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 beta reading too! :-)
Prologue  

March 15, 2014  

1:47 PM  

It was March. March, and if ever there was a truer place for the old adage in like a lion, out like a lamb, the house sat at the heart of it. High on a hill, surrounded by miles of open land, it stood against the storm—a solitary shape swallowed by white.

The blizzard thickened, the wind growing restless. Snow lashed the north side of the house, piling against the walls, shifting like a living thing.

Dennis pulled on his coat, tension flickering across his face. “I need to check on the animals.”

His wife frowned. “Be careful, Denny. The animals aren’t worth getting yourself killed over.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Cyn. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Dennis pulled back the curtain on the kitchen door, peering out into the storm. The barn light flickered dimly through the swirling snow—at least there was still power. He was grateful he’d buried the feed underground, though frost heaves were always a risk.

He glanced back at Cyndi and Little Denny, then stepped outside.

The door slammed shut, pulled by the wind, rattling the frame. Cyndi watched him grip the top rail of the fence between the house and the barn, steadying himself as he disappeared into the storm.

-=#=-

3:49 PM  

It was getting dark, and Dennis still hadn’t returned.  

Cyndi stood by the window, staring into the thickening snow. It shouldn’t have taken this long. Her fingers tightened against the fabric of her sleeve. No movement. No shifting shape in the distance.  

She turned toward the kitchen doorway, where Little Denny stood at the baby gate, hands gripping the wooden bars. The gate was screwed tightly into the door frame—its twin secured the front entrance. He hadn’t figured out the deadbolts yet, but she knew that wouldn’t last much longer.  

Her gaze flickered back outside. Still nothing.  

Unease pressed against her ribs.  

She pulled on her snowsuit, hat, and boots, then hesitated—just for a second—before reaching for her mittens.  

One more glance out the window. No sign of him. The snow was only getting worse.  

She pushed open the door. “I’ll be right back, honey,” she murmured to Little Denny. Then she stepped into the cold.  

The wind stole her breath instantly.  

Cyndi gripped the fence rail, pushing forward, each step unstable against the shifting drifts. The rabbit-wire garden fence had created a snow block—compact enough to hold her weight at first, until she lifted one foot. Suddenly, the other plunged through, dropping her knee-deep into ice.  

She swallowed down the sharp, rising frustration, adjusting her stance before pushing onward.  

No footprints. Dennis’ path had already vanished.  

She reached the barn door, slid it open, and stepped inside.  

Darkness pressed in.  

She flipped on the light.  

Empty.  

The animals in the stalls stirred as she entered, lifting their heads in quiet expectation. Their troughs were empty. Their water was low. Had Dennis fed them?  

Cyndi moved through the space, checking the tack room.  

No Dennis.  

She turned back toward the stalls, hesitating now—really looking. The food. The water. It should still be full.  

Something was wrong.  

She stepped back into the barn proper.  

Then, for the first time, she noticed the ladder laying on the floor.  

A strong gust rattled the barn walls.  

Over her left shoulder, the wind pushed against the door, nudging it further open. For a brief moment, the gap widened, and another rush of snow spilled in, scattering white across the floorboards.  

She turned instinctively, eyes flicking to the shifting doorway.  

And then—something moved.  

A slow, unnatural sway.  

Above the ladder, an overhead shop light rocked on its metal conduit, its shade tilting at a strange angle. The rope draped over it pulled the fixture away from center, skewing the glow, warping the shadows. Each sway sent a jagged flicker skittering across the walls—elongating, stretching, breaking apart.  

A deep wrongness seeped into the space.  

Cyndi froze, breath shallow.  

She looked up.  

And screamed.  

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 beta reading too! :-)

If you haven't read the prologue, I'd suggest reading it first. You can find it at the bottom of this page or click on the previous word 'prologue'.

Chapter 1

March 3rd, 2028

6:30 PM

“Come on, people!” Fran Smith muttered as she inched her car forward. “This isn’t Texas. We know how to handle a little snowfall.”

But this wasn’t just a snowfall. This was a blizzard.

The kind that swallowed roads, blurred headlights, and turned every breath into a freezing cloud.

Fran gripped the steering wheel harder, her gloves stiff with cold despite the heat blasting in the car. Visibility was nearly zero, and the wind howled through the trees like some unseen force warning her to turn back. But there was no turning back—not with Venture’s pathetic excuse for a police force consisting only of her.

She rounded the bend—then hit the brakes.

Her tires slid. The back end fishtailed, bouncing into the snowbank with a muffled thud.

Something lay in the road.

She was out of the car in seconds, boots crunching through packed ice, heart hammering. The shape in front of her right headlight was twisted, half-buried, almost mistaken for a bundle of discarded janitorial supplies—until she knelt.

A frozen mop. Hair.

And beneath it—a face.

A girl’s face. Too young. Too still.

For a breathless moment, she thought she was too late. The cold had taken her.

Then—a sound. A groan.

Fran sucked in a sharp breath, fingers darting to her throat. A heartbeat. Weak. But there.

She wasn’t leaving her out here.

Fran moved fast, hauling the girl into the passenger seat, throwing the seat back. Her limbs were unnaturally stiff—her fingers waxy white, her lips a cracked blue. Fran turned the car around, flooring it toward home as she fumbled for her phone.

“Trish,” she breathed as soon as her friend picked up.

“What’s going on?”

“I found a kid—she’s frozen solid. Hypothermia. What do I do?”

Trish’s voice sharpened. “Is she shivering?”

Fran risked another glance. No movement.

“No,” she murmured.

“Then it’s bad. You need to warm her up, but slowly. You can’t rush it.”

Fran nodded, her heart pounding as she turned into her driveway.

“You want me to come over?”

“No. The roads are a mess. Stay put.”

She barely got her phone onto speaker before moving. Soaked. The girl was soaked through, clothes clinging in wet patches, useless against the cold. Fran yanked them off layer by layer, fingers shaking—not from hesitation, but from urgency.

She had to get her warm. Had to act fast.

Until she reached the last layer.

Something was wrong.

The hesitation was barely noticeable—just a fraction of a second as Fran stared down at the sodden fabric before pulling it away.

Not a girl.

A boy.

Fran blinked, her breath hitching—but it didn’t matter, not right now.

She grabbed blankets, wrapped them tightly around her—no, him—no, her—Fran wasn’t thinking. She was moving, acting, focusing only on getting warmth back into the child’s body.

“Okay,” Trish said, voice steady through the phone. “This might be uncomfortable, but you need skin-to-skin contact. Chest, groin, neck.”

Fran hesitated for a half-second before muttering, “It’s not a girl. It’s a boy.”

“Does that make a difference?”

Fran swallowed. “No.”

And yet—something about Trish’s wording stuck.

She didn’t linger on it. She stripped down, slid into bed beside her, pressing her hands against her neck, her chest—where the cold felt wrong, like touching stone.

Another groan. A twitch. She was warming up.

“See if she’s awake enough for a warm, sweet drink.”

Fran went and got a cup of warm water with honey in it. Fran lifted the cup, guiding it to her lips, watching carefully as she took a few weak sips before drifting off again.

Relief crashed over Fran, exhaustion dragging behind it. She thanked Trish, hung up, and dragged her recliner into the bedroom. She wasn’t leaving her side.

Settling in, she exhaled—then paused.

The mirror.

She hadn’t meant to look. Hadn’t meant to see.

But she did.

The blanket was loose around her shoulders, her robe in hand. The reflection caught her off-guard—not because she was naked, but because—

Her breath hitched.

A quiet realization settled deep in her gut.

She stared.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t think.

Just sat there, looking at herself, as the blizzard howled outside.

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 2

Fran had been deep into peeling the label off her coffee cup when her phone buzzed. She exhaled sharply at the name on the screen. Trevor.

For a split second, she debated ignoring it. Let it go to voicemail. Handle it later, when she wasn’t already bracing herself for a fight. But that wasn’t an option. Not with this case. Not with him.

She answered. "Yeah?"

"You’re working the girl, right?" Trevor’s voice was clipped. Guarded.

Fran frowned. "Found her last night on the way home from the alarm place. What about her?"

"Just checking in." He hesitated. "Anything new?"

She heard it—the measured pauses, the subtle restraint. Trevor wasn’t just checking in. He was setting the stage for an argument before it even started.

