I toss the dishes onto the rack, water splashing across the counter. A few stubborn suds cling to the plates, but I let them be. Usually, my OCD would have me scrubbing them until they’re spotless, but not today. It’s barely nine in the morning, and I’m already drained. My arms feel heavy, my legs weak, and a tightness coils in my chest. Something’s off, but I can’t pin it down. “Stress, maybe? Exhaustion? Or is it something else? Perhaps I need to eat something to make everything feel normal again.”

I sip my smoothie, and bile rises in my throat. A wave of heat creeps across my skin, my breath growing shallow. “Could this be Baby Blues? Or am I dying?” I crack open the window, desperate for fresh air. It’s paradise out there - trees swaying, leaves rustling, and dappled light dancing through the woods. Usually, I’d soak in this view for hours, but not today. Not for days now. “How many? Three days? Four? It’s all blurring together. What the hell is happening to me?”

My mouth is dry. I need something to drink. I force another sip of the smoothie. It churns in my stomach, and my esophagus burns like I swallowed acid. I shove the cup into the fridge and grab a water bottle. Gulping it down, the cold feels like life, but it doesn’t ease the gnawing in my gut.

Then I feel it - someone behind me, watching. I don’t startle… I know who it is.

I turn slowly, expecting... something. But not this.

A gun. Pointing to my face.

My brain goes blank. This has to be some sick joke. I shift my gaze from the gun to the face behind it. Our eyes meet, and I instantly realize it - this’s not a joke. That look is pure evil. This is happening.

“What are you doing?” I try to sound brave, but my voice is nothing more than a whisper. “This isn’t funny…”

The response is icy, slicing through the air. “Making the world a better place, bitch.”

I knew it would happen someday - I just knew. Funny enough, my body sensed the threat long before I did, and that’s why it’s been acting up.

I glance out the window, searching for help, but there’s no one. Where’s Rocky? Man, I haven’t thought about him in days. “Is he mad? Did he sense the threat and leave me? No way - dogs never abandon you. He’s probably as trapped as I am.” I want to scream, but my throat seizes up. Tears blur my vision, and I blink them away, trying to think.

Then that voice again, calm but cutting, “You know what makes betrayal hurt the most?”

I shake my head, biting my lip to keep from sobbing.

“It’s always the ones you trust.”

Silence. I want to talk… stall for time… but my vocal cords are paralyzed.

“We shall believe no one here. Do you know why?”

I remain silent, my pulse drumming in my ears.

A chuckle, familiar and terrifying, breaks the quiet. “Because we all lie here.”

My body goes rigid, accepting fate. I close my eyes as I see the fingers tightening on the trigger.

Then, the gun fires.

Everything goes dark.

July 18, 2023

Chapter 1

In the solitude of the patio, I cradle a cup of coffee, settling into the lounge chair with my legs up. A dark-eyed junco perches on the red cedar at the far end of the backyard, letting out a playful tee-hee. I’m convinced she’s mocking my late rise. It’s 11 am - a bit late for my usual first coffee. The direct swig of vodka from the bottle proved to be a regrettable choice. It led to a sixteen-hour sprawl in bed and a hangover that still lingers. But really, who cares? This is my first week of freedom since I met Natasha. With her gone, I can finally do as I please. I blow into the coffee, and as the bubbles retreat, I take a contented sip.

“I’m breathing freedom after seven long years. S-e-v-e-n l-o-n-g y-e-a-r-s,” I emphasize each word. “Do you know what it feels like to slurp your coffee without anyone around to stop you? It tastes like pure freedom,” I declare to the bird, almost yelling. It whistles, summoning a partner, and they both perch on the verdant grass beneath the red cedar, exchanging warbles. I leave their avian affairs behind and refocus on my thoughts.

Even though I held a position of authority at work, everything at home hinged on Natasha’s approval. The difficulty lay in her unpredictable expectations - meals, TV time, socializing with her friends, or anything else. Eating chips was a sign of poor life choices, but opting for veggies meant I was obsessing over dieting. Chatting with Hailey, her best friend, was seen as flirtatious, and avoiding her was considered rude. Everything about me, what I said or did, annoyed her, down to how I breathed.

“There’s this rattling sound when you exhale. Try to breathe gently,” she once advised, rolling away from my cuddle. When her advice didn’t magically fix my noisy breathing, she did what she always did - consulted Google and suggested, “You might want to check with your doctor to see if you have asthma.”

I laughed it off, thinking, “Hell, yeah! Like, I wouldn’t know if I had asthma.”

However, I still saw a respiratory therapist, a general physician, and a pulmonologist to keep the peace at home. The treatments continued until both she and the pulmonologist decided I didn’t need inhalers anymore - just breathing exercises. That was Natasha - controlling and inconsiderate. I’m glad she left, and I knew I deserved a celebration. So, I took this impromptu vacation - a five-day escape to savour my first taste of freedom.

Miles hesitated to approve my leave during our meeting at the police headquarters yesterday. “I saw your email,” he admitted, uneasily tapping his fingers on the desk. He looked flustered, caught off guard by my unexpected visit. I stood silent, watching him turn red. “I saw your email,” he repeated, fumbling for a convincing answer. “You can’t take that much leave without prior notice when working on a case. That’s why I didn’t respond.”

“Mrs. Moore’s case!” I smirked. Mrs. Moore’s missing person case, an investigation nearly as old as I am, had been cold for over twenty-five years. It was reopened last month when they thought they found a lead. “You do realize that with no DNA, evidence, or body, we’re stuck in the dark and can’t solve her case after all these years, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re in charge of this investigation,” he said, eyes glued to the computer screen, seemingly fixated on a letter he’d never finished.

“You forced me into it. I never wanted to. I knew I didn’t possess the superpowers to pluck Mrs. Moore’s abductor from thin air,” I snapped.

“Well, I had and still have faith in you. You’ve never let me down.” He raised his eyes and glanced at me momentarily, gauging if his flattery had any effect and if I forgave him for not responding to my email. “What I’m saying is that granting this leave to you at this time is not something that I can author-”

“Can’t authorize?” I chuckled as if he had cracked a joke. “Miles, let’s be real here. You know how much I need this break. I’m taking it, whether you approve or not. Don’t bother calling me for the next five days,” I warned him and left the room without waiting for a response, a mix of satisfaction and defiance fueling my steps. And now, here I am on the second day of my celebration.

The dark-eyed Junco trills beside me, perched on the deck, while its partner digs through the grass on the lawn. I hadn’t noticed them making their way toward me. Their chattering pulls me back to thoughts of Natasha, my intrusive queen. I never imagined letting someone mess up my life to this extent. I allowed it because I didn’t want to lose her - I loved her, and truth be told, I depended on her. When I half-heartedly proposed to her five years ago, barely knowing her for two, I already sensed her controlling nature, but I was too in love to care.

“All our problems will go away once we realize we’re inseparable. Maybe it’s time you think about taking a step forward in our relationship,” she tirelessly repeated to convince me, and in the end, I fell for her ploy. That was the biggest mistake of my life. Turns out, our marriage was anything but blissful. She thought I was inconsiderate and selfish. All she wanted was for us to be glued at the hip, cuddling and chatting like these noisy birds. Speaking of which, they’re driving me crazy with their constant chirping. I flail my arm and shush at them, and they fly away, their chattering fading into the distance.

Natasha was always talking, like these noisy birds, but her stories never really interested me. I remember the day she came home from shopping, excited over a shirt she bought for her best friend. I had just gotten home from work, and she went on about the fabric, the buttons, the pockets, but it all went in one ear and out the other. The real trouble began when I failed to store all those details in my memory.

Our arguments usually started with a straightforward question, like some pop quiz from random memory. One day, out of the blue, she asked me during dinner, “Babe, remember the shirt we got for Hailey last month? I’m thinking of getting the same one.” And just like that, I knew what was coming - another round of dinner-time drama. I shovelled in those noodles, not caring when they slipped off the fork and onto my chin, trying to load up before the storm hit.

She could gauge from my blank stare and polished poker face that I was utterly clueless. “You seriously don’t remember?” she asked, her voice tinged with amusement. “Lady, we’ve been together for seven years. Do you even know me?” I pondered. As she commenced her lecture, pointing out my memory lapse, I listened and apologized. However, my empty apologies failed to appease her.

“Come on, babe, this is not fair. You’re just making excuses,” she argued, listing a litany of grievances. “You didn’t notice when I got my hair cut last month, you didn’t wish me on my birthday last year, and you always forget our anniversary! Don’t even get me started on our first date - you probably don’t remember what I wore or what we talked about!” She paused, clearly on a roll. “You know what’s crazy? You could probably tell what Mrs. Moore wore the day she disappeared a hundred years ago, even in your sleep. It’s like you have selective memory when it comes to me. Face it, babe, you don’t love me.”

I had reasons for not keeping track of everything in life, but she couldn’t see them. How could I notice she cut her hair or changed its colour when I was preoccupied with Mrs. Moore’s disappearance? How could I remember what she wore on our first date seven years ago when I struggled to recall what I had for breakfast this morning? Whenever my memory faltered, I was deemed absent-minded. I was labelled inconsiderate when I couldn’t devote enough time to her. But who would pay the bills if I stayed home all day, showering her with attention? Even though we both owned the house, I was the one footing all the bills. Dr. Prasad, our lovely neighbour, extended job offers more than once, which she promptly declined. I didn’t push her because I worked hard and was financially stable. But that wasn’t enough for her. Nothing I did ever pleased her.

“Women and their little world,” I grumble, shaking my head. “I’ll never understand them and won’t even bother trying.” With a firm resolve, I silently vow to refrain from any future romantic entanglements, all the while sipping coffee. As I finish off the now-cold dregs of my coffee, my phone starts ringing from somewhere inside the house. I must have left it in the kitchen. I opt to ignore it, but the caller remains undeterred. I sift through a list of potential callers, debating whether to answer it. All I wanted was one week of solitude. Is that too much to ask for? Reluctantly, I retrieve the phone from the kitchen, only to stop ringing in my hand.

Miles. Of course, it’s Miles. Seriously, what does he want from me now? I haven’t had a vacation in so long that I can’t even remember my last one. And now, when I’m finally craving some peace, he has the nerve to call me at home. Maybe Natasha was right; I didn’t bother to take time off to spend with her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dedicated my entire life to work. Furious, I toss the phone onto the counter, and it starts ringing again.

“Where are you?” Miles demands without any introduction as I pick up.

“None of your business,” I think to myself. Instead, I ask, “What’s the matter?”

“Come to the station in Creekbridge,” he commands.

“I’m on my vacation,” I retort sharply.

“Curtis, I know you’re on vacation, which I disapproved of. I’m here in the office in Creekbridge. I need you and Sam here,” he says sternly. “It’s important.”

“I’m not in a condition to come to work,” I resist, trying to hold my ground.

“Are you drunk? Do you want a ride?” he asks, his words tinged with urgency.

“No, I’m not drunk, but-”

“See you in 10 minutes,” and the line goes dead.

Internally, I groan, “Must be something big.”

Chapter 2

I pace back and forth in the living room and call Sam. “What the hell is going on?” I demand as soon as he picks up. I hate being left in the dark, and Miles excels at it. I need to take my anger out on someone, and Sam, who never takes my temper too seriously, is the perfect scapegoat.

“Didn’t you see my message?” he asks.

“Of course not, Sir,” I retort sarcastically. “I wasn’t expecting anything from you.”

“You said you didn’t want to be bothered,” he counters, pushing my patience to its limit.

“What’s going on?” I demand, my voice rising. “Do you mind telling me?”

“Someone’s in a mood,” he sighs, disappointed. “There’s a reported suicide in Dark Hill, but Miles thinks it might be a murder.”

“In Dark Hill? Where exactly?”

“House number 13, Lost Meadow.”

I stop in my tracks, shock and curiosity hitting me. “Lost Meadow? Wylie?” I ask.

Lost Meadow - the Fleming’s residence. I know Wylie, Stephanie, and their kids. They run Purple Land, a lavender farm in Dark Hill. I’ve been there a few times, mostly because of Natasha’s annual photo shoot tradition. I hated those trips, but Natasha loved making me wear outfits that weren’t my style, like white linen shirts and pants, and forcing me into awkward poses. It was torture, but I tolerated it. The only good part of those trips was meeting the Fleming family, even briefly. At least now I’m familiar with their faces. Wylie struck me as a true gentleman, and Stephanie seemed down-to-earth. They had a son with autism who was a bit of a challenge, but their youngest child assisted his mom in taking care of him, and they both adored their mom, unlike the other two, who didn’t seem to treat her very kindly.

“No, it’s Stephanie,” Sam says, breaking my thoughts.

“Stephanie?” I gasp. “How?”

“Gunshot.”

“Gunshot?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Wylie reported it as a suicide, but the police think otherwise. It’s looking more like a murder.” He pauses, sounding doubtful. “At least that’s what Miles says.”

“Wow, that’s… shocking,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Whether it’s suicide or murder.”

“Yeah. Gone too soon,” Sam says, his voice heavy. “Miles asked if you’re coming. Are you?”

A murder had occurred near my hometown, and someone I knew had been shot dead. Dark Hill, a small town with a population of 5,000 or less, is considered one of the safest places to live. This would be the first murder in the hill since its establishment, and the fact that I’m not there! Unthinkable! My anger and hangover dissipate, and a surge of adrenaline kicks in. I rush upstairs with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.

“Hello…? Are you coming?” Sam asks, sounding impatient.

“I’m on my way,” I reply, excited now. “See you soon.”

I toss the phone onto the bed and head for the washroom. Suddenly, I trip over a loose bed sheet and hit the floor hard. “Damn it,” I mutter, wincing. I grab the sheet, crumple it in frustration, and fling it aside. Sitting up, I look around. It’s a mess - unmade bed, open cabinets and scattered clothes. Natasha would lose her mind if she saw it. She used to nag me about this all the time. She kept the place spotless, while I had a talent for messing it up. “Just don’t make a mess,” she’d say. “I spend hours cleaning, and you undo it all in minutes,” she constantly complained. I always promised to be more careful, but I never was. I didn’t see the point in being so organized. Did it matter if the shoes weren’t lined up perfectly or the clothes weren’t folded just right? I preferred convenience over neatness, but the problem was that Natasha couldn’t stand my attitude.

 I pick myself up and head to the kitchen for some water. The fall wasn’t bad, but it shook me up - a reminder to be more careful about where I leave my stuff.

After a quick drink, I return to my room, thinking about Stephanie Fleming. Why would she commit suicide if that’s what happened? And if not, why was she killed? I’ve heard that the lavender business is thriving, and Wylie is making good money, so finances probably aren’t the issue. They have children. Would she leave them behind, especially the one with autism? I think his name is Austin. Last year, when we visited Purple Land, he was there with Stephanie. He was quite a handful, but she managed him perfectly. Would Stephanie have committed suicide, knowing that no one could replace her and look after Austin the way she did? I doubt it.

I grab a shirt and jeans, get dressed quickly, and head downstairs. I hop into my Porsche, ready to go, but realize I’ve forgotten my keys. Another topic Natasha ranted about.

“Can you do me a small favour?” she once asked, handing me my wallet as I sat in the car, ready to head out. “Before you leave, can you check three things? Wallet, phone, keys?” She said it nicely, but I knew she meant every bit of it. She was fed up with always needing to grab things I’d forgotten. I had always brushed aside her requests to pay attention to these small details. I tend to begin my journey at the last minute. Wasting a few extra minutes going back and forth home isn’t wise. I should take her suggestions seriously to avoid reaching my destination late. I grab my keys and return to my car. As the Porsche purrs to life and starts moving, I remember forgetting to lock the door. It’s too late to turn back now, so I take a left and accelerate toward the police station in Creekbridge, driven by a desire to tackle a puzzle far more exhilarating than folding clothes or locking the door. Natasha would never understand that, and quite frankly, I don’t care.

Chapter 3

I navigate the busy streets of Creekbridge, heading to the police station. The Creekbridge police detachment covers two other towns, including Dark Hill. As I pull into the station, I spot Sam lounging on the hood of his Lexus, absorbed in his phone. He looks stylish in those wrinkle-free gray pants and a white shirt, like he stepped out of a fashion magazine. He doesn’t need the Bottega Veneta belt or the matching leather sneakers to look stylish. With his strong jawline, slicked-back brown hair, and athletic build, he’d look good even in flannel pyjamas. I park next to him and hop out.

