saw and told him, “We saw a match to that at Ginny’s apartment this morning.”

From the doorway, Trish commented, “What a pigsty!”

Fran couldn’t help but agree.

“Wagner -- Carlson -- I’ll need a couple of these pop cans. Also, the picture your boss found. Also, get me some fingerprints from door knobs. Anything else I can get DNA from.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Carlson said.

“Is this a way to get away from his sister's sterility?” Fran wondered.

“Or control. Goldman said. “She was a sociopath. From what I see, that’s quite apparent.”

“So was Reggie in love with Ginny or just escaping Debra?” Trey asked, not really expecting an answer.

“That’s a good question,” Goldman said anyway.