"I’m handling it," she said, sharper than she meant to.

A beat. "Fran, she’s a runaway—"

"You don’t know that."

"Neither do you. That’s the problem."

She pushed up from the chair, pacing. "I know what I’m doing."

Trevor sighed, but it was one of those held back sighs—the kind that meant he wanted to push but knew he shouldn’t. "Do you?"

Her grip tightened around her phone. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, do you know objectively," Trevor clarified, his tone more controlled now, "or do you just think you do because you’re too close to see it clearly?"

Fran’s frustration rose sharp in her throat. "Oh, so now I’m incompetent?"

"No—"

"Because that’s what it sounds like."

Trevor went quiet for half a second—just long enough for Fran to feel the hit land. "Look," he said finally, measured, careful. "You were in her position once. You know what she’s feeling. But that’s exactly why you might not see this the way you need to."

Fran stiffened. "I know what’s at stake. I know better than anyone."

"That’s exactly it." Trevor’s voice was lower now. "You feel too much. You care too much. And I get it. But she’s not just some girl in trouble. If she’s a runaway, if there’s something bigger here—" He exhaled. "We can’t just treat her like she’s fragile. We have to treat her like she’s real. That means knowing where she came from."

Fran bristled. "I am treating her like she’s real."

"Are you?" Silence. Heavy. Unspoken words pressing into the static between them.

Fran swallowed. "I’ve got work to do."

"Yeah."

The call ended before either of them could say more. And still, Trevor’s words sat there, settled in the space between Fran’s ribs.

She tossed the phone onto the desk—the closest she wanted to come to throwing her private one—and flopped into the chair. Maybe shifting focus to the searches would clear her mind.

Then, a sound from inside the room.

A sigh. Too quiet to tell what it meant.

With a heavy breath, she stood and moved to the door. She wanted to clomp—wanted the kid to know she was frustrated—but decided that might make things worse. She was just one cop. Not a whole squadron.

Opening the door, she saw the kid still had her eyes closed. The warm water had washed away her makeup, making her look even younger. Fourteen, maybe fifteen.

Fran caught herself. Kid. Not girl. She didn’t know that yet.

She went to her closet, pulling out the smallest robe she owned, then grabbed some panties. If the kid wasn’t a girl, she had nothing else to offer. It would have to do.

She turned back—and found the kid watching her.

"Hi," Fran said.

"Hi," came a soft voice.

Fran couldn't place it—hadn't changed yet, probably. "What’s your name?"

A pause. Barely a heartbeat. Then:

"Denise."

Fran repeated it. Let it settle. Denise. At least now she had something solid. Something the kid wanted her to believe.

Denise exhaled, slow and measured, like she’d been holding her breath.

Fran kept her voice gentle. "Do you have a last name?"

Another pause—tiny, but enough.

"T... Troutman."

Fran caught the flicker of hesitation. A split-second decision. That wasn’t just uncertainty. That was choice.

She filed it away. “Where are you from?”

"Uh... Iowa. Ottumwa."

Fran nodded. Midwest. That tracked.

“That’s quite a way from here. What brings you to Venture?”

Denise eyed her carefully. A pause too long to be natural.

"I'm just passing through."

Fran didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

"Where are your parents?"

"Uh..." Denise shifted, gaze flicking away. "They're dead."

Fran lowered her eyes to the badge on her uniform. Venture Police Department. That was when she knew—Denise wasn’t just reluctant. She was locking up.

"So, who do you live with?"

"My grandparents."

Quick. Almost too quick.

Fran watched her carefully. That felt true.

"And where are they?" She placed the robe and panties on the bed.

"They... disappeared in the blizzard."

The answer landed too neatly. And yet, Denise said it with weight. Like she needed Fran to believe it.

Something shifted in Fran's chest. What am I missing?

Denise closed her eyes.

Interview over.

Fran stood. That was it? That was all she was getting? Frustration climbed up her spine, bitter and sharp.

She cleared her throat. "Here’s some clothes. Sorry I don’t have anything in your size. Yours were pretty messed up. I washed and dried them, but I’m afraid they couldn’t be saved."

She stepped out and shut the door. The lock clicked, sharp in the silence.

Fran leaned back against the wood, pressing her palms into her eyes.

Was Trevor right?

Was the nice approach wrong?

Fran’s internet connection was still down. The blizzard had done its work.

She flicked on her cell’s hotspot and ran her search again, eyes scanning the familiar town names. No missing teenagers in Ottumwa—no one named Troutman either. Expanding the radius yielded nothing.

Then, she widened it again.

Vernon Troutman. Missing from Akron, Ohio. Thirty-six.

Wrong age. Wrong place. But still—something about the name stuck.

Her fingers hesitated above the keys. Troutman.

Then it hit her.

Dennis Troughtan.

She sucked in a breath. That’s what was wrong.

Fourteen years ago, Dennis had been found hanged in his barn. Suicide. A note on his desk. Before Venture had even existed, back when the town was just scattered buildings—no more than a general store and a handful of houses.

But Dennis had a son.

Dennis James Troughtan. Three years old when his father died.

Denise?

Could she be him?

-=#=-

Fran scrolled through the county records, her pulse quickening as she widened the search.

Twenty-five years back. The land transfer popped up—Margaret Marion Brightly-Goldman to Cynthia Helen Troughtan.

Fran frowned. There was no sale recorded after that. No seizure for unpaid taxes. No forwarding address for Cynthia or her father after they left.

She leaned back, processing the odd absence.

Then she found the acreage.

Her breath hitched.

Twenty thousand, five hundred acres.

It was huge compared to Venture. It even dwarfed Grade.

The scale of it was staggering—so much land, just... gone?

The land was there, she knew that. But officially? It didn’t seem to exist—not anymore. Like Cynthia and her father, it had slipped between the cracks, erased from paper but still standing in reality. A quiet stretch of earth, untouched, unanswered.

She decided to let off some steam. She had some pictures on the wall, where she could think about them. They were shots of faces of some of the bad guys she had worked against recently. Pulling some darts out of her right top drawer, she stood up. She stood the regulation distance from the wall, and let one fly. She threw the dart into the picture right between the guy’s eyes. She walked over and saw that the point of the dart was buried all the way.

She flexed her shoulders to see if they’d loosened a bit. Nope. Didn’t feel like it. She sighed and went to the coat rack beside the front door. Perhaps if she went to Mel’s Bar.

Still tense from the frustration of both conversations, she shut off her computer and slipped her feet into her boots, threw her coat and hat on, wound her usual knit white scarf around her neck and walked out the door.

She almost took off before remembering her house guest. Guiltily, she looked back at the door. Should she tell Denise what she was doing? No. She decided not to bother the girl.

She set the alarms in her house, but had to think about which zones to turn on. She decided to go with the external doors and windows on silent. That way, she would be alerted by her phone if they were opened, but no sirens would go off, so she’d know if Denise exited the house. She also made sure the cameras at the bathroom and bedroom doors were off. She didn’t think they were necessary. Finally, she set the cameras on outside the house.

When she pressed the arm button, the armed LED on the panel flickered. That’s strange, she thought. Frowning, she disarmed it, then armed it again. It worked fine that time.

Once out on the street, the LED problem bothered her. One more problem in a world of them, she thought. She really wanted a beer, but knew she’d better refrain while on duty. She knew it wouldn’t make her drunk, but appearances were important.

Arriving at the bar which had once been a schoolhouse, she stamped up onto the steps. Mel had installed some diamond grate aluminum decking from a wrecked tanker trailer, just for days like these — so people stomp the snow off their boots rather than track it inside.

Reaching for the doorknob, she noticed that the bar also had a General Alarms security system. She wondered if it had the same problem hers did. Probably moisture, or a downed power or network line somewhere, she thought.

She opened the door and went in.

Mel, the owner and bartender glanced at her. “Hi, Chief!” he said with a smile. “Fraid you won’t get in any darts today. Nobody’ll play wi’ ya’. You’re too good!”

“Well that’s no fun,” she said ruefully. “I guess no one likes a dart shark.”

“They don’t mind losing,” Mel said. “At least not the game. They don’t like losing their money.”

“Mel, you’re not insinuating I would gamble, are you?” she asked with mock horror.