“Well, well, well,” Sam scans me head to toe. “You miss Natasha,” he teases with a smug grin. I don’t like his grin or his sarcastic remark.

“Are you nuts?” I counter, making a crazy sign by my ear.

“I’m not,” he says, “but if someone saw you like this,” he gestures up and down at me, “they might think you are. Did you even wash your face or brush your teeth this morning?”

Here he goes again, souring my mood with the same question Natasha used to ask. I’ve always liked having my first coffee in bed - something my mom indulged, but Natasha couldn’t stand. Sometimes, when nostalgia hits, I’d ask for coffee, and she’d ask the same question.

I put my hands on my hips and stare at him. “Did you take over for Natasha?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Nope.”

“Then why don’t you...?” I gesture toward his car. “Just get going.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you looking like that,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning back. “Do me a favour. Go to the restroom and check yourself out in the mirror. You’ll see what I am saying.”

I rub my eyes, holding back a scream. “Not again!” His words drag up those awful memories.

We were in Michigan for my cousin Cody’s wedding. It was a scorching day, and we were checked into a hotel in Chelsea. Natasha had already left the room and was waiting for me in the lobby. I was wiped out from the long drive from Toronto and had slept in, ignoring her attempts to wake me. When I finally got ready, I hurried downstairs, not wanting to upset her further. When she saw me, she stormed off to the elevator and headed back upstairs. I raced up the stairs two at a time and got there just as the door opened. She walked past me without a word, and I had to run to keep up. In the room, she almost slammed the door in my face and tossed her Louis Vuitton purse onto the table. Then she flopped onto the bed, not caring about her dress. That’s when I understood the seriousness of the situation.

“I’m not coming,” she said, cold as ice.

I knelt beside her, gently patting her thigh. “Sorry… it took me so long. I was just wiped out. Sorry, babe,” I pleaded.

She glared at me, pushing my hand away. I thought she was mad because I kept her waiting, but that wasn’t it. “Did you look in the mirror? You haven’t shaved, bathed, or combed your hair. Forget the wedding... I’d be embarrassed to step out of this room with you looking like that. Just go check yourself out!” she yelled as if she was having a meltdown. Her words still echo in my head with the same contempt and intensity. I never wanted to relive that moment. But people like Sam never let me forget. His tone differs from Natasha’s - she is taunting and demanding, while Sam is requesting - but the message is the same.

“You’re just like Natasha, and I can’t stand it,” I mutter, storming off. “Don’t put me through this again,” I yell as I walk away.

“Don’t bump into anyone, especially Miles; head straight to the washroom,” he shouts after me. I lift my arm and flip him off without even looking back.

Inside the station, I head to the washroom. As I hurry down the hallway, lost in thought, I can feel people’s judgmental stares at me. It pisses me off - why can’t people mind their own damn business? I vent my frustration by slamming the toilet door shut. When I glimpse myself in the mirror, I finally get why Sam told me to clean up and why everyone was staring.

My face is bloated, my eyes are red, and I’ve got puffy eyelids. Dark circles have popped up under my eyes, making me look older. After days of neglect, my greasy, messy hair screams for a wash and a comb. I rub the red stuff stuck to my stubble and check my fingers. It’s probably ketchup from the burger I had last night. As if my dishevelled look wasn’t bad enough, I somehow wore a mismatched orange floral shirt and faded blue ripped jeans. My shirt is buttoned wrong, with the right side hanging awkwardly. I must’ve bought this shirt in my early twenties - it doesn’t fit right anymore, showing off my chest with my pecs poking through the gaps. I splash water on my face, and the cold water washes away the redness and anger. “Sam meant well. I should apologize to him,” I decide as I comb my hair with my hands and fix my shirt buttons. After a final check, I head out and bump into Miles.

“Nice shirt,” Miles says, eyeing me. “But maybe a bit too casual for the seriousness of your job, don’t you think?” he asks.

I frown and snap back, “I was on vacation.”

“Sorry to bug you on your vacation. I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. This case is important to me. I don’t want to screw it up. You know I trust you two more than anyone else.”

“How important?” I narrow my eyes, noticing the tension in his face and voice. He looks worried - something you don’t usually see with Miles.

He hesitates for a few seconds, his green eyes darting around. I can tell he’s deciding how much to share. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” I say.

He shifts from one foot to the other and tucks his hands in his pockets. “No, it’s not that. We went to the same school. She was a good person. Life threw everything at her. She deserves justice. You’re the only one who can get it for her.”

“Just a school friend?” I ask with a wry smile.

“Well...,” he pauses, running a hand through his curly brown hair. “We dated for a bit back then. But that was a long time ago,” he says.

“Hmm.”

“Sam has all the details we’ve got so far. I need you to get to the scene as soon as possible,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Trudy, Josephine, and their team are already on site, doing their part. You’ve worked with them before, right?” he asks. Josephine heads the Forensic Service, and Trudy works with the Central Region Support Team. I’ve worked with Josephine before but not with Trudy, though I’ve heard of her.

“Trudy’s new to me,” I reply.

“Trudy’s top-notch. I’m sure you’ll get along fine,” he smiles. “I want our two best detectives from the Criminal Investigation Branch to team up with them and take the lead on this case.”

“Team up,” I reply with a nod and a slight smirk. Sam and I are often called in to help with cases, especially when the local team is small or inexperienced or when the case is tricky. We’ve solved plenty of cases that local cops tried and failed or messed up. We’ve bailed them out many times before. We do the hard work, and they share the credit. I don’t mind them taking some of the glory as long as we get paid well. But when people like Miles, who know our track record, hesitate to acknowledge our work fully, it gets on my nerves.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, reading my thoughts.

“No, Sir,” I reply, hesitating a bit. “What about Mrs. Moore’s case? I can’t be in two places at once.”

“You were on vacation for how many days?” Miles asks.

“The one you didn’t approve of?” I grin. “Five days.”

“Five-”

“Oh! I forgot about the weekend. Technically... five days, but it was supposed to be a whole week.”

“Fine. Seven days,” he says, getting serious. “You have seven days to solve this case. Once you ID the perp, Trudy will take over, and you can return to Mrs. Moore’s case. I’m sure you can wrap this one up in a day or two,” he adds, his tone getting more urgent.

“I’m not sure I can promise that, but I’ll do my best. That’s all I can say right now,” I tell him.

“Your best has always been enough. That’s all I ask for in this investigation. Good luck,” he says with a bright smile. He then pats me on the shoulder and shakes my hand before I head outside to where Sam is waiting in his car.

Chapter 4

“Is this good enough for you?” I spin around and stand before Sam, feeling the need to make amends for shouting at him earlier. This is my way of apologizing to him.

“Well,” he plays along, rubbing his chin and casting his eyes over me, “not as bad as before.” He tosses a black brazier and says, “Thank God, I had one in my car. Cover up that sexy shirt of yours.”

I comply with his request and joke, “I think you’re jealous of me. That’s why you always try to bring me down.”

“Curtis,” he deadpans. “You ever notice how everyone gets low-key jealous when they see you? Look at you...wearing a clown outfit and still outshining everyone else.”

“I saw that in the mirror,” I snort.

“You know, one thing about you...you never appreciate how naturally good-looking you are. I wish I had your blonde hair and hazel eyes,” he nods towards my hair and eyes. “And don’t even get me started on those muscles,” he taps my biceps. “I spend hours in the gym to get there while you just chill and somehow end up with all these muscles.”

“That is not true. I may not hit the gym, but I work out daily.”

“For how long? Ten minutes?” he mocks, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Never mind,” I say, slipping into the passenger seat. “That’s not what we should be discussing now,” I remind him while buckling up, “but what happened in house number 13.”

“A murder,” he pauses, “a murder in Lost Meadow.”

“You know what,” I say, glancing at him, “whenever I drove past that house, I couldn’t help but think about it. Why on earth would someone name their house Lost Meadow? How weird is it to call your house Lost Meadow? Why not Yellow Meadow, Pleasant Meadow, Sunny Meadow or-”

“We were discussing that in the office,” Sam cuts in. “Wylie didn’t name the house Lost Meadow; the locals did. There’s a story behind it.”

“What story?” I ask, intrigued.

“Many years ago, there were only thirteen houses in the area where Wylie’s house stood, and his house was the last. He didn’t have a choice in choosing the house number. Since he disliked the number 13, he engraved Golden Meadow in large white block letters on a green surface on the signpost and 13 Birchwood in small letters underneath. Many visitors who came to the hill to see the autumn colours misunderstood the signpost as an intersection and entered his private property. Over time, locals started referring to the house as Lost Meadow, and Wylie adopted that name to avoid further confusion.”

“That is hilarious,” I chuckle, “people got lost in their property, so they changed the name of their home to match! Well,” I regain the seriousness, considering the gravity of the situation, “what happened in Lost Meadow?”

“Stephanie and her son were at home with their dog, Rocky.”

“Which son? Austin?”

“Yeah, Austin. He’s the one who has autism,” he informs me.

“I met him a few times,” I tell him.

“Wylie and his other sons had gone out. When Wylie returned home, he found Stephanie in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, with a distressed Austin beside her. The refrigerator was left open. It seemed like she was drinking the water when someone suddenly shot her in the face. An open water bottle was found near her body.”

“Where was the dog?”

“He was locked up in a room upstairs. I think it was Jesse’s room, the eldest son.”

“Interesting,” I rub my hands together. “The killer didn’t want to hurt the dog!”

“Or the killer didn’t want the dog to interrupt his work,” Sam adds.

“Either way, it would have to be someone who knows the dog,” I remark.

“One hundred percent,” Sam agrees. “Otherwise, how did the killer lock the dog in the room without making any noise? From how Stephanie was found dead, it’s clear she wasn’t alarmed by an intruder.”

“Left-open refrigerator… water bottle beside body…hmm.” I nod thoughtfully. “It indeed looks like an unexpected attack.”

“Wylie grabbed Austin and rushed outside. He mentioned it was a struggle to handle Austin, and once he gained control over him, he called 911. That was at 10.38. He repeatedly told the operator that his wife had committed suicide. Everyone believed him. When Miles heard about it, he assumed this case would be a breeze to solve, so he didn’t initially involve us.”

I burst into laughter as though I’d just heard the funniest joke.

“What?” Sam asks, shifting his eyes from the road to my face. “What’s tickling your funny bone?”

“Believed him,” I make an air quote, “without even seeing the scene.”

“To their defence, Dark Hill is the safest small town in the province with the lowest crime rate index. The residents are good people and not troublemakers.”

I gasp dramatically, intending to provoke Sam and tease, “You believed it too.”

Sam waves dismissively. “The one thing I’ve learned from very early on in this profession is not to believe anything unless I see it myself,” he remarks.

“Very well then,” I prompt.

Sam continues. “When cops reached the scene and saw her, they immediately knew it was a murder. There was no way one could misinterpret her death as suicide. It was obvious. How could she have fired more than one shot to her face after the first? Impossible. And here’s the kicker - no murder weapon in sight. Did she hide it after she was dead?” he sneers.

“Hmm. I always thought her husband was a gentleman,” I remark.

“It might not be the husband. They found the murder weapon.”

I feel a lightning bolt in my chest. “Where?” I cry.

“They found Wylie’s gun under Austin’s bed. It was stored in a safe in the master bedroom. How Austin accessed the gun is a mystery to all.”

“Under Austin’s bed… wow!” I shake my head in disbelief. “Austin! Is he capable of doing it?”

“He has been hospitalized twice in the last four years for losing control. However, his issues always involved his brothers; he never touched Stephanie. Stephanie and Austin loved each other very much, and everyone who knew them thought they were inseparable. Both of the violent incidents occurred when Stephanie was not at home. His brothers were badly wounded on both occasions. He attacked them with a baseball bat the first time and the second time with a knife. The police were involved. One of the sons, I believe it was Theodore, told the police that his outbursts are frequent, and his parents don’t report them because Stephanie is afraid of him being taken away.”

“Killed his mom, hid the gun, and tried to cover it up. Do you think he could pull all that off with his disability? He’d only be able to if he’s not as disabled as we think and is faking it.” I pause momentarily, then shake my head and say, “I don’t think that’s the case.”

“You never know,” Sam comments.

“He can hardly talk,” I remind Sam.

“Well, what if he’s pretending... like you suggested,” Sam counters. “Anyway, Miles believes that Wylie knows Austin killed Stephanie and is trying to protect him.”

I find that theory hard to believe. “Austin isn’t his son. Why would Wylie protect him?” I ask.

“Austin is his stepson… but, still.”

“I doubt it. Why did Wylie take that risk for Austin when he knew that the husband would always be the prime suspect in the unnatural death of his wife? He’s the one who discovered her body first, aside from Austin. That doesn’t look good for him either.”

“If that is the case,” Sam sighs, “then why did he keep telling the operator that his wife committed suicide?”

“Perhaps he thought it was a suicide.”

“How come he didn’t notice there was no murder weapon around?”

“We don’t know what kind of person he is. The unexpected situation might have left him dumbfounded.”

“Maybe,” Sam agrees reluctantly. Then, we both fall into silence.

The Lexus leaves Creekbridge, a town with a population of 25,000, and enters Dark Hill. The abundance of trees casts a dark shade over the hill, which is how it got its name - Dark Hill. The mountain road is well-polished but windy and crooked. If one is unfamiliar with the street, the chances of ending up in one of the many ditches beyond the curb, especially when the road is whitened in snow, are high. Once up in the mountain, the landscape is mainly flat. Crops grow abundantly on either side of the road, adding a vibrant green to the hill. A few isolated houses and barns nestle on the hilltop. I watch herds of cows, goats and horses grazing the tufts of grass as we drive past them. We then surpass an intersection where a gas station, convenience store, and pizza shop sit silently.

“I remember these shops from my childhood. With not many customers, I always wondered how they would survive,” comments Sam.

“Dark Hill has more visitors than we think, especially during the summer and fall,” I tell him.

Sam turns right from the next junction after the intersection, where both sides of the road are lined with tall trees. “Daffodils Way,” I read the name on the signpost. The houses are no longer visible from the street. Apart from the mailboxes and the muddy pathways disappearing into the woods, one would hardly realize people live here. About two miles down the road from the junction, I spot an egg shack adjacent to one of the mailboxes.

“Eggs are almost out at home. I might grab some on our way back. Looks like it’s going to be eggs and bread for me all next week,” I remark.

“I wouldn’t mind some myself. They probably have some farm-fresh ones,” Sam adds.

As we proceed further down the road, the mountain darkens, and the distance between the houses increases. We are nearly two miles from the egg shack when Sam turns left onto an unpaved road, Birchwood Lane. Half a mile down this road, we see that familiar signpost, Lost Meadow, on the right side. Sam enters the pathway, which leads us to a two-story building. As I place my foot on the ground, I feel a pit in my stomach, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stand there, staring at the house, pondering what might have inspired Wylie to build such a beautiful house in the middle of nowhere, making the woods his home.

Chapter 5

The house is spacious enough to accommodate six people, yet it appears small within a circle fenced by towering woods. “It’s got to be a good 3000 square feet,” Sam exclaims. “Who would’ve thought such a beautiful place is tucked away in these woods?”

“Looks great,” I agree, taking in the surroundings.

The house, perched mainly on a slope, boasts two main stories, its entrance marked by a grand wooden door. A section on the right is built on level ground, with its terrace garden aligning with the base of the main story on the slope. Accessible through a side door on the ground floor, the rooftop garden displays vibrant blooms in different shades, mainly yellow and red. Steps from the roof lead to the second floor, where wooden railings embrace a long balcony. Hanging plants decorate the front railings, and yellow flowers resembling a million bells cover the plants. Sergeant Trudy, an officer with sharp eyes, a warm smile and brunette hair in a bob, joins us in the courtyard, where we stand in awe of the house’s beauty.

“Wylie built it,” Trudy informs us. “It’s more like he didn’t want to harm the slope, so he used it to enhance its beauty and naturalness.”

“It worked so well, in any case,” I comment.