“Who said anything about gambling?” Mel countered. “You’re not gambling. They’re the ones gambling. For you it’s a sure thing.”

He was polishing a glass, and set it down on the counter behind him. “Whatcha drinking today?” he asked.

“Diet Coke,” she said. “I’m on duty.”

“Gotcha,” he answered, pulling out a glass and using the fountain to fill it with the dark liquid.

Looking at the beverage, Fran thought, Dark. Just like my mood right now. Pale Ale would be better, but not for my reputation. Suddenly she realized, she hadn’t eaten yet. “Hey, Mel,” she called. “How about a chicken salad sandwich?”

“Haven’t eaten yet, or is one sitting on your desk at home?” he asked, chuckling.

“Completely untouched,” she said. Pretty bad when your friends know so much about you, she thought to herself.

He delivered the sandwich, and Fran glanced at the clock over the bar. “Oh, No!” she exclaimed. I’ve gotta get going!”

“You still working with Ross?”

As she was pulling her coat back on, Fran answered, “Yeah.”

“Ask him what it means when the LED flickers when you’re arming the system?”

“Sure. When did it happen?” That’s quite the coincidence, she thought. Probably nothing. But then again...

“Last night when I was locking up.”

She held up a thumb in affirmation, and headed out the door.

As she was heading to Venture Land Development, where her friend Millie worked, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought of the LED. Something about it just didn’t feel right. Some unease that refused to disappear. She recalled that Mel had experienced the same glitch the night before. But that was before any winds could have affected the system. That observation ruled out downed power or network lines.

So what was it?

She filed the incident away for further thought. She’d ask Ross what was causing it. Would he tell her? Did it have anything to do with the missing funds Julie Masden, the freelance accountant working for General Alarms, had noticed? Or was it really nothing, like Fran had initially thought?

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.”

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.

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 12

The envelope Fran had found in the wastebasket contained a birthday card. It was hard to be certain, but the card might never have been out of the envelope. The handwriting on both the envelope and the note inside looked like a teenager’s—loopy, uneven, and earnest. The return address read Ashley Bernard, Riverside, California.

Fran paused. Mitch Bernard—Reggie and Debra’s nephew over at Spotless Solutions—shared that surname. Could Ashley be his sister? It bore checking out.

She yawned and glanced at her watch. Four A.M.

They’d been called to The Chicken Coop by Chick at eight the previous morning. Twenty hours of nonstop investigating had left her running on fumes. She locked the evidence they’d collected into its locker, then flipped off the lights. The alarm panel blinked its now-familiar flicker when she armed it. She disarmed and rearmed it. This time, it came on normally.

Why does it do that? she wondered—not for the first time.

-=#=-

Fran awoke to the comforting aroma of coffee—and something else. Not bacon. Rich, yeasty, and warm. Bread. And… clam chowder?

She blinked at the clock. Ten A.M. Thank God. She was still in her uniform, sprawled sideways across the bed like she’d been dropped there. Five hours of sleep. Not enough, but better than none. Trish had been right—it had been a long night.

As she sat up, another smell hit her. Not comforting. The sour, clinging stench of death. It had soaked into her uniform, her hair, and—judging by the air—her bedding. She looked down at the blankets she’d slept on rather than under. The mattress, mercifully, had been spared.

She stripped the bed, shoved the linens into a laundry bag, and peeled off her uniform. It went straight into the hamper. The shower was hot, fast, and necessary. When she emerged in a fresh uniform, she tossed the blankets into the old top-loader and prayed it would handle the weight. She needed to talk to Chick about getting a front loader with extra capacity. But not today.

Then she stepped into the living room—and stopped.

Trey, Trish, and Sheriff Goldman were seated around her small 1970s dining table, coffee cups in hand. Denise emerged from the kitchen with two plates, each bearing a hollowed-out sourdough round filled with steaming clam chowder. She set them down in front of Trish and Trey, then returned for two more.

“Sit down, Mom,” she said, placing a bowl in front of Fran and one in front of her grandfather. “Just like Aunt Sylvie makes—though I had to cheat on the sourdough.”

Goldman took a spoonful and smiled. “You’ve got that recipe down well.”

Fran sat, still blinking at the scene. The chowder was thick, creamy, and perfect. “I certainly didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Denise called,” Goldman said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Promised clam chowder and a chance to discuss the mysterious case that kept you out until dawn. I couldn’t pass up the chowder.”

Trey laughed. “So the case was just a bonus?”

“One has to have one’s priorities.”

Denise had disappeared into the kitchen, and Goldman turned to Fran. “She’s calling you Mom. That’s good. She hardly ever knew hers.”

Fran caught the slight hitch in his voice when he said she, but at least he was trying. That mattered.

Before she could respond, Denise returned with another plate and settled onto the sofa, balancing a TV tray in front of her. “Don’t mind me,” she said, slipping on a bone-conduction Bluetooth headset and tapping her phone. Fran could hear faint vibrations—just enough to catch snippets of whatever Denise was watching.

Most of the meal passed in easy conversation. No one wanted to talk about crime scenes while eating chowder.

Goldman asked about their time at the academy in LA. Trish and Trey swapped stories, and Fran chimed in now and then. The Sheriff raised his eyebrows when he learned that Trey and Fran had been roommates.

“I didn’t know they had co-ed dorms at the academy.”

“They don’t,” Fran said, spooning up another bite of chowder. “I didn’t look—quite like I do now.”

Goldman paused, studying her. Then he said, “Is that why you’re so good for…” He glanced toward Denise, lowering his voice and gesturing subtly.

Fran nodded. “Yes.”

Goldman took it in stride, giving a quiet nod of understanding.

Once they finished eating, at least to the amount that they could. Neither Trish nor Fran could get all the way through their bread. Fran said, “I looked at that pink envelope I found in the trash yesterday. It was a birthday card for Debra, although I don’t think she ever took the card out of the envelope.”

“Might have been seeing if it contained any money,” Goldman commented.

“You really think she was that shallow?” Trey wondered.

“You saw that house. Except for Reggie’s room, you could operate anywhere.”

“Someone tried,” Fran commented.

“Yeah, well,” Goldman agreed.

Trish leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “We stopped by the station before coming here. The envelope was postmarked Riverside. Return address said Ashley Bernard.”

Goldman’s brow furrowed. “Bernard. That’s Mitch’s last name, right?”

Fran nodded. “Could be a sister. Or someone using the name to get Debra’s attention.”

“Or her guard down,” Trey added.

Denise had taken the mostly empty plates into the kitchen, but now she reappeared, drying her hands on a dish towel. She sat down with her phone, scrolling for a moment before speaking. “Ashley Bernard has a LinkedIn profile. Looks like she’s a teenager. No mention of Mitch, but she’s got a connection to Spotless Solutions. She liked one of their posts last month.”

Goldman gave a low whistle. “That’s thin, but it’s something.”

Fran stood and retrieved her notebook from the sideboard. “I want to talk to her. If she sent that card, she might know more than she realizes.”

Denise raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s involved?”

Fran gave her a mock-stern look. “You know this is confidential information, young lady.”

Denise grinned. “Grandpa and I always talk about cases. He says it gives him a wider range of ideas.”

Goldman shrugged. “It does.”

Fran nodded. “Just keep whatever you hear confidential.”

“Always.”

Fran flipped open her notebook. “If she’s been in Riverside this whole time, I’m pretty sure she’s not involved. But we can’t be too careful.”

“What about Ginny?” Trey asked.

“We’ll need to talk about what Chick said,” Fran replied, “but first—were you able to do an autopsy?” She turned to Trish.

“I haven’t done either one,” Trish said. “But she’s gonna need to thaw out before I can do a proper postmortem.”

Fran was about to respond when a soft gasp came from Denise.

“Ginny Birdlander?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fran hesitated. Denise’s tone wasn’t just surprised—it was personal. Like she knew Ginny. Maybe they were even friends.

Sheriff Goldman stepped in gently. “I know you liked her, Denise. I’m sorry. Ginny was found dead yesterday morning. Chick found her.”

A tear slid down Denise’s cheek. “How did she die? You said she needs to thaw?”

Goldman nodded solemnly. “She was stuck in the walk-in freezer at her restaurant.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Fran asked. Denise’s face had gone completely white at the revelation.