The white-painted house is made of timber, and the two main stories have been modernized with black glass. The small portion on the right side remains untouched by renovation, except for adding a sliding glass door. Its wooden walls are adorned with climbing vines. Beside the house, on the right, stands a garage with three bays, almost the size of a mobile home. If this were in Creekbridge, this house would be valued at over a million dollars. Here in Dark Hill, I’ve no idea about the current housing market. The house is cordoned off with yellow tape, and there is a heavy police presence and many patrol cars, which stands out to me more than usual. Wylie and his children are seated in chairs in front of the garage, accompanied by a distinguished man in his forties whom I don’t recognize.

“That’s Ben Hughes, a family friend. Austin was a handful. Handling him was like navigating a minefield, leaving everyone with scratch marks. When things got too tough, Wylie called Ben for backup. He and his wife live right next door. They don’t have kids,” Trudy mentions, pointing to the left.

“Did you take the samples from their wounds?” I ask.

“Of course, we did. We collected swabs from the wounds and samples from under the nails for all of them, including Austin. Austin had some scratches on his arms and face, too. We covered everything,” Trudy informs.

“Who’s the neighbour over here? I ask, nodding toward the small path on the right that disappears into the woods.

“The Bennetts. The husband passed away, and the wife moved to the city. It’s been sitting empty for the last three years, but it’s kept in good condition. Wylie takes care of all the maintenance.”

“I see,” I say, taking a few more steps and inspecting the house again.

“Not a single weed,” Sam notes, studying the lawn. The immediate surroundings of the house are embellished with flowering plants and bordered with dwarf shrubs, but then it expands into a lush green lawn until it seamlessly merges into woods. “It appears someone is taking excellent care of the house and the surroundings,” he adds.

“Stephanie kept the house and its surroundings quite clean,” Trudy says.

“She must have been a hard-working woman,” I comment. “Taking care of Austin isn’t easy, but that didn’t hold her back from keeping this place neat and tidy.”

“Oh, she was hardworking and smart. She took care of Austin, ran the house, and homeschooled Louis,” Trudy says.

“Homeschooled Louis? That’s a lot of work,” I remark.

“She was also incredibly charming,” Sam chimes in. “When I saw her for the first time, I didn’t realize she was the mother of three children.”

Trudy corrects, “Mother of four.”

Sam glances at her and says, “Wait, I didn’t include Theodore. He’s the stepson, isn’t he? Didn’t his mom pass away soon after he was born?”

“That’s right. Theodore’s her stepson, but she has four kids of her own. The youngest one, Aria, is only 40 days old. Stephanie couldn’t manage to care for her while also caring for Austin, so she sent her to her in-laws.”

“That’s new,” I comment.

“I last saw her a few months ago. I didn’t notice she was pregnant,” says Sam. “She looked very young and fit.”

“She’s only thirty-eight. She had Jesse when she was eighteen. Some people don’t show much, even late in pregnancy,” Trudy informs.

“Yet, she was in excellent shape, appeared at least ten years younger, and didn’t look pregnant at all,” Sam stresses. I mentally note Sam’s enthusiasm when discussing Stephanie’s beauty - a tidbit I can use to poke fun at him when the opportunity arises.

“Of course. That’s why Miles was smitten with her,” Trudy comments.

“Miles was smitten with her?” Sam asks, confused. “When? How?” He then turns to me, noticing my lack of surprise. With a fury uncharacteristic of him, he inquires, “You knew about it?”

“I just heard about it from Miles this morning,” I say, raising my hands defensively to lighten his mood. However, his reaction is not as usual.

“You didn’t tell me!” he remarks furiously.

I turn to Trudy and inquire, “How do you know?”

“What do you mean?” she counters, her brows furrowing deeper. “Everyone knows about it. How do you think Austin is still here after having two violent episodes with his brothers? Why hasn’t he been taken away? Stephanie didn’t want that, and Miles was the one who helped her.”

“Was he having an affair with Stephanie?” asks Sam.

“Oh, no, there was no affair after her marriage to Wylie,” Trudy clarifies. “Miles helped her because she was desperate and begged for help. They had a relationship in high school, but she broke up with him over minor issues. They got back together in college but broke up again. After her first husband left her, Miles reached out once more. It was tough for him to move on because he couldn’t find anyone as beautiful as Stephanie. He wanted her, but not Austin. He had no issue with Jesse but didn’t want the responsibility of Austin. Stephanie wasn’t willing to give up Austin for anyone.”

“Good for her,” I sigh. “That explains why Miles has a bit of an issue with Austin.” I stroll across the courtyard, to the left, away from the family, inspecting the house and its surroundings.

“Miles thinks Austin is the one who killed his mother,” Sam further clarifies my statement.

“Well, at first, we thought Wylie did it because he lied about the manner of her death. When we found the gun under Austin’s bed, our suspicion shifted to Austin. However, when we arrived here, we found Austin in the yard, restrained by Wylie, Theodore and Mr. Childs - Theodore’s girlfriend’s father. Austin was pointing toward the kitchen and screaming, ‘Nana.’ Wylie told us Austin had acted like this even when sitting next to Stephanie. We initially thought he was calling his mom ‘Nana’ because his speech was limited. But then we learned Austin doesn’t call Stephanie ‘Nana.’ So, we wondered if he saw the killer fleeing through the kitchen and was calling out to them. Our suspicions grew when we saw this,” she says, pointing to a newly flattened path through the woods, where the grass is crushed, and small plants are trampled as if someone had walked through them. I walk along the path that cuts diagonally from the front yard to the road, with Trudy following close behind and Sam trailing at the back.

“You know, Trudy,” I say, turning to face her, “in a homicide investigation, we consider everyone in the family a person of interest. We don’t treat them as suspects, but we must keep that in mind until we have enough evidence to clear them. In Stephanie Fleming’s case, Wylie and his children are still on our list, even though an outsider could have used this path to come and go.”

Sam squints at me. Usually, I don’t care much about others' opinions during an investigation, but I am lecturing Trudy here. It must mean I’m starting to like her.

“I agree,” Sam says with a half-smile.

As we continue walking, I ask Trudy, “What do you know about Stephanie Fleming and the people in her life?”

“From what I’ve gathered,” Trudy replies, “Stephanie was a beauty inside and out. She was kind, generous, and affectionate.”

“The type who lights up the room when she walks in… just like we hear in all the true crime stories,” I joke.

“That’s how people described her,” Trudy smiles and continues, “She was married to Gordon Keith before Wylie, but that marriage only lasted three years. Gordon was abusive toward her and their children, Jesse and Austin. He refused to work and squandered Stephanie’s hard-earned money on drugs and alcohol. When he found out about Austin’s autism and the extra care he needed, he left them for a mistress who was twenty years older than him. He didn’t want to take care of Austin while Stephanie worked. After Gordon left, Stephanie met Wylie at work. But when Gordon found out about their relationship, he showed up at their workplace and threatened to kill her. That pushed them to move to the woods, and they married soon after. That was fourteen years ago. Three years ago, Gordon was arrested for domestic violence against his fourth wife, and that’s the last we know about him. Miles is working on getting more details.”

“Interesting! Gordon certainly didn’t treat her well,” I remark, considering the possibility of a revenge crime. “How did Wylie treat his wife?” I inquire.

“Wylie was all about his business and hardly took part in home or child-related matters. Stephanie handled everything at home by herself. Their relationship seemed fine with no obvious issues.”

“Where is his family?” Sam asks from behind us.

“His family resides in Saskatoon, but they never approved of Stephanie. But they reconnected when she had the baby, Aria, and found herself without anyone else to rely on. Wylie always stayed in touch with them, though not all that often.”

“What about Stephanie’s family?” I ask.

“Her parents divorced during her childhood. Her father lives in British Columbia with his new family but has had no contact with Stephanie. She was close to her mother, who unfortunately passed away four years ago. She doesn’t have any siblings. Since they moved here, she distanced herself from everyone in her family except her mother, and her life revolved around Wylie and the kids.”

“It must be due to Austin’s autism,” I comment.

“Possible,” Trudy nods. “Austin was quite a handful and took up all her time. Jesse, her oldest son, wasn’t much help around the house. He’s pretty much a chip off the old block - good-looking but not interested in working. He’d rather hang out with his friends. He used to work for Wylie but quit out of the blue. He tried other local jobs, but nothing stuck. Now, no one on the hill wants to hire him.”

“Small town! Everyone knows everyone here. Why should they deal with his irresponsibility?” Sam questions.

“Exactly!” Trudy agrees. “That’s precisely why Stephanie gave him the third and final warning to leave home.”

“Oh, she did! That must’ve caused some friction between mother and son,” I suggest.

“Maybe,” Trudy agrees and continues. “Unlike Jesse, Austin and Louis Adored Stephanie. However, Austin had violent tendencies and was very unpredictable, requiring constant supervision. Stephanie was left to handle everything at home, and little Louis was the only one who helped her. He’s a sweet mama’s boy. Stephanie mentioned to her friends that the best thing that happened in her relationship with Wylie was Louis. He’s in eighth grade and left for a sports trip to the States four days ago. They haven’t informed him of her death yet.”

“How was her relationship with her stepson, Theodore?” Sam asks.

“Theodore is the same age as Austin, eighteen, but he neither liked Austin nor Stephanie. Much like Jesse, he couldn’t come to terms with Stephanie marrying Wylie and hardly spoke to her. At the beginning of the marriage, Stephanie tried hard to make things work, but he wasn’t interested. He usually spent his time playing video games in his room. He’s also into all that typical teenage stuff, you know? Trying out drugs and booze and all.”

“Basically, she had lots of enemies within the home!” Sam remarks. “And everyone had one or more reasons to harm her.”

“It seems she led a rather sad life, with no friends and limited social interactions,” I add.

“She was close with Delores, who’s Ben’s wife. They often hung out until Delores got busy with her new job. Ben is Wylie’s best friend, so they’re practically family.” Trudy pauses momentarily, then adds, “Even though Stephanie was busy with Austin, she was passionate about charity and social events. She volunteered at the local hospital twice weekly, on Wednesdays and Fridays. Plus, she started a book club here on the hill with about a dozen members. They meet once a month, and this month’s meeting was supposed to happen here tonight.”

“Lots of things to follow up on, from her family and friends to her volunteering work and book club activities,” I say, stopping and turning around as we reach the road. Glancing back in the direction we came from, I estimate, “Maybe between 275 and 325 meters from the house to the road. Did you notice one thing?” I ask Sam.

“No, what’s it?” he asks with utmost curiosity.

“Whoever ran through this pathway didn’t enter the home this way; they must have entered through the main pathway but returned to the vehicle through the woods.”

“You’re right!” Sam exclaims. “No footprints are going in that direction toward the woods, only coming back. Identical footprints lead to the main entrance. But why is that?”

“No idea,” I shrug, watching the surroundings.

The house isn’t visible through the thick woods. On the muddy road, I notice footprints already outlined using white powder. I sit down and examine the imprints on the ground. “The prints are spaced apart as if someone, possibly a tall person, was running,” I say. We follow the marked footprints for around 200 meters. Sam stoops where the footprints end and studies the tire impressions of a parked vehicle.

“Those are some large tires,” he remarks.

“This is far from the Lost Meadow and closer to Hughes,” says Trudy.

I raise my eyebrows. “Hughes?”

“The neighbours, Ben and Delores,” she explains.

I nod, deep in thought. “Have you arranged for experts to examine the footprints and the tire marks?” I ask Trudy.

“Yes, it’s underway,” Trudy informs us.

“Make sure to capture everything on video,” I instruct Trudy. “What’s the plan for the sniffer dog?” I inquire.

“Oh! Charlie was here,” Trudy says. “He picked up the scent and went over to Wylie and the boys, sniffing them all over and baying.”

Charlie is a popular bloodhound in the force. Despite his mournful appearance with those floppy ears and sunken eyes, he possesses a powerful sense of smell. He has played a significant role in solving controversial cases and has become Miles’s favourite. That is how Miles is; as long as the job gets done, you become his favourite, whether an animal or human.

“It is no wonder, considering they all had Stephanie’s blood on their bodies and clothes while struggling with Austin,” I remark.

“Yeah. Just like Hughes.”

“Hughes?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

“Yeah. Charlie also went to Hughes’s house. Ben had blood on his shirt and pants as he was holding Austin. He’s one of those obsessed with cleanliness, so he went back home to change his clothes. That’s when his wife, Delores, found out about her best friend’s death. After seeing the blood and hearing the news, she passed out. He changed his clothes and took her to the hospital, but she felt better on the way, so they went to the pharmacy to get painkillers and energy drinks. They weren’t there when Charlie arrived at their home, but we obtained Ben’s permission to enter his home. Charlie ventured downstairs to the laundry room, and he discovered Ben’s shirt and pants inside the washing machine. Charlie mostly explored their basement and then returned here.

“Shoot, we should have collected his clothes,” I sigh.

“We did. It wasn’t washed yet, just left in the washing machine,” Trudy assures me.

“Oh, that’s good…,” I respond.

“Wylie mentioned that Stephanie visited Ben’s house this morning to meet Delores,” Trudy says. “We weren’t surprised when Charlie headed over to Hughes.”

“How is Delores now?”

“She’s feeling better now. She’s resting at home. She insisted on coming here to see Stephanie, but Ben didn’t let her.”

“Ah, I see!” I pause for a moment. “Where else did Charlie go?”

“He mainly dashed through the woods around the compound and to the road here but couldn’t go any farther.”

“Are there no security cameras around here?” I ask as we head back home.

“Are you kidding? Out here!” Trudy chuckles. They don’t have one in the house,” she informs.

“Pretty strange,” I remark.

“Definitely odd,” Sam concurs. “Living out in the wilderness and yet no security cameras, as if they deliberately avoid surveillance.”

“I agree.” Trudy nods.

“It makes you wonder if they were involved in something they’d prefer not to be documented,” I add, glancing at the group seated in the corner, far from our view.

Chapter 6

As we approach the house, I notice Ben walking across the courtyard and disappearing into the woods. I enter the yard and follow the same path he took. It is a winding trail through the woods from the side of the house, wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Ben is not far away, taking long strides as if he intends to vanish from sight as quickly as possible. He suddenly stops, realizing we’re watching him and glances back. Even from a distance, it’s impossible to overlook the blend of fear and astonishment across his face. Once he regains his composure, he smiles nervously and waves. I watch him closely, taking in the details of his appearance. He appears to be in his forties, yet he’s remarkably handsome. His tall stature stands out, and his complexion boasts an attractive bronzed tone. Looking at him, I can tell he’s one of those men who take pride in maintaining their physique and appearance. His face is cleanly shaven, and his chestnut brown hair is neatly spiked. He’s wearing a white and blue striped shirt and perfectly creased blue pants. His appearance is appealing; however, that’s not what I’m focused on. Instead, I’m examining his shoes. He’s wearing black brogues. Although they’re not very dirty, their cleanliness doesn’t quite match the rest of his outfit. The faint mud stains on his brogues make me wonder if he recently traversed a backwoods trail. Trudy waves back at him, and he turns around to resume his walk, this time with a steady and deliberate pace.

“This pathway connects Hughes and Fleming,” Trudy informs us.

Once the woods engulf Ben, we return to the front. When Wylie spots me, he gets up from his chair and walks He wears beige shorts and a black T-shirt, marred by bloodstains in several places. over. I study him as he takes heavy steps toward me. The large glasses perched over his round, black eyes and the scattered graying stubble on his weathered face prematurely aged him. His hair is thinning at the crown of his head, a clear shift from the last time I saw him. He wears beige shorts and a black T-shirt stained with blood in multiple spots.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “I know you’ve already talked to many officers, but can you go over everything with me again? You knew Stephanie best, and even the smallest details could be important. I’d appreciate it if you could.”

“No problem at all. It’s my pleasure. I want to help with the investigation in any way I can,” he responds without hesitation.

“Can you describe what happened this morning, from when you left for town until you found your wife?”

He nods before starting, “I went to the grocery store around a quarter to nine to pick up some snacks and other things. Stephanie’s book club friends were coming over in the evening, and she needed refreshments.”