“I had a crush on Ginny for a long time,” Denise said quietly. Then, after a breath, her voice steadied. “I’ll be okay.”

Goldman leaned forward, his tone gentle but firm. “Denise, I’ve got to tell you—there was no way she could’ve been stuck in there without someone barring the door from the outside.”

Denise nodded slowly. “I figured that. I’ve seen that done on TV. It’s not really possible.”

Fran turned to Goldman. “What can you tell me about the Birdlanders?”

“Why ask me?”

“Because you’ve been here a long time. And it looks like the land all around town was owned by your wife?”

“Yes. Then our daughter,” Goldman said. “It’s actually in trust for Denise, now. She takes possession when she turns twenty-five.”

“What?” Denise asked, eyes wide. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

“Yes,” Goldman said calmly. “I’m just managing the land right now. It’s actually yours.”

“But why isn’t it yours?” Denise asked.

Goldman smiled. “It was something your grandma set up. I’m not entirely sure why, but I certainly don’t mind it going to you. I’d be leaving it to you anyway, so why not get it now?”

He turned to Fran. “Gordon Berlander was our ranch manager. He’d worked for the Brightlys for years before that.”

Then he added, almost offhandedly, “As a matter of fact, his home—and the home Chick grew up in—was 133 East Washington Street.”

Fran nodded, jotting the address into her notebook. Then her eyes widened. She looked up sharply. “133 East Washington?”

“Yep.”

“This property?”

“This house,” Goldman confirmed.

“Wait a minute,” Fran said, sitting up straighter. “You said Berlander. Not Birdlander.”

Goldman chuckled. “Yeah. Chick’s real name is Charles—same as mine—but he always went by Chuck. In school, people started calling him Chuck Birdlander. I guess Berlander sounded close enough, and then Chick came about naturally. All the Birdlanders are actually Berlanders, which you’ll find if you search official records.”

He leaned back, warming to the story. “My understanding is that Chick decided to capitalize on being Chick Birdlander. You’ve seen how his wife, Birdie, leaned into it too. Her real name was Elizabeth.”

“So did Gordon ever own this house?”

“No. There wasn’t any need to. He had it until he died.”

“Ever wonder why you’ve got that opening in your garage into the alley and why your front door is your back door?”

“Not really,” Fran replied. “I like it, though. Gives a sense of privacy in the living room.”

“There is that,” Goldman said. “The actual reason is that the alley used to be Washington Road. It was the road that wound up the hill to where the church is.” He directed the last to Trey and Trish.” Your parsonage was the main house for a long time until my daughter and son-in-law built their house. Where the church sits is where the barn used to be.”

“What about The Bird’s Nest?” Trey wondered. “How long has it been there?”

“Oh wow,” Goldman exclaimed, trying to remember. “Highway 7 has been there for a long time. I think Chick built the motel for Birdie about fifty years ago.”

“How old is he now?” Fran wondered.

“Around seventy, if I remember right. I think that’s it. He’s a good ten years older than I am.”

“Wait a minute,” Trish said. “Chick built The Bird’s Nest at twenty? That would be expensive to a twenty year old.”

“Yeah, it was. And he built it with his own hands too. My understanding is he didn’t have help.”

“Where were you during all this?” Fran wondered.

“I lived in Grade. That's where the school system was at the time, so I saw Peg, Chick. Even Chick’s son Elroy when they were in school.”

“Do you know anything about Jaime Gutierrez?” Fran asked.

Denise suddenly exclaimed, “Why would Ginny leave him for Reggie? Why would she do that?" She shook her head, arms crossed like she was trying to hold herself together. "She knew what people would think."

Trish turned toward her, brow lifting slightly. "What do you mean?"

Denise stared out the window above Fran’s desk, past the bare trees and back fence. "There’s a line in this town," she said. "Between people who belong and people who try to change what they don’t understand. The locals? We don’t say it out loud, but we know who’s really from here. Who gets it."

Fran tilted her head, listening.

Denise hesitated. "Ginny was one of us. Her grandma built half this place with biscuits and kindness. But Reggie... he’s not like us. He’s new. He's not just from out of town—he acts like he’s from out of town. Big ideas. Fast opinions."

“What about Reggie, Denise?” Fran asked.

“I don’t know that much. We’re not in the same age group. Ginny was seven years older than me. Reggie’s another six.”

“Do you know much about Debra?”

Denise took on a look of distaste. “I know all I want to about her. She was just a little bit older than Ginny, so I knew her more than I do Reggie. Debra was just mean. Spotless Solutions came to the high school to talk about opportunities for students during summer and after school hours. Debra gave a talk, and when it came time to answer some questions, Andy Sherwood asked a question that she thought was dumb. She seemed to go out of the way to make him feel like he was 6 inches tall. Like I said. She was mean.”

Trish nodded. “I can corroborate that Debra was mean. She got a sprained ankle at a work site a few months ago and came to my office for treatment. Becca, one of my nurses, said Debra would have to wait, since she didn’t have an appointment. Or she could go to the ER in Smith’s Forge. Debra didn’t like that idea at all, I guess, so she mentioned a few things that Spotless Solutions had ‘noticed’ at the movie theater Becca’s brother managed. Becca moved some of my appointments around so Debra could get right in.”

“And Ginny was moving Reggie in,” Fran said gently.

Denise nodded, eyes wet. “I don’t understand it. She was smart. She knew what it meant—to choose someone like that. What it would feel like to all the people who loved her. It’s like she stepped out of the circle.”

Trey leaned forward, voice calm. “And maybe someone didn’t want her stepping out.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Fran went to answer it, and Chick stood there. She bade him to enter.

He stepped inside and saw who was present. He removed his hat and started to nervously work it with his fingers.

“What can I do for you, Chick?” Fran asked gently. She gestured for him to sit down on the sofa, but he shook his head no.

“I, well…” He paused, then his words came out in a rush. “Chief, ya just gotta find who did this. Ya know? Hell, sorry Revren’, it couldda been anyone. She ‘uz getting together with that big city boy, ya know. Folks around here don’ like ‘at. Someone mightta – you know – really not liked it.”

“You think it might have been a local?” Goldman asked.

Chick looked horrified at the thought, but he nodded. “I don’ like it, Sheriff. People ‘roun about here are good people. I just keep thinkin’ if someone din’ like Ginny gettin’ t‘gether with that big city boy, well.... What’d they do? How far might’n they go?”

Trey studied the older man closely, then said, “Chick, I’ve gotta ask. Do you have anyone in mind?”

Chick looked down. It was clear he didn’t like where his thoughts were going. “Well, Revren’; If I ‘uz t’ say, it’d just be my persnal ‘pinion, ya know? I don’ wanna be right.”

Fran kept her tone gentle as she said, “Chick, sometimes personal opinions point us in directions where we need to look. You don’t want to be right. I get that. If it’s someone you know and respect, you sure as the world don’t want to be right, but what if you are? We need to know where to look, either to clear someone or find they’re to blame.”

Chick nodded. “Ya’ all need to look at everyone. Whether they be local or big city transplants. It don’ matter who they are. If they killed my little Ginny, they need to pay the price. You look at the locals too, ya hear? Especially Jaime Gutierrez.”

Jaime Gutierrez again, thought Fran. She still had the search warrant for his home. She hadn’t been able to use it yet, but she needed to.

She definitely needed to.

Trey had been thinking. “Fran,” he said after a bit. “I think it could be arranged to have the locals over to the church tomorrow. Maybe have Chick talk to them about the necessity of telling the police anything they might know.”

“A town meeting?”

“Might help,” Trey asserted.

“I’d be willing to urge people to talk to ya’all,” Chick agreed.

Chapter 13

The theater was old and familiar. People filed in and sat where their parents had before them, and their parents before them. Fran, Trish, Trey, and Sheriff Goldman stood at the edge of the stage along with Chick Birdlander. It took a few minutes for everyone to file in, but Fran was grateful to see that it was an almost full house.

Chick went to the center of the stage. There wasn’t a podium or lectern, or anything like that. Instead, the man stood, once again with his hat in his hands, his graying, stringy hair sticking out on all sides of his head, wearing the overalls that were his trademark. He looked up at the people in attendance, taking them all in.