As he pauses, I jump in. “The chances of her taking her own life were slim, especially since she had plans for the evening, plans you knew about. So… why did you tell the 911 operator it was suicide when you found her lying in a pool of blood?”

“She had plans, and as you said, it seemed pretty unlikely she’d take her own life. But she had been acting weird for the past few days. She never said anything but started going to bed way earlier and couldn’t settle down at night. I worried she might be having some dark thoughts. Plus, this place is supposed to be one of the safest in the province. I’ve lived here for fourteen years with no issues,” he says with a strained laugh. “I know it sounds crazy, but honestly, the thought of an intruder didn’t even cross my mind at that point.”

“I understand,” I pat on his shoulder reassuringly. “Seeing your wife like that must’ve been incredibly tough... Going back to the morning,” I clear my throat and continue, “you went grocery shopping at around 8.45 am. What happened next?”

“My three sons were at home when I left. All three of them,” he says, motioning toward his sons, who are out of earshot. Restless and grunting, Austin sits between his two brothers as they struggle to keep him still.

“Where did you go shopping?”

“To Creekbridge, Sobeys.”

“Then?”

“I returned home after shopping, about one and a half hours later. I parked my truck right there,” he says, pointing to the Chevy parked on the corner of the front yard. “Our kitchen is on that side. The kitchen door was left open. I was carrying groceries inside when I found my wife on the floor near the fridge. Austin was sitting beside her, falling all over her and mumbling,” he says plainly. I notice the lack of emotions in his words, especially describing the events leading up to finding his wife’s lifeless body in a pool of blood. He was frantic during the 911 call, I heard; however, now he seems composed and calm for someone who unexpectedly and tragically lost his wife just hours ago.

“What about the front door?”

He turns around to point to the sliding glass door on the extended part of the house and says, “It was closed.” He then moves his finger toward the wooden door on the main floor and adds, “But this was left open.”

“Didn’t it alarm you?”

“It isn’t very unusual to see it open sometimes. Boys don’t necessarily shut it behind them when they leave, especially if Rocky, our dog, stands in the way.”

“Doesn’t Rocky leave the house if the door is open?”

“Sometimes he will, but he knows his boundaries. He won’t go too far or cross our compound.”

“What about Austin? Doesn’t he go out if the door is left open?”

“A few times he did, but Rocky alerted Stephanie all those times.”

“Did Austin say anything in particular when he saw you entering through the kitchen door?”

“He talks in his language that nobody else understands. But he kept pointing to the kitchen door, saying, ‘Nana’ over and over.”

“Nana? Who is Nana?”

“All men are nana for him, and women are momma, including us.”

“That means he wasn’t referring to Stephanie. Was he addressing you?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t looking at me but at the door. I was standing next to him.

“Did you touch Stephanie?” I ask, looking at the blood smears on his T-shirt and shorts.

“No, I didn’t touch her. I knew she was dead. She was lying on her back, and her chest wasn’t moving. I grabbed Austin, ran outside, and called 911 from my cell. I wanted to take Austin away from there. He was very distraught.”

“Okay, I see,” I nod. “Stephanie was already gone, so there wasn’t much else you could do except get Austin out. But where was Rocky at that time?”

“Rocky was locked up in Jesse’s room, which I didn’t know then.”

“Doesn’t he make noise if locked up in a room?”

“He was barking from upstairs, but I didn’t pay attention then. Austin was too much to handle, and he was my priority. Rocky usually doesn’t mind being locked up. When he gets too naughty, we occasionally lock him in a room as a punishment, so he’s used to it.”

“Where is he now?” I ask, glancing around.

“He was very distraught. I sent him to Hughes, our neighbour.”

“Oh, I see,” I pause. “After calling 911, what did you do next?”

“I phoned the boys and told them to return home. They got here within ten, maybe twenty minutes.”

“Did they go inside the house?”

“Theo did. Austin was too aggressive. I asked him to grab Austin’s meds from the cupboard in the kitchen. He went in, got the meds, and said he didn’t even look at her - it was too scary.”

“You only have one vehicle? I inquire, scanning the surroundings again.

“No, I’ve got an SUV and a car in there,” he says, nodding at the garage.

“What make are those?” I ask.

“A Volvo and a Cadillac,” he pauses and adds, “I’ve got a trailer, too. I keep it at my business.”

“Is there a GPS tracker in your truck?” I inquire.

“No. It’s an old Chevy. I keep it for sentimental values.”

“Do you typically drive your Chevy?”

“I usually go for the Volvo, but occasionally I use this truck, especially for short distances.”

“What kind of vehicle does Ben use?” I inquire.

A flicker of suspicion crosses his eyes, and after a moment’s hesitation, he says, “A Toyota Highlander.”

“Thank you. I’ve more questions. We will sit and talk about everything in detail later. I would like to see Stephanie before they take her away,” I say, offering him a handshake. “Take care of yourself and stay strong for the boys,” I tell him before sending him off.

“Wylie,” I call out from behind as he walks away. He turns around, his eyebrows arched. “How is your relationship with Ben and his family?” I ask.

His eyes drop for a moment. “Ben and Delores…,” he falters, caught off guard but quickly recovering. “We are good friends,” he flashes a forced smile. “They’re always here for us.”

“Okay, that’s it,” I say to him. As he turns around and resumes his walk toward his sons, I tell Sam, “Let’s see Stephanie.” Then, with Sam and Trudy beside me, I stride toward the house, bracing myself for what we might find inside.

Chapter 7

After donning the protective gear, I enter the house through the sliding glass door, stepping into a spacious room. The room, versatile as a living or family room, easily accommodates a large sectional and an ottoman. A closet and a powder room are located near the entrance on the left. Adjacent to the powder room, an 85-inch smart TV hangs on the otherwise plain, white-painted wall. Seven stairs from the middle of the same wall lead us to a long hallway. I stand on the top, scanning around. To my right, a spiral stairway beckons to the upper level, while to the left, a wooden door opens to the front yard and another to the terrace garden. As Trudy moves forward, Sam and I follow her. Now, on my right, I spot an office room, a restroom and a kitchen. To the left, there’s a living room with another sectional and TV, distinct yet connected to a dining room by a half wall.

I stand at the end of the hallway, scanning the large kitchen. Right in front of me is an island with a beautifully crafted hardwood countertop, serving as a partition between the kitchen and the dining area. Neatly tucked under the island on both sides are four backless bar stools. A rectangular antique oak dining table is placed in the dining room, surrounded by six matching upholstered chairs. This setup is arranged before a sliding door that opens onto a small deck. In the kitchen, the oven and refrigerator are aligned in the same row on the furthest side, with wooden cabinets mounted on the wall above and the base below between them. A countertop extends from the stove, curving to the left, and features two sinks beneath a window. The sliding door and the window offer a stunning view of the dense wood. I envision Stephanie standing there, washing her dishes while watching the woods sway in the breeze and the family enjoying dinner at the dining room table, serenaded by the gentle rustling of leaves.

“This house is really big but feels empty; no personal touches,” I remark.

“They don’t keep anything outside because of Austin. Just to be safe,” Trudy adds.

I turn my attention to Stephanie. Were I not a police officer, I wouldn’t dare look at her mutilated face or take in the gruesome scene. Stephanie, once beautiful, now bears the marks of disfigurement - hollow eye sockets, a distorted nose and lips, and a few missing front teeth. She lies on her back on the kitchen floor beside the partially opened refrigerator. Her hands and left leg are stretched straight, but her right leg is bent outward. She wears an oversized pink T-shirt and black leggings, both stained with blood. Her blonde hair, now tinged with red, is tied in a high ponytail flowing over her shoulder. Beneath her feet lies a water bottle, its cap missing. As I bend down to survey the area, I notice the cap under the refrigerator, not far away.

The kitchen is immaculate, with everything in its proper place. There is no evidence of a struggle between Stephanie and the killer; however, the kitchen floor displays a chaotic array of scattered shoe imprints and footprints. There are marks as if someone was dragged through the blood from beside Stephanie’s body to the sliding door and the deck. I walk toward the sliding door, careful not to step in the blood, and peer outside. The bloody footprints on the deck take a meandering path to the left, ultimately leading to the front of the house. As I shift my gaze toward the trail heading to the Hughes house, which runs parallel to the door, Trudy’s voice breaks in from behind, “Wylie struggled with Austin, and that’s why there’s all this mess.”

“I thought so,” I tell her.

“I was wondering,” she says, “Wylie said he was carrying groceries inside when he found Stephanie on the floor. However, there are no groceries left anywhere in the kitchen.”

“Good observation, Trudy,” I turn around and tell her. “I noticed that too. We should ask Wylie about that.”

Forensic officer Josephine Grant and her team are near Stephanie’s body, diligently performing their duties. “It appears there were multiple shots to the victim’s face,” Sam remarks, observing their work.

“Four shots in total, all to the face,” Josephine reports.

“This seems personal,” I comment.

“Exactly. The shooter targeted her eyes, nose and mouth as if intent on distorting her face,” Josephine remarks. “I wonder why they didn’t have a surveillance system, especially with a differently abled son at home. It could have been a great help,” she comments.

“We were discussing the same,” I inform her. “Apparently, Dark Hill is one of the safest areas in the province. The residents claim they can leave their doors open and go on vacation, and no one will enter their homes. As far as Austin’s monitoring is concerned, Stephanie was his constant guardian. She watched over him 24/7 without fail. There was never a concern for his safety with Stephanie around.”

“The shooter, whoever they may be, might be aware of the lack of surveillance,” Sam comments.

“That is possible. Also, the shooter was exceptionally skilled and didn’t allow her to defend,” Josephine adds.

“Is there any chance this might be a crime of opportunity by a stranger who doesn’t know her?” Trudy asks.

I turn to Trudy and ask, “Is anything missing from home?”

“Not reported yet,” Trudy says. “My team’s still looking around,” she points upstairs. “Her phone was right there, so it’s less likely robbery was the motive,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen countertop.

Was she sexually assaulted?” I ask Josephine, glancing at Stephanie’s clothes, which appear undisturbed.

“I don’t think so. There’s been no confirmation yet,” Josephine replies.

“What could be the motive for a stranger to murder Stephanie? I can’t see one yet. On the other hand, many reasons lead me to believe the killer is someone familiar with the family or from within the family. The dog was locked up in Jesse’s room, and only someone acquainted with the dog and the house could do that without alarming Stephanie. Also, this person knew the dog wouldn’t make a fuss when locked up because the family had done that before. But that’s not all. The fact that the killer used Wylie’s gun suggests it could be someone who knew the whereabouts of the gun and had access to it, possibly someone within her circle…, someone very close to her.” I pause and ask Trudy, “Did you confirm if the gun belonged to Wylie?”

“Yes, we’ve obtained the documents for gun purchase and licence, and,” Trudy gestures toward the gun placed in a transparent bag on the kitchen countertop and adds, “it’s indeed Wylie’s gun. We haven’t told him yet, though.”

“It is highly unlikely that an outsider intruded the home, fooling Rocky, and accessed the gun. However, just to be thorough, it wouldn’t hurt to look into Stephanie’s ex-husband,” Sam suggests.

“Miles is looking into that, right?” I ask Trudy.

“Yes,” Trudy nods.

“I would also appreciate a comprehensive history of Wylie, Stephanie, children and that neighbour, Ben. Past relationships, jobs, family background, and anything else that’s important, please,” I tell Trudy.

“My team is already working on that. I will provide you with a preliminary report as soon as it’s available,” she responds. I’m not sure how much Trudy has impressed me in a short time, but I’m confident about one thing - this is the first time someone has managed to impress me so soon. A smile graces my face, catching Sam’s attention. He flashes a teasing grin, but I ignore him.

“Can you bring Wylie inside?” I request Trudy. “I would like to talk to him.”

Moments later, Wylie enters home through the front wooden door and strides into the kitchen. He stands at the end of the hallway facing the kitchen but avoids looking at Stephanie’s body.

“Sorry to bother you again; I’ve another question,” I say.

“No problem, I’d like to help however I can. Please go ahead and ask anything you want to know,” he responds.

“You mentioned carrying groceries when you found Stephanie on the floor. Where did you put them?” I ask him.

His eyes widen as he thinks. “I think I took them back to the car,” he pauses and pretends to think. “Oh, I remember now. I hurried back and left them in the trunk before coming back to get Austin.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sam interjects. “You brought groceries into the kitchen, found your wife dead, and instead of either dropping them to the floor in shock or leaving them on the counter or table, you decided to take them back to the car. Then you returned to get Austin. That doesn’t seem to make any sense. Why did you do that?”

“I was horrified and shaken to the core. None of my actions at that time make any sense to me now,” he confesses, his eyes dropping to the ground.

Sam seizes the evidence bag containing the gun from the island and holds it up. “Is this your gun?” he asks.

Josephine’s assistant chimes in, “It’s a Glock 17 with an empty-”

Cutting her off mid-sentence, I inquire, “Well, is it your gun?”

In investigations, I prefer to keep certain key details under wraps. This tactic allows us to catch suspects off-guard when they slip up. The round count was one such piece of information, but Wylie had already picked it up. Giving Josephine’s assistant, probably a trainee, a sidelong glance, I can tell she was trying to impress Josephine. As she turns pale, I shift my disappointed gaze to Josephine, whose eyes silently apologize. I know it’s partly my fault; I should’ve intervened sooner.

“We do have a Glock 17…, the same type,” Wylie responds, “but it had four rounds remaining.”

“Where do you keep it?” I inquire.

“In the safe in our master bedroom,” Wylie answers.

“Would you mind checking if it’s still there?” I ask.

“No, not at all,” Wylie states, turning around and beginning to walk. Trudy, Sam, and I follow him upstairs. He leads us to the master bedroom, where a king-sized bed is positioned opposite a closet with bedside tables and nightstand lights on either side. The room also features a rotating bookshelf brimming with books, a full-length wall-mounted mirror adjacent to the closet and a large television next to the mirror. As I enter the spacious room, I notice everything is meticulously arranged except for a slightly ajar closet door.

“In here,” Wylie directs, gesturing toward the expansive closet. Once we step inside, our gazes fall upon an open, empty safe near the door. It’s clear that one would not stumble upon this safe without prior knowledge. Now, I’m confident that there is no plausible scenario in which an intruder silently navigates their way upstairs, discovers this safe, and then proceeds to harm Stephanie.

“The gun is not here,” Wylie says, his fidgeting hands betraying his unease. “I believe the one you showed me downstairs belongs to us.”

“Who holds the keys to this safe?” I ask, noting the tension in his body language and voice.

“I have the key, but it can also be opened with a code…, 1577.”

“Who all knows the code?” Sam probes.

“Stephanie and Jesse, other than me.”

“Why not Theodore and Louis?” Sam asks as we step out of the closet and form a circle.

“The boys were granted permission to use the gun under the condition that they obtain approval either from Stephanie or me before taking the gun out of the safe,” Wylie explains, looking back and forth between us. “Additionally, Louis was only allowed to use the gun under observation. However, Theodore and Louis disregarded this rule last week and accessed the gun from the safe without seeking permission. So, we changed the code from 1610 to 1577 and did not inform them. Jesse, on the other hand, never misused his freedom, so we informed him of the updated code.”

“What if Jesse shared the code with them?” Trudy suggests.

“I don’t believe so,” Wylie dismisses, shaking his head. “They’re not close enough to share those kinds of details.”

“Do you suspect anyone within your family might have taken the gun from the safe and harmed your wife?” Sam inquires.

“No one,” he shrugs. “The boys would never do something like that. They’re brought up better than that.”

Sam’s tone turns unfriendly as he asks, “Did you do that?”

“I didn’t do it,” Wylie shakes his head. “I cannot shoot. I’ve Parkinson’s disease.”

Sam raises his voice, pressing further. “Then, how do you explain the gun being found in your son’s room?”

“I’ve no idea how it ended up under Austin’s bed,” he shrugs.

Sam grins triumphantly. He crosses his arm across his chest and glares at him. “How do you know we found the gun under Austin’s bed? I only mentioned it was found in your son’s room. I never mentioned it being discovered in Austin’s room or under his bed.”

Wylie’s face suddenly reddens, and his lips tremble. After contemplating, he says, “I overheard the cops discussing it.”

“Which cop exactly?”

“I don’t remember who it was,” Wylie says, his face flushing even more.

“You’re lying,” Sam accuses. “It’s written all over your face. Your face has turned quite red.”

Sam and I have distinct approaches to interrogation. Sam tends to be confrontational, while I strive to be amicable and gentle. Usually, I don’t intervene when Sam is questioning someone. However, in this case, I believe he should stop provoking Wylie. If Wylie chooses to hire a lawyer, we might not get much information from him.

“How about we have a seat and discuss it further? I propose while exchanging glances with Sam. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you take a break, and we can continue our discussion back at the station.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sam concurs, picking up on the clue. “You can go back now,” he tells Wylie.

“Thank you,” Wylie says, visibly relieved, flashing me a grateful smile before rushing to the door. He thinks he escaped the ordeal; little does he know that the actual interrogation hasn’t even started. We will keep our eyes fixed on him like a hungry vulture circling its prey until we come to that point - it is the time to peck.

Chapter 8

The castle glistens under the July sun as Sam and I finish our initial crime scene assessment. Even with the sun beating, Lost Meadow stays cool, and the air is crisp. Each refreshing breeze carries the scent of wildflowers from the woods, but the lingering smell of blood dominates, unsettling me in a way no other murder scene has.

Preliminary tasks - bringing in a sniffer dog, checking for gun residues, collecting fingerprints, and searching the home - have almost been completed, thanks to Trudy and her team. However, some tasks, like gathering the clothing worn by the family members and cross-checking their alibis, are still underway. Unfortunately, I feel pretty useless now as a pounding headache makes it hard to think straight. The pain starts at the front of my head and spreads to the back, making me nauseous. Everything is spinning, and I’m worried I might pass out in Lost Meadow. The idea of fainting at a crime scene is horrifying - I’d be a running joke for years. I can’t let that happen. All I need is a couple of Tylenol and a short nap, and I’ll be fine. I hate leaving Sam to handle everything alone, but I have no choice. I turn to him and ask quietly, “Can you manage here?”

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, giving me a concerned look. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

“I’ve got a bad headache,” I admit, trying to stay composed. “I need to sit down before I pass out.”

“Come on, over here.” Sam takes my arm and leads me to the living room. After helping me onto the sofa, he asks, “Want some water?”

I glance around and notice Trudy watching me while she talks on the phone. “No, I’m fine,” I say, trying to downplay it. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it,” I add, gripping his arm, “please…”

He understands my predicament. “You want to head back to the station?” he asks.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” I say.

“Not at all. You go rest. I’ll hold down the fort here,” he assures me, smiling. Sam’s a solid partner - I trust him completely.

“We should interview them before they lawyer up. I think the killer is in the family,” I tell him.

“Who do you think it is?” Sam asks, intrigued.

“It could be anyone,” I say, thinking out loud. “Austin’s definitely a possibility. He was home with Stephanie, and we found the gun under his bed. Plus, he’s had violent outbursts before, so he’s capable. Then there’s Wylie; spouses are always suspects, and he was the first one to find the body besides Austin. He even tried to push the suicide angle, and his story got holes, like that grocery thing,” I pause, rubbing my forehead. “And let’s not forget the other two sons. Trudy said they had problems with Stephanie, and we found the dog locked in Jesse’s room. What if he locked it up to avoid interruptions and then forgot? Or maybe someone else did it to make him look guilty?” I pause again, catching my breath. “Even Ben, the neighbour, feels off. He looked scared and tense. Why so jumpy if he’s innocent? Honestly, it could be anyone,” I sigh. “Even her ex-husband with a record, though I doubt it was a stranger. To get to the bottom of this, we need those interviews, and we need them fast.”

Although there are many suspects to consider, at this point, I don’t find this case particularly challenging. All I require is a strategic interview to ascertain the actual perpetrator. I’m pretty confident about that.

“Once we finish here, I’ll get them to the station for the interviews,” Sam promises.

“Is everything okay?” Trudy asks, coming over to us. “You don’t look well.”

“I’ve got a headache,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m thinking of heading back to the station. Will you be alright here?”

“We’ll be fine. You go rest,” she says reassuringly. “I’ve got some Tylenol in my car. Want me to grab it for you?”

“I’ve already had a couple,” I say quickly, not wanting to be a bother. I’m here to work, not get in the way. My cheeks burn even more at the thought.

Trudy places a cool hand on my forehead. It’s comforting, and I kind of wish she’d leave it there longer. “No fever,” she says, pulling her hand back. “Anything else I can do?”

“I appreciate it, Trudy, but I’ll be fine. Just need some rest,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“If it cheers you up,” Trudy smiles warmly, “we’ve got some new info. My team talked to the neighbours to figure out the timing of the gunshot. The nearest home to Fleming’s is the Bennetts',” she gestures to the right, “which is vacant. Hughes’s home is the next closest,” she motions in the other direction. “According to Ben, he wasn’t home and didn’t hear anything. However, at around 9 am, his wife Delores heard some noises but didn’t pay much attention as she was in her downstairs office on the phone. She works from home. Adams is another neighbour, and their house is next to Hughes. The husband and wife were home this morning, and they heard gunshots at 9. They heard three or four shots but weren’t entirely sure.”

“That’s good to hear,” I smile. “You’re spoiling us,” I joke before getting serious again. “So, Wylie left home at 8.45, then his sons and the shooting happened around 9, right after they left.”

“That’s the most likely scenario,” Trudy agrees, “unless it happened while one of them was still home.”

“I need you to check everyone’s whereabouts during the murder, including Hughes. Verify their alibis, and let me know if there are any inconsistencies,” I instruct.

“I’ll get on it,” Trudy says.

“Also, see if anyone from your team mentioned finding the gun under Austin’s bed while Wylie was around. I want to make sure Wylie isn’t lying.”

“I don’t think anyone would’ve done that,” Trudy says defensively, “but I’ll check.”

“Keep me posted on any updates,” I tell Sam.

“Will do,” Sam replies.

“Sorry to leave you with all the work. I’d stay if I could,” I apologize.

“Don’t worry about it, Curtis. Trudy and her team are here to help. I’ll be fine,” Sam reassures me with a smile.

“Need a ride back to the station? I can arrange it,” Trudy offers.

I hesitate. I came here with Sam, so I don’t have my car. I could borrow Sam’s, but driving isn’t an option in my current state. A ride back sounds like a good idea. I nod.

“Just a moment, I’ll arrange it,” Trudy says, heading outside.

“She likes you,” Sam comments, watching her go. I don’t mention that I’m starting to like her too.

“What can I say? I’m quite the charmer,” I joke.

A few minutes later, Anthony, one of the constables, drives me back to the station. Once there, I take a couple more Tylenol, lock the room Miles set up for Sam and me, and prop my feet on the table.

“Let me know when you’re sending them my way,” I text Sam before closing my eyes. I’m out like a light in minutes. When I wake up about an hour later, the headache is gone, and my phone is ringing.

Chapter 9

At 4.30 pm, I close the door to the interview room and take a seat facing it. Brad Williams, a police officer from Trudy’s team, sits a few feet away in the corner, setting up his laptop. A video camera is mounted in the left-hand corner of the ceiling, capturing the entire room. Wylie sits across the table from me, clearly visible to the camera. The table holds a laptop, recorder, tissue box, and water bottle. I move everything to the side, open the laptop, and then look at Wylie.

“I understand how difficult this must be for you, especially discussing it so soon after your wife’s murder. I’m here to request your assistance in finding the killer as early as possible.” Speaking gently, I express sympathy and concern, mindful of our previous acquaintanceship, yet careful to maintain professional boundaries. Until this case is resolved, I consider every single member of Fleming as a potential suspect, and I’m resolute in my commitment to prevent anything from interfering with my investigation. “As we proceed, there will be some questions I have already asked you, and I may repeat them for the record. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in the court. You also have the right to hire a lawy-”

“That’s not necessary,” Wylie interjects before I finish. I glance at him, a bit puzzled. “I mean the lawyer,” he clarifies, reading my expression. “I’ve Parkinson’s disease,” he extends his hand, displaying his mildly trembling fingers and continues, “I can’t shoot anyone, let alone fire four shots into my wife’s beautiful body without missing a single one. I didn’t do it. It’s that simple.”

I notice his natural defensiveness as he sits upright in the office chair with his legs crossed over his knees. I replaced the usual banquet chairs in the room with office chairs for a specific reason - I didn’t want him to feel confined in a basic chair in a bare room. My intention was to create an environment that would help him relax and open up. I even left the window slightly open to let the breeze in.

“It’s a formality I’m required to inform you about. If you don’t want a lawyer, that’s perfectly fine with me,” I inform him.

“Very well then.” He nods with a tight smile.

“Who is your family doctor?” I ask.

“Dr. Gillian Smith,” he says, his arms wrapped around his torso. “Is this about confirming my diagnosis?” he asks but continues without giving me a chance to reply. “Don’t waste your time on it. I’ve got all my medical documents in my truck. I knew you would ask for it.”

The fact that his wife was just murdered, a tragic and unexpected event, didn’t deter him from bringing the medical documents to the station to prove his innocence, which strikes me as strange. “I would like to see that for sure, but I’m curious, how did you access it? I believe the house was secured as soon as the police arrived on the scene,” I say.

He flushes, caught off guard. He uncrosses his legs and shifts back in his chair. After a few moments of silence, he says, “I left it in my truck after my last appointment a month ago.”

“Alright then.” I offer a reassuring smile, pretending to buy his story. “Could you please tell me what you’ve been doing this morning since you woke up?” I ask, directing my attention to his eyes. He attempts to hold my gaze but gives in after a few seconds. His eyelids flutter more than usual, and I notice a shadow of fear and tension in those black eyes. Ironically, what’s missing there is the pain and grief one might expect from someone who’s just lost his wife. Avoiding my eyes, he nervously shifts his gaze to the table and the laptop lid.

“I woke up around quarter past eight,” he pauses, pondering his following words. He knows that bringing the medical documents may have been a blunder, and I can tell he’s being cautious to avoid repeating another mistake. He licks his lips and continues, his eyes still downcast. “When I got up, Stephanie wasn’t home. She went to visit our neighbour, Delores.”

“Do you know why she went to see Delores?” I inquire, observing the beads of sweat popping up on his forehead.

“Delores was her best friend,” he explains. “It was normal for her to visit. They’re both in a local book club that meets monthly. This month’s meeting was set to occur at our house later this evening. Stephanie went there to discuss something about it, probably the snacks. I was having breakfast when she got back.”

“Did you prepare breakfast this morning?”

“No,” Wylie shrugs. “I never cook at home. It’s not my department,” he says, giving me a skeptical look as if wondering why I even asked. He seems like one of those men who believe that cooking and cleaning are exclusively a woman’s domain. I can’t help but feel sorry for Stephanie, imagining the life she must have led. Then it hits me - I’m not so different. I’ve always assumed that Natasha should handle the housework. Wylie’s words are a wake-up call, and I start feeling sorry for Natasha.

“Stephanie had already made breakfast,” Wylie continues, “and the boys were at the table, having breakfast. Austin was still asleep, as usual. He tends to sleep in until around ten or eleven.”

“After breakfast, what did you do?”

“I left home around quarter to nine to go to Sobeys to buy snacks and other items because Stephanie asked me to. Stephanie wanted these snacks for her book club meeting and asked me to get them. That’s why I went shopping early in the morning. It was Stephanie’s idea.”

As he repeats himself to reinforce the point, I interject, “You went shopping as per Stephanie’s request. Then?”

“When I left, my three sons were at home, and Stephanie was in the kitchen. After finishing the shopping, I returned home about an hour and a half later.”

“Do you recall the time back then?”

“I believe it was around half past ten.”

“Hmm.”

“Typically, when I shop for groceries, I use the kitchen entrance for easy carrying, and today was no exception. The kitchen door was wide open. As I parked and got out of the car, I heard Austin. I sensed trouble from the loud, frantic noises instead of his usual chatter. I rushed inside and found Stephanie on the kitchen floor.” Wylie grabs a tissue from the table, swiftly wiping the sweat from his forehead while pretending to dry tears.

“Are you alright? You’re sweating,” I point out.

“I’m okay,” he replies, waving off the question. He still avoids meeting my gaze. He tucks the tissue into the pocket of his khaki pants and continues. “It was obvious she was dead. There was nothing I could do to help her. I grabbed Austin and rushed outside. He had blood all over him,” he sighs. “That’s how I got the blood on my shirt,” he emphasizes as if he wants to ensure I understand that part. “Afterward, I called 911.”

“There was more than one gunshot wound on Stephanie’s body. There was no gun near her body. She was preparing for the book club meeting, indicating no plans to end her life. Still, you told the operator she had taken her own life. What was the reason behind that?”

“I’ve already answered that,” he says, sounding annoyed. “I’ve lived here for fourteen years, and there’s never been a break-in. Nothing like that has ever happened in my neighbourhood. I didn’t consider the possibility of an intruder in my wildest dream. Plus, she’d been acting weird the past few days, so I thought she might have done this to herself.”

“Acting weird?” I ask.

“She was usually full of energy, never sat down unless she was reading, always busy with something, and taking care of Austin around the clock,” he explains. “But the last few days, she was gloomy and spent much more time in bed.”

“Didn’t you ask her what was going on?” I follow up.

“Yeah, I did,” he says. “She said she was tired and didn’t say much else. She mostly avoided talking about it.”

“What about the gun? If she killed herself, wouldn’t it be near her body? You didn’t see anything besides her body, did you?”

“Listen,” he says, his tone sharp. “I wasn’t trying to find a gun or anything. The whole thing was a mess and pretty gruesome. On top of that, I was struggling with Austin. I didn’t even get a proper look at her, let alone notice a gun.”

“Oh, I see,” I nod. “Regarding the murder weapon, you mentioned you kept it in the safe in your master bedroom, and only you, Stephanie and Jessie knew the code. What about Austin? Is there any chance he knew the code?”

“I’m not sure about Austin. There’s a chance Stephanie opened the safe in his presence, but I’m unsure if he can memorize the code. He has been diagnosed with Autism.”

“Which level?”

“I believe he’s at ASD level 2 or 3,” he says unsurely.

“Don’t you know for sure?” I squint. “He’s your son,” I remind him.

“He’s on the border of levels two and three, or at least that’s what Stephanie used to say. I’ve been occupied with our businesses and other matters. Stephanie used to manage everything at home, including the children and their needs. I’ve never had to handle anything at home, so I may not know much about that area. However, if you were to inquire about the business, I’d have all the details at my fingertips. Stephanie wouldn’t have known much about my business. You see, we maintain a balance and respect each other’s space. Stephanie never had any problem with that.”

“I understand your points,” I agree with him, although I doubt the last part - Stephanie never had any problem with that! Come on, man! Give me a break! Is there any woman who wouldn’t want a minor involvement of their husband in every aspect of their life, especially regarding the children? From what I’ve seen firsthand, they desire complete involvement and then some.

“So, getting back to Austin, does he speak?”

“He communicates in his language, mostly unintelligible. After years of practice, Stephanie managed to coax a few words from him; very few words, like water, coffee, pee, and poo. However,” he sighs and whispers, as though sharing a secret, “I believe he understands more than we have always assumed.” Leaning forward, he crosses his arms over the table. I adjust the laptop slightly to my right side to see him clearly. I want to ensure I don’t miss any subtle movements in his facial expressions or body language. Peeking through the one-way glass window and brightening the room, even the evening sun provides me with a clearer view.

“Why do you say that?” I tilt my head and inquire.

“Because he understood that something had happened to his momma. He kept saying certain things very fast and loud. That is what he does when he’s upset. I had to struggle to get him out of that kitchen. And strangely enough, he kept pointing to the kitchen door, saying, Nana. He calls everyone nana,” he reflects momentarily and corrects. “I meant every man. He calls every man nana, even me. Stephanie tried to get him to say ‘dada’ or ‘papa,’ but he couldn’t quite pick it up. Women are momma for him.”

“So maybe he witnessed someone harming his mother and escaping through the kitchen door. Perhaps it was a man,” I speculate.

Wylie nods in agreement. “That’s what I thought.”