“Folks,” he said. “I’ve known most of you my whole life. Some of you since you were knee-high, some before that even. I never figured I’d be up here talkin’ about my granddaughter like this.”

“Ginny was ours. She belonged to this place—not just by birth, but by heart. She learned to fry eggs in the same pan her grandma did, cleaned rooms folks stayed in when they first built Venture. She knew our stories, our stubborn ways, our goodness...”

He stopped to let his words sink in. “And someone took her from us.”

Once more, Chick stopped speaking. There was a small murmur of agreement in the crowd. What he said hit home. Nobody was about to argue the fact.

“Now I’m gonna say something hard for me cause I’m mad... I’m hurt! I want to scream and throw things and hunt whoever did this down myself. I want to hurt them as much as they hurt me and my granddaughter! That’s what revenge is!”

“But justice...”

“Justice ain’t about how you feel. It’s about the truth. It’s about letting the Chief here, and her team, dig deep and clean it out—all of it. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s one of us!”

Another pause, but now the murmur sounded shocked. They could hardly conceive that one of them might be the one who killed Ginny.

“Revenge wants blood, but justice wants the truth, and a reckoning that fits, right?”

Nobody dared argue with Chick. They knew he was right. “So here’s what we need to do, so Ginny gets her justice. If you know something—anything—that might help these officers, you come forward. Don’t hide it behind old friendships or local pride.”

“It don’t matter if you were born on Brightly soil or moved in last year from Salt Lake. If you care about Ginny, you speak! You cooperate! Because silence? That only shows that we’re cowards. That we’re afraid to speak up where we need to.”

“Let these folks do their job. Help them do their job! Give them what they need. Don’t let my Ginny’s name hang in the air without justice behind it.”

“Thank you!”

He stood for a moment as if unsure what to do next. Then he stepped down from the platform.

The room erupted into the pandemonium until the sheriff stepped to the center of the stage. He held up his hands for silence and one by one, the voices died out.

“I know there’s been a division for a long time here. Ever since the Brightlys owned everything, and Venture was just a few buildings they rented to their hired hands. I know we’re a pretty well close knit people. But Chick’s right. We need to let the people who are supposed to do their job, do it. As one of them, I promise that we will find whoever did this. You’ve got my word on that.”

As Sheriff Goldman stepped back to the side of the platform, the room erupted again. People were upset. They were being asked -- no told -- to cooperate with the police on the off chance one of them were the culprit. It sat well outside what they considered propriety.

But then, Jaime Gutierrez stood up. He had been Ginny’s steady boyfriend for years, until the big city boy, Reggie Thompson, came to town.

“What do you want from us?” Jaime yelled. “I’ll give you whatever you need! I want whoever did this found!”

Fran stepped to the center of the platform. “And you are?”

“Jaime Gutierrez,” the young man said. “Ginny was my girlfriend!”

Nobody argued with him. It was well known that she had been moving Reggie into her place, but it was also well known that the handsome Reggie had overwhelmed her with his suavity and charm. The general consensus was that Ginny had made a mistake, and that she would eventually see that and return to Jaime.

-=#=-

The next day at the police station, the four law enforcement officials sat talking about the meeting the night before.

What Chick had said to the community hit them like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. The people did not like the idea that any one of them could be responsible, but they also realized that the police had to turn over every stone and consider every possibility, or justice wouldn’t be done.

“That room went through the stages of grief in a hurry,” Trey observed. “They skipped a couple and substituted a couple, but it was quick.”

“They started out with anger,” Fran said, “but they seemed to circle back to there.”

“Well,” Trish said, agreeing with her husband, “They started with anger, went through depression, denial, and bargaining, then acceptance.”

“Not exactly in the way we would have liked,” Trey said.

“No, but I’ll take it,” Goldman said. “Anger and depression that she was killed, denial that they did it, bargaining with us… They’d be questioned if we wouldn’t accuse them, then acceptance that they’d have to help us.”

“What do you know,” Fran said grinning. “They didn’t miss any.”

“No,” Goldman said, sobering. “I can empathize with them, though. This county has been a cohesive organism since forever. To think that a part of that organism can’t be trusted…” Something in his voice struck Fran as if he understood that more than he let on.

“I get it, Sheriff, but if we don’t cover every base, even if we catch the culprit, we can’t guarantee a conviction.”

“You're preaching to the choir, Chief. I agree, but I see their side too.”

Trish nodded. “It’s hard to think that someone you’ve known your entire life is capable of murder.”

Sheriff Goldman nodded slowly and somberly. “Yes,” he murmured.

Trey looked at him strangely. “Are you okay, Charlie?” he asked, using the Sheriff's first name, something rarely done by anyone but his closest friends.

Sheriff Goldman looked quickly, startled really, at Trey. Then he smiled. “Yeah. I think so. Just some reminders from years ago.”

“Sheriff,” Trey pressed, “I don’t want to pry. Ross and Parker. That’s one thing. They’re outsiders. But Ginny. She’s from here. She’s part of that cohesive organism that makes up this county. There are liable to be a lot of reminders. Are you sure you want to work on this case?”

“This case is personal for me. In fact, it’s just as personal for me as it is for Chick.”

Fran suddenly wondered if she should have done a little more research on the Birdlanders.

“Lizbeth, Elroy's wife and Ginny’s mother, is the product of a dalliance I had before I married Peg.”

Fran’s face took on a stern look. “Sheriff, don’t you think you should have told us before now?”

“What was I supposed to say, Chief? Chelsea never let anyone know who Lizbeth’s father was. You won’t even find that on your computer.”

“Does Lizbeth know?” Fran asked, her voice a bit softer.

“If she does, she hides it real well. I don’t think Chelsea wanted people to look down on her or me. Peg and I were high school sweethearts, and it was just the one time when we both got drunk.”

He paused and mopped his brow. “I was so plastered I don’t even remember what happened. I woke up the next morning in her bed with a horrible headache. That was the last time I drank alcohol. Any alcohol.”

Fran nodded. “Please, Sheriff. If it starts to get too much, let us know.”

“I’m willing to listen, if you need to talk, Sheriff,” Trey offered.

“I’ll let you know,” Goldman replied.

-=#=-

Sheriff Goldman excused himself soon after his revelation. He said he needed to make sure Wagner and Carlson were doing their jobs properly, but the general consensus was that he needed to regroup after the emotional morning.

Fran suddenly realized she was getting hungry, and grabbed her phone.

“Hey, Mel,” she said after dialing. “Can I get some sandwiches dropped off at the police station?”

She listened a moment, then said, “Sure. I need a BLT with everything on a hoagie roll, a tuna fish done the same way, and then I’d love one of your chicken salads. And can you add some leaf lettuce and if you’ve got some walnuts to mix in?”

After a moment she said, “Pecans should work fine… Yeah, Denise made one that way for me, and it was delicious. Oh! And some pepperjack cheese on it?”

A moment later, “Thanks Mel! Put it on the department tab. Oh, yeah. A couple of two liters of Doctor Pepper would be great.”

“Hungry?” Trey asked after she hung up the phone.

She gave him a dirty look. “Should I call back and cancel your BLT?”

“No… No…” he laughed. “It’s just amusing how you assume we’re hungry too.”

“Like I said, I can call back and cancel yours.”

“He’s hungry,” Trish said, “and so am I, so knock it off, Trevor!”

His expression said he’d elicited the responses he wanted, and he gave Trish a mock salute and said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Once their food arrived, they followed their usual routine of not talking shop till the food was safely down. Then, Trey commented, “I was very interested in Jaime’s outburst. He called Ginny his girlfriend, but that wasn’t entirely true.”

“No,” Trish agreed, “but I get the impression people felt that she would lose interest in the outsider and return to Jaime.”

“So you think,” Fran ventured, “that people considered this interlude with Reggie to be simply a roll in the hay?”

“Yes,” Trish agreed. “They’d had an argument, and split up.”

“What was their argument about?”

“Well, it seems Ginny was looking for a proposal and Jaime didn’t give it soon enough.”

Trey was confused. “So she dumps him for a guy who probably just wants casual sex?”

“What better way to force Jaime’s hand,” Fran commented.

“Seems like that’s what was going on,” Trish said.