“What do you think about Austin possibly memorizing the code when Stephanie opened the safe in his presence? Is it possible? Do you think he can unlock the safe, retrieve the gun, and shoot his mother multiple times?” I ask solely to determine if Wylie is intentionally trying to protect Austin, as Miles believes.

“I’ve doubts about his ability to memorize things, but he’s capable of other things.”

“If he couldn’t remember the code, how could he open the safe? So, I’ll take your answer as a no.”

“Unless I or anyone else left the safe open without realizing it,” he suggests, putting forth the idea for me to explore. Wylie’s words directly contradict Miles’s belief that Wylie is lying to protect Austin. In fact, it seems the other way around. Perhaps Wylie wants us to consider the possibility that Austin could have done it or even the man who escaped through the kitchen door. He doesn’t seem to object, as long as the suspect is not himself but anyone else.

“Did it happen before?”

“It happened a few times,” he says apologetically. “It’s possible. I left it open a few times, and so did Louis before we changed the code,” he stresses.

“Louis?” I raise my eyebrows.

“He enjoys checking out the gun, you know, giving it a good once-over. Whenever Austin’s around, he’s all about showing it off, explaining what makes it cool.”

“You let your 14-year-old retrieve the gun from the safe and show it to your son, who is differently abled and has violent tendencies?” I ask, perplexed.

“I regret it now. I was too lenient with my boys. They were well-behaved, not troublemakers, and we trusted them.”

“Trusted…?” I frown. “Don’t you trust them anymore?”

“I do. I still trust them. It’s just that,” he runs his hand through his hair, “the gun was found under Austin’s bed, and it’s bothering me.

“Why is it troubling you?” I press further.

“Because… because,” he stumbles, shifting uncomfortably before crossing his legs. “I’m scared even to think that Austin might have gotten the gun because of my carelessness.” Here he goes again, attempting to portray Austin as a potential suspect in my mind.

“So, you doubt whether Austin did it!” I remark, watching his reaction closely. He nods, affirming my statement. “But why do you consider it as your mistake? You aren’t even sure if you left the safe open. It’s only a possibility.”

“I should’ve ensured the safe was closed before leaving home.”

“No point crying over spilled milk,” I point out and continue. “When did you last open this safe?”

“Oh, just last week when I reset the code,” he responds. “It’s been at least a year since I’ve used the gun, though,” he adds.

“Have you ever allowed Austin to use the gun?” I ask.

“No. I never did it, but I’m not sure about Stephanie. She was the one who always stayed with him.”

“Do you know if Stephanie had any enemies?”

“No,” he shrugs. “Not possible. She was an incredible human being. Why would anyone hold grudges against her?” he pauses, deep in thought, then continues. “Maybe her ex-husband; he disapproved of our relationship and threatened to kill us when he found out about us.”

“Have you ever met him since moving here?” I ask.

“No, not really,” he pauses before continuing. “Once, I thought I saw him in a black truck around Creekbridge and joked about it to Stephanie. It must have been someone else. There’s no way he can still look that young and handsome after all these years.”

“What was the relationship like between Stephanie and your boys?”

“Louis adored her. As for Austin, his feelings depended on his mood, so I’m not very sure. Jesse and Theo weren’t very close to her, and it was the same with me. Youngsters… you know how they can be with their parents?” he sighs.

“What about you? How was your marriage life?”

“It was great,” he responds with a smile. “We were very happy and content in our relationship.”

I open my mouth to ask the next question, but a knock at the door interrupts. As I grant permission, Anthony enters the room and whispers in my ear. “Austin is exhausted and about to knock off. Should we let him rest until you finish your interview with Wylie? He might not wake up easily,” he suggests. Letting Austin sleep might not be a good idea; I might lose the chance to talk to him today. I signal for Anthony to wait and turn back to Wylie.

“Do you mind if I call Austin and ask him a few questions in front of you?” I ask him.

“No worries. But…, can I have a break for a few minutes? I need some water, please?”

“Sure, no rush. Take your time,” I tell him. As I rise from the chair, I slide the water bottle toward him. He quickly grabs the water bottle but struggles to open the lid with shaking hands. It’s now evident - the tremors in his fingers. If these tremors are not faked, he has a point - he couldn’t have fired four shots to Stephanie’s face without missing at least one. If he didn’t kill Stephanie, why does he sound like he’s trying to hide something? Why do some of his statements lack coherence? He must undergo a thorough investigation to get to the bottom of this.

Chapter 10

While Wylie clumsily drinks from a water bottle, spilling more than he drinks, I step outside and walk to the rear of the building. I need to check in with Sam - he still hasn’t returned from Lost Meadow, and I’m wondering what’s holding him up. The last time I spoke with him, before commencing the interview with Wylie, we discussed the absence of gun residues on the hands and clothes of those they had checked. It didn’t surprise me that no one from Fleming or Hughes had any gun residue on their body or clothes. If this was a premeditated crime, there wouldn’t be any gun residue, and I somehow suspect that might be the case here.

I sit on a garden bench and dial Sam’s number. As it rings, I look around at the building. The police station, though about a century old, has had its share of renovations. The back is rectangular, with many closed windows arranged in rows. The red bricks around the windows look as old as the building itself, unlike the front, which has been updated with glass doors and a porch. Behind the station is a quiet, empty piece of land - the right place to clear my head.

After ten seconds, Sam finally picks up. “What’s going on over there?” I ask, leaning back and resting my arm on the bench.

“The tire marks we found are definitely from a Jeep Compass,” Sam says.

“That was quick. Trudy and her team are really on top of things,” I reply.

“It wasn’t too hard to collect from the database, but you’re right. Trudy’s team is impressive. We haven’t worked with anyone this good before.”

“Agreed. We need to look into anyone in Fleming’s circle who owns a Jeep,” I say.

“We’ll get on it.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Did I mention only Wylie’s fingerprints were found in the safe? No one else.”

“That doesn’t mean Wylie’s the killer. He owned the gun, so his prints make sense. The regular cleaning of the safe could cause the lack of other prints. If the killer wore gloves, there wouldn’t be any prints.”

“So, you don’t think Wylie did this?”

“With Parkinson’s, if he’s not faking it, he wouldn’t have been able to shoot so accurately and quickly.”

“Oh, really?” Sam responds, and then there’s a pause. “Listen,” he says softly, drawing out the word. From his tone, I can tell he’s about to get personal. “I wanted to apologize for this morning. I didn’t mean to bring up something you’d rather forget.”

“You’re talking about Natasha?” I guess.

“Yeah.”

“You know, you’re still bringing it up by saying this,” I remind him.

I get it. I really do. And I’m sorry to bring this up now. Since you don’t want to discuss it later, I must say it. Natasha can be a bit bossy, but she’s got a good heart. She took great care of you, and people like that are rare these days. Don’t let her slip away so easily.”

I throw my hands up, feeling the heat rising in my ears, the vein in my forehead throbbing. “Took great care of me?” I scoff. “Like I’m a kid. Wow! That’s thoughtful. Let me show you how fine I can be without someone telling me what to do.”

“Uh-oh, sorry if I upset you. I’ll drop it. You don’t want to talk about it,” he says apologetically, then hangs up without letting me vent my frustration.

I focus on the red brick wall, trying to calm myself. I wonder how long it will stay strong against the wind, snow, and rain. Suddenly, a voice breaks my thoughts. “Hi, Curtis.” I turn to my left and see Anthony standing there. “Wylie and Austin are ready for their interviews,” he says before disappearing as quietly as he arrived.

Chapter 11

Not long after, Brad and I head back to the interview room, where Austin and Wylie wait. Wylie is slumped in a black mesh office chair, angled to the side, creating space between them. When he spots me, he swivels around and sits up straight, looking slightly flustered. Austin, though, seems calm but worn out. His eyes, once full of sparkle, especially when he was with his mom, now look heavy and lifeless. Out of all the family members, he’s the only one who seems affected by Stephanie’s death. I’m not sure if it’s because he saw something terrible or if he might’ve been involved somehow. He’s sitting with his head slightly tilted to the right, his mouth hanging open, partly hiding the groove between his nose and lips. There are no tears, but it sure looks like he’s crying. Now and then, he wipes his nose on the sleeve of his black John Deere T-shirt.

“Looks like he’s doing a bit better,” I say as I sit across the table from them. “At least he’s calmed down some.”

“He took an Ativan and Seroquel, and those helped. We don’t like giving him psychotic meds, but sometimes he gets so out of hand that we don’t have much of a choice,” Wylie says with a weary sigh. His words are heavy with disappointment and sadness, but I’m not buying it - it feels feigned, considering how they struggle out of his throat.

“I see,” I nod.

I proceed with the formal introduction and remind him of his right to remain silent or have an attorney present during interrogation. He shrugs it off with a faint smile that quickly disappears when he realizes I’m paying attention.

“Hey, Austin,” I say, leaning in and offering a handshake. He doesn’t respond. His head droops, almost touching his shoulder like he’s about to nod off. I’ve met many people in the interrogation room, but I’ve never felt unsure how to approach someone. If it weren’t necessary, I wouldn’t be doing this. Unless he’s the killer, Austin might be the only one who knows who did it. Somehow, I’ve got to get that name out of him. Once I do, I can focus on that person instead of sifting through everyone in the family and the neighbourhood. But getting anything out of him is going to be tricky. I’ve got to figure it out.

“He’s medicated… doubt he’ll say much,” Wylie says, pulling my attention back.

“How does he call his mom? Momma?” I ask Wylie.

“Yeah. Like I mentioned earlier,” Wylie reminds me, “every man is nana to him, and every woman is momma. He calls me Nana and his mother, Momma.”

“He doesn’t call his brothers by their names, right?” I ask.

“That’s right,” Wylie confirms, shaking his head slightly. “Stephanie tried hard. After a few years, she finally accepted that he couldn’t do it. To him, all his brothers are nana.”

I pause for a moment, watching Austin. “So, he can tell the difference between men and women,” I remark.

“Mostly. If someone has long hair, they’re a woman. Short hair means a man.”

“That’s pretty sharp,” I note.

“Yeah, it is,” Wylie agrees.

“Austin… Do you know what happened to your momma?” I ask, keeping it simple and direct. Once again, he ignores me.

Suddenly, an idea hits me. I turn to Wylie and ask, “Do you have a recent picture of Stephanie on your phone?”

“We’re not big on taking photos, but my little one loves snapping pictures of us,” Wylie smiles. “I’ve got a few he sent me, but my phone is with Theo.”

It takes Anthony about five minutes to find Theodore and another three to convince him to hand over the phone. Once he does, Anthony brings it to the interview room. Wylie scrolls through his phone and shows me a picture of Stephanie. “There are a few in this folder. Go ahead and look through them,” he says, passing me his phone.

The image shows Stephanie from the side, taken candidly in their rooftop garden. Beautiful flowers surround her, but they’re nothing compared to her. She looks unaware of the camera, her eyebrows elegantly arched and one arm extended like she’s stopping someone. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, gently blowing in the breeze. She looks mature and classic in a beige pencil skirt and a flowery georgette blouse. Red stilettos encase her slender feet, complementing her blouse and nail polish. Her long legs could easily rival a model’s, not to mention her impeccable style.

“Austin, do you know who this is?” I ask, turning the phone and holding it in front of him. At first, he avoids looking, his head still leaning on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the floor. I repeat the question a bit louder, and it catches his attention. He’s still emotionless, but at least he’s looking at the picture now. I lean closer, zooming in on Stephanie’s face and holding the screen before his eyes.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Wylie interrupts.

“Shh,” I hush him with a wave.

“Do you know who this is?” I ask again. Austin stares at the picture, but his face doesn’t give anything away. I start flipping through images, one after another.

Wylie and Louis. A family picture. Stephanie and Wylie. A screenshot of Wylie and Louis on a video call. Stephanie and Wylie with Ben and a woman - probably Delores. Stephanie and Louis. Another screen shot of Wylie and Louis on a video call. Another family picture.

Suddenly, I notice a change. Austin straightens his head and glares at the screen, brows furrowed.

I scroll back to see which picture triggered him, this time slowly. Wylie and Louis on a video call. Austin’s breathing picks up. I take a moment and scroll back again. It’s a picture of Stephanie and Louis. Austin leans forward, eyes blazing, and for a second, I think he’s going to jump across the table at me, but I keep scrolling back. Now, it’s a picture of Wylie and Stephanie with the neighbours. Austin grabs the phone and hurls it at the wall. It hits and falls to the floor in two pieces. He jumps up, grunting, and shoves his chair back, knocking it over. He then grabs the laptop from the table and aims it at me, but Brad holds him from behind.

“I warned you,” Wylie snaps, yanking the laptop from Austin and handing it to me. Well, I wanted to provoke a reaction from Austin and get him to say something, but not like this.

“Momma,” Austin yells at the top of his lungs, shaking the room.

Two cops rush in and grab him. He fights them off, thrashing wildly. I’m still trying to figure out which picture set him off - his mood changed with each one. “Maybe he’s upset seeing Stephanie’s face,” I wonder out loud.

“I think he needs to go to the hospital,” Wylie says, watching in fear as Austin wrestles with the two officers, each twice his size, like they’re nothing.

I grab a pair of handcuffs from one of the officers as they restrain Austin. Brad struggles to pull his hands together, and I snap the cuffs on his wrists in the front.

“Get him to the hospital,” I order, watching Austin go wild, even while handcuffed. “He’s capable of killing,” I mutter as they take him away.

Chapter 12

“Did I hear right that Austin had an outburst? How bad was it?” Sam asks as he sets a cup of Caffè Misto before me. I’m in our makeshift office, typing on my laptop while Sam returns from Dark Hill.

“Thanks,” I say, nodding toward the coffee. “Bad enough that four strong men struggled to restrain him. I had to send him to the hospital,” I reply, my fingers still moving over the keyboard. “Everything sorted out there?” I ask.

“Stephanie’s body is being transferred. Trudy and her team are tying up some last-minute tasks, but there wasn’t much left for me to do,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “You feeling better now?”

“Much better. I got some rest, and it helped,” I answer. “Any updates?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“There is,” he nods. “Stephanie and Austin’s life insurance policy was bumped up to a million four months ago. They were both at half a million before that,” he says.

“Wow!” I say, grinning with excitement. “Oh, Wylie! What a blunder to make!”

“So, you’re convinced Wylie did this? That’s not what you said on the phone,” Sam notes, picking up on my excitement.

“No,” I shrug. “He’s our top suspect, but we don’t have enough to pin it on him yet. Not yet,” I pause. “But with how our partners are moving, we might reach a conclusion sooner than I expected.”

“Do you know why they suddenly become so efficient?” Sam asks, a smug look on his face.

I shrug, joking, “How would I know? I was asleep here, remember?”

“Trudy has a large team stationed in this office, gathering every information we need. They’ve been directed to have everything ready before we even ask. How else do you think we’ve been getting information so fast?” he scoffs. “It’s not a miracle. It’s the power of Miles Clark. Miles doesn’t want the media to turn Stephanie’s murder into a circus, fearing his name might get dragged into it. He’s determined to find the killer before the story blows up.”

“The ex-girlfriend of the Provincial Police Commissioner found dead under suspicious circumstances? The media would have a field day!” I laugh, finding it hard to keep a straight face. I don’t hate Miles, but I don’t like him either. He’s a master manipulator, using people for his gain. I can’t stand how he pressures the team to close cases fast so that he can add another win to his record. If things don’t move at his pace, he becomes irritable and impossible to deal with.

 “You’re unbelievable,” he says, giving me a sideways glance. I’m sure he doesn’t like Miles either, but unlike me, he’s too polite to say it. Apart from our shared love for coffee, we’re pretty different. Maybe that’s why I like him.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, sipping his Tea Latte.

“Anything, buddy, as long as it’s not about you know who,” I warn him, hinting at Natasha.

“What do you think the odds are that Austin killed his mom and hid the gun under his bed?” he asks.

“Zero,” I answer without hesitation.

He sips his tea thoughtfully and asks, “Do you have any reasons for that?”

“Austin’s diagnosed with autism, likely grade three. He can barely talk; how could he know the code to open the safe and get the gun? Besides, the code was changed recently. What are the chances he saw Wylie or Stephanie open the safe and memorize the code? I don’t think he’s capable of that. Sure, he could kill someone if he wanted to, but,” I pause.

“But what?” Sam prompts.

“I don’t think Austin killed Stephanie. He’s upset because he knows someone has harmed his mom. He might not fully grasp that she’s dead, but he’s aware something terrible has happened to her, and that’s likely triggering his outbursts,” I explain.

Sam gives me a quizzical glance. “Unless for these assumptions, there are no rational explanations,” he air quotes, “that he didn’t do it.”

I lock eyes with him. “There was no gun residue on his hands, body, or clothes during the examination, right?”

“That’s correct,” Sam agrees.

“If Austin were the killer, how would he have removed the gun residue? He would’ve had to either wash his hands thoroughly after the crime or wear gloves before the shooting. The logical explanation would be that he wore gloves, as we found no fingerprints on the gun or in the safe. If he did wear gloves, think about the steps he would’ve had to take: opening the safe, retrieving the gun, shooting Stephanie four times in the face, hiding the weapon, removing the gloves, and disposing of them without leaving a trace. Austin might be capable of one or two of those actions, but not all. It’s more likely someone planted the gun under his bed to frame him,” I conclude, closing my laptop and reaching for my coffee.

“Who would do that?” Sam asks.

“Someone who wants Stephanie dead and Austin out of the way.”

“Someone from the family?”

“The person who accessed the gun must’ve known the recently changed code to open the safe. Wylie claimed he didn’t share it with anyone outside the family. So, if that’s true,” I pause.

“It has to be Wylie,” Sam exclaims, tapping the desk excitedly. “I knew it. Did anything come up during your interview with him?”

“A lot of red flags,” I admit, sipping my coffee. “But he has Parkinson’s disease and can’t accurately shoot someone four times in the face. That’s the first flaw in our theory of Wylie as the killer. The second issue is,” I raise two fingers, “a jeep was parked on the road, and someone entered their property. If the killer were Wylie or another family member, why park on the roadside, enter the house, shoot Stephanie, and then flee through the woods? Wouldn’t there be a more logical approach?”

“That’s where the idea of a hired hitman starts to make sense,” Sam remarks.

“It does, to a point. But if it were a professional, they wouldn’t have locked Rocky in that room without alerting Stephanie. Even if a family member helped with that, there’s another flaw. A professional would likely have been more discreet; fleeing through the woods isn’t exactly subtle.”

“What about her ex-husband?” Sam suggests.

“How would he know the gun’s location or the code to open the safe?” I counter.

Sam considers another angle. “What if Wylie staged this to make it look like an outsider did it?”

“If he staged it, why did he try to mislead the operator by claiming it was a suicide? He should’ve reported an intruder instead.” I shake my head. “The only way to uncover the truth is through interviews and gathering as much background information as possible.”

“Are we considering removing Austin from our list of suspects?” Sam asks.

“Not yet, unless we have some,” I air quote, mimicking his earlier gesture, “rational explanations,” and he laughs.

“Did Wylie give any other hints during your interview?” Sam asks.

“Wylie mentioned that Austin kept saying nana while pointing to the kitchen door when he found him near Stephanie’s body. If we decode this, it’s possible that the perpetrator, whether from within the family or an outsider, exited through the kitchen door after killing Stephanie. Austin likely came down the stairs after hearing the gunshots and may have glimpsed the killer leaving through the door. Whether he saw the person clearly or not is uncertain. But the killer must be a man because Austin refers to all men as nana.”

“Why do we believe Wylie? He doesn’t seem entirely trustworthy. Maybe he said that to steer us toward thinking it was an outsider,” Sam argues.

“I believe Wylie is telling the truth here because Austin did the same when the first responders arrived. After all, it’s not just about trusting Wylie. We must investigate and verify every statement, even if we suspect someone is lying.”

“So, this could be our first clue - the killer is a man?” Sam asks.

“Most likely,” I nod. “A man, possibly someone within the family, someone close to them, or someone they hired.”

Chapter 13

The time is 5.50 pm when I return to the interview room. Wylie took Austin to the hospital before I finished his interview, and I’m still awaiting his response. Eager not to waste the golden hours of the investigation, I decide to proceed with Theodore’s interview. Trudy and her team are one step ahead of us in collecting all the evidence. In my nine years of service in the police department, this is the first time someone is laying everything out for us on a silver platter. All I’ve to do now is connect the dots. It would be a shame if I couldn’t make the most of it. I resolve to do my best and not let Natasha or her thoughts distract me further. As I make this promise to myself, Theodore appears at the door, his pants halfway down his buttocks, revealing half of his Dolce & Gabbana boxers. He enters and takes a seat without even glancing my way.

Theodore appears entirely at ease, seemingly unconcerned about the world around him. He perches on the chair, leaning forward with his chin cradled in his left palm. His right hand lightly taps on the table like he’s in sync with an internal melody. His hazel eyes rove about the room, devoid of any emotion. Stephanie’s passing appears to leave no impact on him whatsoever. This comes as no surprise, considering what he confided in Trudy this morning - “I never liked Stephanie, but I didn’t kill her.” While Trudy was shocked to hear this from him, I wasn’t surprised when she shared this part of their conversation. I had been aware of his aversion to Stephanie thanks to an incident I witnessed during my visit to Purple Land last July.

It was a sunny, bustling weekend, and Purple Land was packed with visitors. The entire family had gathered to support Wylie. Stephanie, Austin, and Theodore managed the entrance and distributed tickets. As I stood there to purchase one, I observed Stephanie ask Theodore for a register. He ignored her as if her words hadn’t reached his ears.

She politely repeated her request, “Please pass me the register, Theo.”

“Shut up. Why can’t you leave me alone?” he shouted, sweeping his arm across the table, sending a few items scattering. Stephanie flinched and gave me an apologetic smile on her son’s behalf. The outburst was so intense that I felt a wave of second-hand embarrassment. Even though I was initially hesitant, I couldn’t stand by when I saw the helplessness in Stephanie’s eyes.

“Watch your mouth, young man,” I said firmly.

“Mind your own business,” he snapped and stormed out. “Trying to impress the ladies? Not by picking a fight with me, you moron,” he yelled as he walked away, giving the finger and cursing.

“I apologize for the inconvenience. It was a busy day due to the nice weather. He’s exhausted…and not in his best mood,” Stephanie tried to cover up for him, her eyes welling up.

“Rebelliousness, a typical phase of adolescence…there is nothing we can do,” I consoled her, not wanting to embarrass her further.

It has been almost a year now. I haven’t seen him since that day, and I doubt he remembers me from that encounter.

I adjust my position and begin the introduction. He averts his eyes and taps on the table more rapidly in response. His haircut follows the popular style of the 90s, with his naturally red hair parted in the middle, cascading over his cheek, hiding his ears, and neatly trimmed just above his shoulder. Despite his tall stature, he appears delicate, with a small head and a slim body. There is a subtle yellowish cast to his skin, and I can’t help but wonder if he has jaundice; however, his hooded eyes are crystal clear. I proceed with a formal introduction, but his eyes wander around the room, scanning the walls, ceilings, and floor and avoiding any connection with mine. Everything about his attitude screams boredom and disrespect.”

As soon as I finish the introduction, his demeanour shifts defensively. “I’ve no involvement in her death. I don’t know anything about that,” he says, still avoiding eye contact.

“I’m here to interview you not because I suspect you of being involved in Stephanie’s death but because I want to find the real perpetrators,” I clarify. “But for the record, I would like to ask if you know how to operate a gun.”

“I know how to operate a gun. I knew where it was stored. I had the code to open the safe - 1610, if that interests you. Anything else would you like to know?” he retorts, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“So, you weren’t aware that your father changed the code recently?”

“Did he?” he asks, his voice flat. It feels more like he was aware but pretending otherwise. “He didn’t give a shit to inform me,” he adds.

“Listen, Theodore,” I say, my tone firm. “I get how you feel about what happened, but your attitude is of no help in finding your mother’s killer.”

He furrows his brows and retorts, “She’s not my mother. I know nothing about her.”

“Still…,” I pause briefly to choose my words and add cautiously, “You lived in the same house with her.”

“So what?” he shrugs and argues, “Jesse and Austin lived there too. They would be the best people to ask all these questions. After all, they’re her sons.”

“Alright,” I respond, “I’ll ask them everything I need to know about Stephanie.”

His face lights up, and he asks expectantly, “Can I go now?

“Not quite yet,” I reply. “Before you go, I have a question for you. And as I mentioned in the introduction, if you choose not to answer, you have the right to remain silent.”

“Unless it’s for Dad, I wouldn’t answer any of your questions,” he snaps. The truth is out, whether intentionally revealed or slipped from his tongue. Wylie made him sit for the interview and urged him to answer the questions. Refusing to answer my questions wouldn’t look good, and Wylie wants to avoid that. As I ponder the reason behind this, Theodore interrupts, his impatience apparent. “Shoot the question, don’t you?”

I suppress my annoyance and force a smile. “What have you been doing this morning since you woke up?”

He takes a moment to think and asks, “If I answer this one question, will you let me go?”

“You’re not obligated to stay. You’re not in custody or anything. You can leave whenever you want,” I remind him.

A faint smile touches his face as he begins to recount his morning. “I woke up around eight this morning, brushed my teeth, came downstairs, had breakfast, and then went to my girlfriend’s place. Dad called me when he found Stephanie dead and asked me to come back. When I informed my girlfriend about it, she spoke to her father, and he gave me a ride back home. When I returned, Austin and Dad were already in the yard, waiting for the police.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t much longer after that the police arrived.”

“Wasn’t Jesse present?”

“He arrived shortly afterward.”

“Did your girlfriend’s father stay, or did he head back after dropping you off?”

“He stayed for a bit but left once the help arrived.”

“What time did you leave for your girlfriend’s place this morning?”

“I don’t know. My father left first, and shortly after, I headed out. Stephanie was in the kitchen, and Jesse was upstairs when I left.”

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Destiny Childs.”

“How far is Destiny’s place from yours?”

“About three miles.”

“Did you walk there?”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Are you kidding? I went there on my bike.”

“When did you reach Destiny’s place?”

“I didn’t check the time. It was roughly around 20 minutes later,” he replies without interest.

“Is it typically a twenty-minute ride from your home to hers?”

“More or less.”

“Do you have a job, or are you still in school?”

“I’ve finished my schooling,” he replies, peeved. “I help my father with his business.”

“Was your father aware you were going to Destiny’s place?”

“Everyone knew,” he snaps, his annoyance becoming more apparent. “Last night at dinner, Dad asked me to mow the lawn in the morning to help Stephanie, and I told him I was planning to visit Destiny. Then he asked Jesse, who said no because he had plans to go fishing with his friends.”

“What time is your usual wake-up time in the morning?”

“Usually around eleven or twelve. It depends.”

“Depends on what?” I probe further.

“I don’t know...,” he shrugs, “maybe on how long I stayed up playing video games the previous night.”

“So, how did you manage to get up early this morning? Unlike other days.”

He rolls his eyes for the second time and says, “I had made plans to meet my girlfriend.”

“Did you play video games last night?” I inquire.

“I play every day,” he retorts.

“What’s your favourite game?”

“Doom, Deadspace and Bulletstorm.”

“Doom, Deadspace and Bulletstorm,” I whisper. Although the names sound familiar, I’ve no idea what they are. I’m illiterate when it comes to video games.

“Those are games that mainly involve gunplay,” Sam, seated in the next room and observing us on a screen, volunteers information through the microphone, aware of my lack of expertise in the area.

“I enjoy a bit of adventure when it comes to games. That’s all,” Theodore says as the silence stretches.

“Mm-hmm,” I respond. “What time did you go to bed yesterday?”

“I don’t know... maybe around 4 o’clock,” he answers.

“Then you woke up at 8,” I frown.

“Around that time.”

“Because you had plans to meet Destiny? I ask. He doesn’t reply but nods.

“Who made the plan to meet your girlfriend this morning, you or her?”

Suddenly, his expression changes, and he raises his voice. “Why are you hitting me with all these questions? You said one question... one question to find Stephanie’s killer,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “You’ve already asked me a ton about my life, and now you want to dig into my girlfriend’s, who has nothing to do with Stephanie or her murder. I’m done,” he says, starting to get up.

“Go ahead,” I calmly respond, reclining in my chair.

He stares at me, perplexed. “What?” he asks.

“You can leave now.” I reiterate.

“I can go home?” he seeks confirmation.

I rise from my seat, approach the door, and open it for him. “Wherever you want to,” I tell him.

With that, he springs up from his chair and dashes out of the room, his face radiant like the evening sun streaming through the window.

Chapter 14

As Theodore slips out the door and disappears from my view, I retrieve my phone from my pocket, hoping to find an update from Trudy. To my surprise, the notifications are not from Trudy but from Natasha. There are three missed calls from Natasha and a text that reads, “I’m at home to take some of my belongings. Hope you’re doing okay.”

“Well…what are your thoughts on that?” Sam inquires as he enters the room, settling into the seat Theodore had occupied just moments ago.

“Moving forward is usually a positive thing,” I absentmindedly remark, referring to Natasha’s action.

“What?” he questions, clearly confused. His gaze swiftly shifts from my face to my phone.

It suddenly occurs to me that Sam’s question is not about Natasha but something entirely different. I quickly flip my phone and ask, “Sorry, what did you ask?”

“I asked what you think about Theodore and his statements,” he pauses. “Unless you’d rather discuss something else,” he adds, a broad grin spreading across his face.

“He didn’t open up as I expected,” I remark as I type a message to Natasha. “That is fine. I’m doing great. Hope you’re doing well.” I read over my message and tap the blue arrow. As it’s sent, I toss my phone onto the table and gaze at Sam.

“Opening up can be quite a challenge, even with those we’re closest to,” Sam says, winking his left eye. I know his words are directed at me, but I ignore them. He then spreads his arms and asks, “And how can we expect an arrogant teenager to disclose everything to the police?”

“Indeed,” I nod in agreement.

Sam was in the adjacent room as I interviewed Theodore, closely observing the proceedings. Between us, we adhere to a strict policy; one of us conducts the interviews with a colleague present, while the other watches it on a monitor from a separate room, taking notes. We often alternate roles based on the circumstances. Given my seniority and experience, I typically lead the initial round of questioning. We both wear microphones during the interviews, allowing the observer to jump in with additional questions if needed. We adopted this method so that if anything requires immediate action, the other person can handle it without interrupting the interview. Today, Sam remained silent throughout the interrogation, except for providing that clarification on video games, a signal that he was content with the information provided by Theodore.

“He’s not emotionally attached to Stephanie. The positive thing is that he was upfront about it. However, he was reluctant to answer many questions, particularly those related to timelines. He loves saying “I don’t know” so much. That’s suspicious. Also, I think he knows the new code for that locker. When I told him his dad changed it last week, he didn’t seem surprised like I thought he would. We’ll need Trudy’s assistance to validate the accuracy of his statement,” I say as I dial Trudy.

“Trudy,” I get straight to the point as she answers the phone, “I know you’re already checking the family’s whereabouts at the time of Stephanie’s death. Please contact Destiny Childs, Theodore’s girlfriend. Verify when Theodore arrived at her house this morning, who arranged the meeting, and whether their morning meetings are a regular occurrence or a recent development. I also need the phone histories and Google search records for everyone in both Fleming and Hughes.”

“I’ll do my best,” Trudy replies. “Have you come across any information that raises suspicions about Theodore?” she inquires.

“Not really,” I say, “but his dodging my questions makes me wonder. Why not tell the truth if you’ve nothing to hide?”

“It could be the typical teenager attitude, but it’s worth checking,” she says.

“Yeah, it might be,” I nod, acknowledging her valid point. “Do you have any updates from your end?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Trudy responds. “A few indeed. I checked with my team to see if they talked about finding the gun under Austin’s bed near Wylie, and there’s a chance they did. Two of my officers discussed it in the yard, but Wylie was a few meters away. They’re uncertain if he overheard them, and they emphasize the chances are slim. Regardless, I apologize for this mistake.”

“I’m sure you’ve briefed your officers not to repeat this mistake,” I comment, hiding my disappointment.

“I did. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Not your fault,” I say. “What else do you have?” I ask.