Trevor looked at his wife. “How do you know all of this?”

“We don’t spread margarine,” she said.

“We spread gossip,” Fran continued.

“Right,” Trey said. “The gossip chain.”

Chapter 14

The next day, the weather couldn’t seem to make up its mind. Snow was falling again. One day it was forty degrees and melting; the next, twenty-five and frozen solid.

Snowbanks had grown so high it was hard to see traffic around corners. The plows had done their best to push it back, but there was nowhere left to put it.

Trish entered the police station and shook the snow off her coat. For safety’s sake, she’d walked the ten blocks from the parsonage, so she looked like a snow creature until she shook herself out.

She pulled an envelope from her inside pocket, hung up her coat, and stamped her boots, shedding a considerable amount of whiteness.

Fran, watching from her desk, raised an eyebrow.

“Mop’s right beside the coat rack,” she said, smiling.

“Uh huh,” Trish replied, retrieving the tool and swabbing up the worst of the water.

“What’s that?” Fran asked, pointing at the envelope Trish still had clutched in her hand.

“Autopsy reports on both Ginny and Debra.”

“I assumed Ginny froze and Debra fell apart,” the police chief said.

“A generally accurate assessment,” Trish replied. “Specifics are lacking, however.”

“Do the specifics matter?”

“Unfortunately yes,” Trish said, pulling up a chair in front of Fran’s desk. She pulled the papers out of the envelope and set them on the desk, in front of Fran.

Fran looked at the papers like they might bite. She unfolded them slowly, as if each crease held something she didn’t want to know.

Ginny had absolutely no injuries on her body. No contusions, no defensive wounds. She had simply frozen in the restaurant’s walk-in freezer.

“No fighting? No struggle?”

“She simply froze,” Trish confirmed. “There is bruising on her hands, but it doesn’t look like it was from a fight. It looks more like she was banging on the door, hoping someone would hear her.”

“But the door latch wasn’t broken! It wasn’t jammed! How did it happen?”

Trish nodded. “Trey went by the restaurant and took a picture of the latch.” She manipulated her phone and a moment later, Fran’s beeped. “Take a look at that.”

Fran looked. “I don’t see… wait a minute.” She zoomed the picture in and there it was. The metal looked like it had had a tool wedged in it. It had been pushed on. Hard! The metal was bent, but it hadn’t broken. “It looks like something was jammed in there to keep it from opening.”

Trish nodded, her face solemn. “It looks like someone waited until she fell unconscious, then removed whatever they’d put in there. Then, they left her for dead.”

Sickened, Fran set that report off to the side, then looking at Trish for some kind of emotion, she grabbed the other report. Trish was apparently not going to tell her anything with body language, and that made Fran even more afraid of what she was going to find. Trish might seem completely unemotional when doing her work, but Fran knew that wasn’t the case. She knew that now that when her friend was done with her investigations, she would display the emotions she hadn’t allowed before. She still wasn’t allowing it, and that frightened Fran.

She looked at the report and read.

Cause of death: 8-inch kitchen knife to the heart. Penetrated right atrium.
Missing left pinkie: removed before death. Mangled finger found in garbage disposal.
Wire cutters found under counter: match cut marks on pinkie.
Missing right foot: removed before death. Meat cleaver used. Foot found in trash compactor.
Missing tongue: removed before death. Found in garbage disposal. Appears to have been removed with several bites from wire cutters.

Fran stared at the page, her stomach turning. “Anything else?”

Trish didn’t blink. “Rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Likely from the ropes we found binding them.”

Fran looked around the room, as if Reggie might materialize from the shadows. “Where’s Reggie?”

Before Trish could answer, the sound of tires squeaking in the snow broke the silence. The engine revved once, then cut off. A car door slammed. Footsteps crunched around the side of the building.

The door opened, and Trey stepped inside, dusted in snow like a man-shaped snowdrift. He paused, dripping, then began the same ritual his wife had performed minutes earlier—shaking out his coat, stamping his boots.

Trish didn’t look up. “There’s a mop by the coat rack,” she said.

Trey smiled faintly and dutifully mopped up the water, then stepped toward Fran’s desk.

“Are those the reports?” he asked, nodding at the papers Fran had just read.

Trish gathered them without a word and handed them to her husband. Then, she folded her arms and stared at the floor.

“Read at your own risk,” Fran murmured, her voice thin.

Trey glanced up, catching the horror still etched in her eyes. His own expression tightened, and he looked down reluctantly. Partway through Ginny’s report, he moved to a chair and sank into it slowly, the paper still in his hands, his face carved with infinite sadness.

When he reached Debra’s report, he stopped midway and whispered, “Dear Lord.”

He looked away, blinking hard, tears threatening to spill. After a long pause, he turned back to the page—reluctant, but resolute.

Trey didn’t speak at first. He set the forms in his lap and stared out the window at the falling snow. The whiteness blurred the world beyond, softening the edges of everything. He let it clear his mind for a moment, then said quietly, “We still need to look at Jaime’s house.”

“It’s kinda late,” Trish commented.

Fran shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a crime scene. More a repository of information.”

They got into Trey’s Blazer and dropped Fran off to get her trusty F150, and they made their way across town to Jaime Gutierrez’s home.

When Jaime opened the door, Fran showed the court order, signed by Jaime’s grandfather. Surprisingly, Jaime didn’t comment on his grandfather’s signature; instead, he invited them in.

As they filed in, Jaime asked, “Is there any way I can help you? Show you where anything’s located?”

Trey nodded. “Where are your tools?”

Jaime led him toward the garage, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood.

Fran and Trish lingered in the living room. The place was neat but lived in—books stacked on the coffee table, a pair of hiking boots by the door, a mug left on the windowsill with a tea bag still steeping.

Debra’s house had been sterile, like a showroom. Reggie’s had been a whirlwind of clutter and noise. But Jaime’s—and Ginny’s—felt relaxed. Unpretentious.

Fran took it in slowly, her eyes moving from the worn armchair to the faded quilt draped over the back of the couch. There was no performance here. No curated image.

In this particular matter, she thought, Ginny and Jaime were of a type. People who lived with their guard down. People who didn’t expect to be watched.

On the mantelpiece, beside an anniversary clock, sat a framed picture of Jaime and Ginny sitting on a bench in the town square of Grade. The photo was candid, and it appeared that they were sharing a lunch packed in a basket sitting beside Ginny. Both were clearly enjoying themselves. Fran felt a pang. The moment had been real.

She looked back at the anniversary clock. Whose anniversary? she wondered.

It was a real clock, not battery-powered. She picked it up carefully, not wanting to disturb the time. On the glass dome at the back, written in permanent marker, was a note:

For our 15th anniversary. I love you always, Ginny.

At that moment, Jaime stepped back through the connecting door from the garage. He saw Fran holding the clock, her eyes on the inscription.

“Fifteenth anniversary?” she asked, gently. “Ginny was only twenty-four.”

Jaime smiled, sadly. “We decided, in puppy love I suppose, when she was nine and I was ten, that we’d be friends always. When she turned fifteen, we decided we’d get married when we could afford it.”

Trish tilted her head. “And what do you do for a living?”

“I work for the road department.”

Fran hesitated, then asked, “Why did you split up?”

She watched his face closely, wanting to see if Trish’s understanding had been correct.

Jaime looked down at the floor. “I wanted to be able to support her myself.”

“You can’t with a job at the road department?” Fran asked.

“Yes, I can. But I was building a house in the country, between here and Grade. I wanted to finish it, then maybe rent this one out.”

Trish frowned. “What about Ginny’s place in The Bird’s Nest?”

Jaime hesitated. “My little brother needed a job. I thought he could stay there, take care of the place.”

“She didn’t like that idea?” Fran asked.

“She didn’t want me to waste my money on a house.” He paused, voice thickening. “It was going to be my wedding present for her. But she wanted to keep her grandmother’s legacy alive.”

“Birdie was an icon around here,” Trish said softly.

Jaime nodded, eyes distant. “I know. If I could do it all over again, I’d support her at the motel till my dying day.”

Trey had wandered into the hallway and turned into a room that was clearly used as an office and library. Books lined the shelves in uneven stacks—some well-worn, some pristine.

On the desk sat a notepad, its top sheet blank but etched with the faint indentations of recent writing. Trey picked it up, tilting it toward the light. The pen marks were deep—angry, maybe desperate.

He glanced into the wastebasket beside the desk. The original, a wadded-up sheet of paper sat near the top, stained and crumpled. He reached in carefully and unfolded it. The ink had bled slightly in places, and the stains looked suspiciously like tears.

Depression, then anger, he thought, recalling the conversation about the stages of grief. And maybe bargaining, too.

He smoothed the page out on the desk, careful not to tear the softened edges. The handwriting was uneven, rushed in places, but legible. He read silently, the words pressing into him like weight.

Dear Ginny,

I don’t know how to apologize for what I said yesterday. I guess it’s pride that makes me want to support you all myself.

I hate for you to have to work so hard at the motel and the restaurant. You always seem so exhausted and I hate to see that.

But I see how much you want to keep Birdie’s memory and legacy alive, and you’re the only one who can do that.

Let’s get married as quick as Reverend Grant can do it. You do what you want with the motel and restaurant. If that means you keep running both, working as hard as you have, I’m proud of you. I’m proud to marry you!

I love you always!

Your Honey, Jaime

Trey exhaled slowly, folding the letter with care. He stared at the wastebasket for a moment, as if it might offer an answer.

Why hadn’t Jaime given it to her?

He stepped back into the hallway, letter in hand, and made his way toward the living room. Fran and Trish looked up as he entered.

“Jaime,” Trey said, his voice steady but low, “why didn’t you deliver this?”

He held the letter out to Fran, but his eyes were on Jaime. He knew Jaime would recognize it.

Jaime’s breath caught. His eyes began to shine with tears.

“I was going to,” he said, voice cracking. “I went to the motel the next day, after we broke up. I had the letter in my pocket.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“But she was in the office. With Reggie. They were… necking. Laughing. Like I’d never existed.”

He looked down, ashamed. “I couldn’t take it. I ran out. I didn’t even say a word.”

“So you gave up?” Trish asked, her voice edged with disbelief. “Why didn’t you fight for her?”

Jaime looked down, shoulders sagging. “How could I fight with him? He’s a big city dude. I’m a road worker.”

Trish didn’t flinch. “Fifteen years of being with her,” she said, each word deliberate. “That means a lot.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “It certainly did to me.”

Chapter 15

On the way back to the police station, Fran mulled things over. They had found nothing more of interest. Trey had searched the garage for a tool that might have been used to jam the freezer door, but came up empty.

The letter, Fran had confiscated to check for any trace evidence. She doubted it would hold anything beyond Jaime’s fingerprints—maybe a smudge from the paper mill or the notebook manufacturer. Still, it was worth checking.

His grief had seemed painfully real to her, and she suspected Trish and Trey felt the same.

As she replayed the scene, Fran found herself agreeing with Trish’s words—but not her delivery. Trish had been right, but she could have been gentler. Then again, when Trish was on a case, empathy often flew out the window.

One thing Fran was certain of: if Jaime were ever charged, she would make sure the letter was available to his counsel. She was that sure of his innocence.

As Fran pulled into the station lot, she considered her next move. First priority: find Ashley Bernard.

Trey and Trish had gone home—Trey to work on his sermon for Sunday, though Fran doubted he’d get much done. He’d be mulling the case over, same as she was.

Inside the station, the phone was ringing. She hurried to answer, but by the time she picked up the receiver, it was already a dial tone.

A moment later, her cell rang.

She snatched it up, but again—nothing. No voice. Just silence.

I wish people would wait just a bit longer so I could answer the forward. It was a pet peeve – calls that vanished just as she answered, leaving her with that vague sense of missed urgency.

The voicemail notification pinged.

She sighed and tapped play.

Ashley Bernard!

“Chief Smith, I’m Ashley Bernard.

What’s going on? Reggie Thompson—he’s my uncle—just called and said he’s no longer in Venture. He told me Debra, my aunt, was killed. And now he’s on the run because he doesn’t want to be blamed for it.

I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

She left her number, which Fran quickly called.

“Miss Bernard, I’m Fran Smith, the police chief of Venture.”

“Thank you for calling back,” Ashley responded.

“You’re welcome. I was just about to try to find your number, so I’m glad you reached out.”

“Can you explain what’s happening? What happened to my aunt?”

“Debra was murdered, Miss Bernard.”

There was silence on the line. Then, very quietly: “How?”

Fran sighed. This wasn’t something she wanted to get into over the phone, but she figured the woman’s family deserved answers.

“I think I should speak with your mother first. Can you give me her number?”

“My mother is dead, Chief Smith. I live alone.”

“Oh. I was under the impression you were a teenager.”

The response came sharp and defensive. “I am! I’m seventeen, but I’m emancipated. I had problems with my mother. She was always trying to control my life—telling me who I could date and stuff. So I left.”

“I see,” Fran replied, her tone stiffening.

“Yes,” the girl went on, “I got along much better with Aunt Debra. She didn’t care what I did, or who I saw.”

She didn’t care about anything, Fran thought. Not about Ashley, anyway. She only cared about herself.

But she kept that to herself.

Her voice was quiet, deliberate. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ashley. Debra wasn’t just killed. She was mutilated.”

The silence from the other end of the line stretched long enough for Fran to ask, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” came the reply, almost a whisper.

Fran hesitated. The girl sounded shaken, but it was hard to tell—grief could be quiet, or calculated.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” she said gently. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this over the phone.”

Ashley didn’t respond.

Fran glanced at the notepad in front of her, where she’d scribbled Debra’s name, the time of death, and a few unsettling details she hadn’t yet shared. She tapped her pen against the edge, debating how much more to say.

“Do you have someone you can talk to?” she asked. “A friend, maybe?”

Still nothing.

Then, finally: “I don’t know.”

Instead of continuing, Fran decided to let the details rest for now. The girl sounded fragile, and pushing further might do more harm than good.

Let her absorb what she’s already heard, Fran thought. If she needs the specifics later, Trey might be the one to explain.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said, her voice softening. “And if you think of anything—anything at all—you can call me anytime.”

Ashley murmured something that might have been “okay,” but it was hard to tell.

Fran ended the call and sat back in her chair, staring at the receiver for a moment longer than necessary. The silence in her office felt heavier now; Ashley’s whisper had carried the immense weight of grief.

She reached for the case file and flipped it open. The crime scene photos stared back—brutal, unforgiving. Mutilated. The word felt sterile, inadequate. It didn’t capture the violence, the intent.

And all the way in Riverside, California, a seventeen-year-old girl was sitting alone with that knowledge.

-=#=-

The next day, Fran called Trey. He answered quickly and put her on speaker so Trish could listen in.

Fran filled them in on her conversation with Ashley.

“So where’s Reggie?” Trey asked.

“That’s the ninety-nine-thousand-dollar question,” Fran replied. “We need to talk to Mitch again—see if he’s got any idea where Reggie might go.”

“I agree,” Trish said. “We should also get a search warrant for Mitch’s house and Spotless Solutions.”

“Why?” Trey asked.

Trish hesitated – just long enough to make it interesting. “Just a hunch.”

“A hunch isn’t enough to get a search warrant,” Fran reminded her.

“No, but Spotless Solutions seems to be the nexus for the Möbius disappearances, and – maybe these two.”

“I agree with the Möbius cases,” Fran said, doubt creeping into her voice, “but I’m not sure about these.”

“No,” Trey mused, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “But if we find something there that points to Debra’s murder, or Reggie’s—or Ginny’s—then one of us can run to get a warrant while the others stay behind. Keep searching.”

Trish leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And if we’re done searching?”

Trey didn’t look at her. “We won’t be if we find anything like that.”

A beat.

“Even if we are,” he added, “we won’t be.”

Trish stared at him, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, not awkward but weighted—like something sacred was being negotiated.

Then she nodded. Just once.

It was on the edge of gray, but she approved.

Not because she didn’t see the line.

Because she knew why they might need to cross it.

They couldn’t let anything vital be destroyed while they were gone.

Chapter 16

Trey drove to Grade to prevail upon Judge Gutierrez.

The road was quiet, as people didn’t seem to want to travel with the heavy snowfall. He rehearsed the facts in his mind, careful to keep emotion out of his voice when he arrived.

At the courthouse, he reassured the old man that—for now—they had no reason to believe Jaime was guilty of any murder. He explained the link between Spotless Solutions and the cases, including Ginny’s. They’d cleaned the motel. That was enough.

Judge Gutierrez listened, his lined face unreadable. Then he nodded, signed the warrant, and handed it over with a quiet, “Good luck.”

Trey started back toward Venture, the snowfall still thick, the road still quiet.

Just before he passed The Bird’s Nest, a car surged up behind him and began to overtake. It passed at a reckless speed—far too fast for the conditions.

As it flew by, Trey caught a glimpse of the driver: short red hair, glasses, a gold blazer.

Millie Brooks!

Where had she been?

A wall of snow sprayed up from her tires, blinding his windshield. Trey stomped on the brakes. The anti-lock system kicked in, pulsing beneath his foot, but the road ahead curved—and he couldn’t see where.

His speed dropped sharply. Then, slowly, the car slid down the embankment and into the ditch. He pulled out his phone and quickly dialed the sheriff’s office.

“I just saw Millie Brooks’s car on Highway 7. Can you let the sheriff know so he can put out an APB?”

“This is Wagner, Reverend. Sheriff Goldman left a few minutes ago, but I’ll call him after I put out the APB.”

“That sounds good. Can you also call the road department? She ran me off the road.”

Wagner paused. Trey thought he might’ve heard a snicker in the younger man’s voice, but he wasn’t sure—so he let it pass.

“The road department’s pretty swamped, Reverend, but I can call Chick for you.”

“At least let them know not to plow me in.”

“You got it, Reverend.”

About half an hour later, Chick pulled up in an antique tow truck that looked like Mater from the movie Cars.

As long as it’s got the power to pull me out, Trey thought.

Like all of Chick’s vehicles, the truck had plenty of power—and then some. Chains wrapped around the tires, even the steering. Chick set the brakes, hooked up the winch, and began the pull.

The winch whined, and the cable snapped taut. Trey stepped back, boots crunching in the snow. He exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping his keys.

Trey’s blazer groaned, then rose slowly from the ditch, snow packed into the undercarriage.

“There you go, Rev’ren. Wanna ride with me into town so I can check it out before you try to drive it?”

Trey sighed. “Yeah. Probably a good idea. You got a loaner I can borrow? I’ve got to get to Spotless Solutions—need to serve a search warrant ASAP.”

“I got a loaner, yeah, but ya ain’t gonna like it.”

Trey eyed the jack-of-all-trades. “What is it?”

Chick grinned. “1988 Yugo.”

Trey grimaced. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Chick said, still smiling. “Gonna soup it up. Jus’ haven’t got ’round to it yet.”

Once they arrived at the garage, Chick led Trey out through a back roll-up door.

The Yugo sat under a tarp. Chick brushed the snow off with a broom, then they tugged the canvas free.

Faded red paint peeled like sunburned skin. One headlight drooped slightly, as if embarrassed.

“Where’d you get it?” Trey asked as Chick tugged the driver’s side door open.

“eBay. Some’un was sellin’ it for next t’ nothin’, and I thought it’d be fun to fix up.”

“Aren’t you afraid of driving it around here?” I certainly am, Trey thought.

“Naw. Never ‘appen. I’m gonna put it back on eBay—auction it off.”

Chick slid the key into the ignition. The engine barely turned over. He popped the hood and hurried into the garage. A moment later, he returned with a jump box.

He hooked it up, flipped the switch, and climbed back behind the wheel. The engine turned over at a decent speed, but Trey wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or concerned.

Finally, it roared to life—roar being the operative word. The muffler clearly had a hole in it.

Chick got out and held out a hand, inviting Trey to take the wheel.

Gingerly, Trey did just that, half afraid the seat might collapse—or jab him with a broken spring.

He put it in gear and tried to move, but the tires seemed frozen to the ground after a partial thaw.

Chick bellowed for Elroy, and somehow the man heard him over the engine’s racket. They both got behind the little car and began rocking it as Trey applied power, then let off.

Reluctantly, the car broke free—but immediately spun. Trey threw it into park and climbed out.

He crouched beside the front tire. Dear Lord, he thought. They’re almost bald.

“You sure this thing’s roadworthy?”

Chick shrugged. “She’s got character.”

“She’s definitely got that,” Trey said as he got in again.

Somehow they got the thing into the garage where Chick stopped him.

“Couldn’t you have inspected my car by now?” Trey wondered.

“Elroy did. What’s wrong, Elroy?” Chick replied.

“Hit the drive shaft when it went off the road, Dad. Bent it all to He… ck. Looks like the transfer case cracked too.”

“We got some chains that’ll fit this lil’ matchbox?” Chick bellowed to Elroy.

“I think so,” his son responded. “Let me go check.”

Trey shut off the engine. He was getting impatient, but Chick was right. His Blazer was crippled, and the Yugo—absurd as it looked—was his only shot. Snow was coming, and chains were non-negotiable.

A moment later, Elroy returned with, of all things, four cable chains. “They’re all we got,” he said apologetically when Trey frowned at them.

Trey had experience with cables. If they weren’t tight enough, the rollers under the tire had a tendency to shift and skate, making the car spin just as if it had no chains at all—useless on ice, dangerous on a grade.

Chick seemed to read his mind and grabbed some industrial-strength bungee cords from the workbench. He laid the cable chains out in front of the little car, then waved Trey forward.

The Yugo crept onto the cables with a whine of protest. Chick crouched, clipped the ends together, and called out, “Elroy! Tighten these up.”

Elroy, a mountain of a man, knelt beside each tire. With a grunt and a twist, he cinched the chains so tight they looked welded to the rubber. They wouldn’t budge unless someone wanted them to.

“Elroy,” Trey muttered, “don’t ever ask me to arm-wrestle you.”

Four chains didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but it certainly helped.

-=#=-

Trey carefully maneuvered the little car out of the garage and onto the highway. The road was compact snow, but it had ice underneath. He wondered if the car was heavy enough to break through to the ice. He hoped not.

As he picked up speed, the wind picked up too, swirling snow across the windshield in erratic gusts. Trey leaned forward, squinting through the blur, the Yugo’s wipers squeaking like a hardwood floor that needed tightening.

He tried the heater, but it wheezed like his Aunt Penelope, right before she died of lung cancer. He slapped the dash, hoping to speed up the fan. He did. Unfortunately. Dust suddenly exploded out of the defrost and heater vents, and he found himself coughing – just like Aunt Penelope.

The windshield fogged up instantly, a thin film of grime smeared across the inside glass. Trey pulled the sleeve of his coat over his hand and wiped a small circle clear, muttering, “Visibility optional.”

The Yugo rattled over a patch of ice, tires skittering just enough to make his stomach drop. He eased off the gas, coaxing the car back into line.

Spotless Solutions wasn’t far, but in this weather, every mile felt like a negotiation.

He found the turnoff into town and tried to slow down, but the Yugo didn’t have anti-lock brakes—something he realized a second too late. The wheels locked, and the car thumped over the curb, skidding sideways onto the sidewalk. It plowed into a snowbank, then bounced back onto the street with just enough momentum to keep going. The impact jarred his teeth, and he felt the sharp pain from them removing a chunk of skin inside his lower lip.

He tasted blood and winced, but didn’t slow down. The Yugo rattled forward like it had something to prove.

Trey gripped the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the quiet storefronts. Spotless Solutions was just ahead.

He didn’t know what he’d find inside.

But he knew what he was hoping for: answers. Or at least a reason why Millie Brooks had come flying out of nowhere like a ghost with a guilty conscience.

He hoped Trish and Fran had found better driving conditions. He called Trish.

She answered immediately. “How’d the Blazer hold up?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I’m almost to Spotless—sans the Blazer.”

“Chick had a loaner?”

“Sort of.”

“What are you driving?”

He sighed as the Yugo blew through a stop sign, its tires refusing to grip. “A crumpled red Coke can.”

“What?” Trish asked.

“A 1988 Yugo.”

Spotless Solutions loomed ahead. Fran’s F-150 was parked out front, and Trish gaped at him from the passenger seat, her expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right?” Fran called out.

“Gangway!” Trey shouted. “I’m coming in for a landing.”