“The vehicle parked on the road was identified as a Jeep Compass.”

“Sam mentioned that to me,” I inform her. “What about the footprint?” I inquire.

“As of now, we only know it’s probably size 12 shoes. We’re waiting for more details,” she says.

“Good, keep me updated,” I say. “We must find out who owns a Jeep Compass in Fleming’s close circle.”

“It seems like someone nearby owns a Jeep Compass. One of my team members noticed a Jeep Compass passing through the road in front of Lost Meadow a couple of times but was too far away to identify the driver.”

“It’s not uncommon for a killer to revisit the scene after the crime. Please keep an eye out,” I say, then quickly add, “I know you will.”

“I’ve also arranged to review the footage from one of the police cars parked on the road. It shouldn’t take much time to identify the owner,” she assures me.

“Don’t waste your resources and time on it,” I tell her. “If all else fails, you can ask around the neighbourhood. They probably know the owner if it’s someone from the hill.”

“That’s a good idea,” she responds enthusiastically. “We’ve also received information about Wylie’s first wife’s death. He was married to Ezra Law, Theodore’s mom, before marrying Stephanie. She was found shot dead in their Saskatoon home, and it was reported as suicide. Allegedly, she had postpartum depression. He moved out of the province soon after her death.”

“Wow! Both of his wives died under suspicious circumstances! That is something worth investigating.”

“Absolutely,” Trudy continues, “his first wife’s death was ruled as a suicide by gunshot, and now, his second wife was murdered by gunshot. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Suspicious, isn’t it?” I pose a counter-question. Sam leans forward, keen to listen to our conversation. I signal him with a pointed finger to wait for a moment.

“More than suspicious, I would say,” Trudy says. “What if Wylie killed Stephanie, left the gun in her hand to stage it as a suicide, and then went shopping? Austin then might have taken the gun and hidden it under his bed, fearing the intruder would return and shoot again. Wylie must have failed to notice it when he returned.

“You didn’t find any gun residue on Austin’s hands, did you?” I ask.

“No,” Trudy confirms.

“Nor his fingerprints on the gun?”

“What if he wore gloves?”

“Why would he wear gloves if he had nothing to do with the murder but was simply hiding the weapon? Or, in a frantic situation where we fear for our lives, who would remember to wear gloves? Even if he did wear gloves, where did the gloves go? You searched the entire house and found nothing except the gun. Austin didn’t leave the house, so the gloves should be there if he used them.”

“You’re correct. Charlie would have recovered it if it was in the house.

“Also, if Wylie wanted to stage it as a suicide, then there would be only one gunshot wound on Stephanie’s body, not four.”

“Oops… My bad,” she murmurs, a touch of sheepishness colouring her voice. “You’re right. Your point completely undermined my theory. My apologies.”

“Don’t worry, Trudy. In an investigation, we explore various possibilities, even ones that might not make sense. I’ve considered the scenario where Stephanie shot herself but survived, and Austin might have shot her to spare her pain or at her request. However, the lack of gun residue on Stephanie and Austin’s hands and clothes contradicts this theory. What I’m getting at is it’s normal to wrestle with these thoughts. It is part of the process,” I reassure her. “Have you finished searching the house?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Yes. We’re done.”

“Did you find anything significant?”

“Nothing important,” she says and pauses, clearing her throat. “We’ve seized firearm-related documents, certain health records of Austin and Stephanie, insurance paperwork and some bank details.”

“Is that all?” I ask, noting the hesitation in her tone.

“A few other items, but nothing significant,” she responds promptly.

“I need a copy of everything taken from the home.”

“I’ll send it over,” she says. “We’re almost done. Won’t be much longer. See you soon,” she adds before hanging up.

 “Man, that was odd,” I tell Sam, who’s all ears for news.

“Did she cut you off?” he asks.

“Kind of,” I say. “Anyway,” I gesture dismissively and proceed, “Wylie’s first wife died from a gunshot, which was documented as suicide.”

“It’s strange. Isn’t it?” Sam asks. “Doesn’t it make you suspect him even more?”

“Of course it does,” I respond. “But he has Parkinson’s disease, so he couldn’t have fired those shots with such precision. Plus, he left home before the boys did and went to the grocery store, where there’s video surveillance. We can easily verify his alibi by checking when he entered the store. That’ll help us figure out where he was when Stephanie was shot. He was probably on his way to town at that time. That’s where the theory of a hired criminal comes into play, though it’s not without its flaws.”

“That’s right,” Sam agrees, “However, conducting another round of questioning with Wylie is a must.”

“That’s for sure, but let’s not wait for that. Jesse is ready for his interview. What if he brings some surprising twist to our investigation?” I propose, stretching my arms and standing up from my chair, gearing up for another pursuit. “It’s time to discover what Jesse knows about his mother’s death,” I declare as I dial Anthony to ask him to bring Jesse in for questioning.

Chapter 15

Despite being labeled as a troublemaker in the family, I find Jesse calm, composed, and more mature, even more so than the family head, Wylie.

“He had a bit of a mischievous streak, which gave Wylie and Stephanie their fair share of headaches,” that was how Trudy characterized him.

I watch him closely as he takes his seat across from me, having asked for permission. He sits upright with his hands on his lap and fingers crossed. Unlike Theodore, he’s paying close attention to every little movement and word from me, his wide blue eyes fixed on me like a keen student in class, hanging on every word. He’s a lot like Stephanie, with the same eye colour and blonde hair. He looks exceptionally handsome in his slim-fit jeans and graphic tee.

“I know you’re going through a lot right now, but it’s important I talk to you. Gathering as much information as possible is crucial for us to solve this case quickly,” I say.

He nods, a tight-lipped smile briefly appearing on his face. “My pleasure,” he responds politely.

“Let’s get started, then,” I say with a gentle sigh. “Jesse, what time did you wake up this morning?”

“Around 7 or 7.30,” he promptly responds.

“What’s the first thing you did after waking up?”

“I checked my phone while still in bed, watched a few videos, and checked social media. Then, I went downstairs for breakfast. I had breakfast with Theo and Wylie and left the house around 9.”

“Do you have a job, or are you currently studying?”

“Not at the moment. I quit my studies after high school and worked for a few months here and there. Now my parents support me,” he responds.

“Where did you go early in the morning?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “At 9 am?”

“Fishing,” he says.

“By yourself?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “with a couple of friends.”

“Can I have the names of those friends?”

I notice a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. “Why? Is it necessary?” he asks unsurely.

“It’s for the record, part of the documentation,” I say.

After a moment of thought, he answers, “Gail Knight and Jake Pollard.”

“What time did you return from fishing?”

“Around 10.50, I got a call from Wylie and headed back home immediately.”

“Did Wylie mention anything over the phone about what had happened?”

“No, he didn’t give specifics, but he said there was an emergency and asked me to return ASAP.”

“When you got back home, what did you see?”

“Wylie and Theo were in the front yard, trying to keep Austin from going back inside. The police were there, too, and they wouldn’t let me go inside to see my mom.”

“Besides fishing, do you have any other interests, perhaps shooting?” I inquire.

He notices the double interpretation of the question but agrees without hesitation. “I love shooting.”

“So, you’re familiar with the operation of guns?” I probe.

“Yes, I’m,” he agrees.

“How skilled of a shooter are you?”

“When it comes to shooting,” he tucks his hair behind his ear and continues, “Living in the woods, we are all very skilled, except Austin and Wylie. Mom never let Austin touch the gun, but Louis sometimes allowed it behind her back. Austin never used it, though. Wylie used to be the best shooter among us, but since he developed Parkinson’s disease, he isn’t as good. That’s why he sold most of his guns, keeping only one.”

“How many guns did he own, and when did he sell them?”

Jesse takes a few moments to recall and then shrugs. “He had quite a few; I don’t know the exact numbers. He sold them all three or four years ago.”

“Did you know where the gun was stored in your home and the code to open it?”

“Yes,” he nods. “It was kept in a safe in the master bedroom. I don’t have the code memorized because they changed it a few days ago, but I’ve saved it on my phone.”

“Did you share the code with anyone?”

“No,” he says, his gaze falling to the ground.

“Not even with Theodore or Louis?”

After a momentary pause, he responds, “No.”

“Are you sure?” I stress, doubting his words.

“Yes,” he asserts, his posture stiffening. “I didn’t share it with anybody.”

“When was the last time you used that gun?”

“It’s been a while,” he pauses, pondering, and adds, “at least three or four months ago. I haven’t used it recently.”

“I guess Stephanie also knew how to use a gun?”

“She knew, but she wasn’t very interested in it.”

“When you left home around nine o’clock in the morning, what was Stephanie up to?” I ask.

“She was in the kitchen, washing dishes.”

“Did you leave in a car?”

He wags and says, “I don’t own a car. I left on my bike.”

“Where did you go fishing?”

“In Silver River... about half a mile from my home.”

“Didn’t you say bye to Stephanie as you left home?”

“No, I didn’t.”

I press on, “Why?”

He pauses, and I wait patiently as he gathers his thoughts. His face looks sad as he searches for the right words. His tousled blonde hair falls in a carefree fringe across his forehead, moving with every motion. Finally, with some effort, he replies, “I never used to.”

“What was Austin doing when you left home?” I ask.

“I didn’t see him,” he says, staring into the distance. “He was probably in his room. He’s not a morning person and usually wakes up around noon.”

“Where was the dog?”

“Rocky followed me to the door when I left,” he says.

“Did you close the door behind you?”

“I don’t remember closing it; I think it was partially open.”

“Why not?”

“It was never our habit.”

“When you left, where were Theodore and Wylie?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says, pausing to think. “Wylie and Theo were in the kitchen when I went upstairs to get ready. I didn’t head back to the kitchen. I noticed Wylie’s car wasn’t where he’d parked last night, and Theo’s bike was missing too. I assumed Wylie had gone to town, and Theo had gone to his girlfriend’s place.”

“So, you knew about Theo’s plans to see his girlfriend?”

He nods, “Yes, I knew. At dinner last night, Wylie talked about mowing the lawn. I told him about my fishing plans, and Theo mentioned his plan to visit his girlfriend.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Austin?”

He briefly considers and says, “We are brothers, but Mom used to be the one taking care of him. He was more attached to Mom and Louis. I hardly interfered with anything at home. I pretty much had my own space ever since mom married Wylie.”

“You weren’t too thrilled about your mom marrying Wylie, were you?” I confront.

“I was quite young back then,” he says, wisely choosing his words. “It didn’t sit well with me, but I’ve come to terms over the years.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your mother?” I ask. He takes a few moments, reflecting on my questions. I watch him closely, trying to read his enigmatic eyes. Is it sadness or resentment? I can’t quite tell.

“It wasn’t the best,” he says, wringing his hands. “She had a knack for pushing me to do things I didn’t care for.”

“Do you hold any grudges?”

A small smile creeps into his face, “Not enough to take a life if that’s what you’re implying. I didn’t like her; she was controlling and bossy. She asked me to leave home, even though Wylie was fine with me staying at his place. I was struggling, and she didn’t offer any help. I was upset with her, but that doesn’t mean I’d resort to something like murder. I knew she did those things out of love and concern for my well-being.”

“Do you know anyone who holds grudges against your mom?”

“No, I don’t. She was a good woman. Wylie adored her and everyone who knew her. Theo and I weren’t fond of her, but we didn’t hold grudges.”

“Do you know anyone who owns a Jeep Compass in Dark Hill?”

“I know tons of people with a Jeep Compass. Most folks on the hill have a Jeep, and Compass and Wrangler are popular. I could give you a list of at least twenty people from the hill who own a Compass, and that’s just a fraction of the people I know with a Jeep,” he says, pulling the water bottle toward him and taking a sip. Regrettably, I realize that finding the owner of that Jeep Compass who parked in front of Lost Meadow is not as easy a task as I initially thought. It’s a handful and might take days for Trudy and the team to figure it out.

I gave Jesse a short break to relax, and then we spent another hour together, asking questions back and forth. He surprised me with an answer for everything, especially about his troubled relationship with Stephanie. The more he shared, the more remorseful he seemed. It was like he’d been holding onto these feelings for a long time, waiting for the right moment to release them.

After sending Jesse with Anthony to collect the names of Jeep Compass owners among his acquaintances, I reflected on our conversation. He seemed sincere but avoided the topic whenever I brought up his fishing buddies. I feel there is something he is not opening up about, and it is connected to these friends. I need to dig deeper to uncover what it is.

Chapter 16

“We need to chat before meeting Miles,” I tell Sam after concluding Jesse’s interview. Interviews are done for the day. We usually review the key points before updating Miles.

Sam replies with a hint of humour, “Mind if I use the washroom, Boss?”

“Like I have a choice,” I laugh as I stand up. “I’ll wait for you at the entrance,” I say, heading out of the room. I grab two cups of Cortado from the staff lounge and wait for Sam near the building’s entrance. I look up at the sky, wondering if it will rain today. The sun, radiant just a few hours prior, now plays hide and seek behind the drifting clouds. Overhead, a flock of starlings chirps urgently, darting across the gray sky in a frantic rush to find shelter before the impending downpour. I’m relieved the team wrapped up evidence collection before the rain started.

Shifting my attention to the parking lot before me, I notice someone moving around a sugar maple tree at the far end of the building. It’s Theodore. He’s on the phone. He might be talking to his dad and complaining about the ride situation since Wylie’s at the hospital with Austin and can’t pick them up. Michelle, a receptionist from Dark Hill, offered to give them a ride home, but her shift wouldn’t end for another hour, and I heard Theodore wasn’t thrilled about that. I can imagine his frustration at being stuck in the police station, the last place he wants to be. Or perhaps he’s yearning for the comforts of home, eager to dive into a round of Doom behind closed doors. I scan the area for Jesse, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Interrupting my thoughts, Sam asks, “So…what’s your take on all this?”

“About Theodore?” I ask as we begin walking.

“No. About Jesse.

“As far as I could tell, he came across as transparent, honest and open, but I couldn’t help but wonder why he was so reluctant to share the names of his friends, who could help confirm his alibi. Also, according to Wylie’s statement, he’s the only person besides Wylie and Stephanie who knows the code to open the safe and access the gun,” I mention as I hand him the coffee.

“I got the same impression. He was so open about his feelings toward Stephanie, but he was hesitant to share his friend’s info with you,” Sam remarks.

“He certainly took his time before giving me those names,” I agree with Sam.

“He was the last person to see Stephanie alive. The whole fishing story might be a lie to make it seem like he wasn’t home when his mom was shot. I’ve already given those two names to Trudy and asked her to check with them before Jesse can get to them and sway their stories.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I say. “I left a message for Trudy earlier, and she said your call got through, and her team is already on it.”

“So, they’re going home now? Jesse and Theodore?” Sam asks.

“I suppose so. I gave them the go-ahead,” I say.

We make a left turn from the front corner of the building, our footstep cushioned by freshly cut grass along the sidewall of the structure.

“Wylie called us when you were interviewing Jesse. He’s going to stay in the hospital with Austin today,” Sam informs me.

“That’s fine. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. After gathering all those timelines and additional information, we’ll likely need to schedule a second round of interviews with the boys.”

“So, our first day turns out to be unproductive,” Sam says, sounding disappointed, “with numerous potential suspects and a great deal of confusion.”

“Not too bad, although it’s not as straightforward as we initially thought,” I sigh.

Sam doesn’t say anything else. We sip our coffee and walk in silence. As we near the back corner of the building, I hear a faint noise. I stop walking and put my hand on Sam’s arm to hold him back. I move closer to the corner, press my ear against the wall to listen, and then peek around. I spot Jesse a few steps away, facing the other way, deep in a phone call. I instantly get the feeling he’s up to something. The fact that he makes his way toward the rear of the building, where no one is around, and speaks quietly on his phone indicates that something is in the works. Instinctively, I activate the voice recorder on my phone, my ears perking up to capture the conversation.

“Go to Gail’s house. I couldn’t reach him. Tell him what I told you to tell the police if they ask about my whereabouts; I’ve been with you guys since ten after nine. Got it?”

Then there is silence.

“I’ll tell you everything when I see-,” he begins but suddenly stops mid-sentence as he turns unexpectedly and spots me. As his face is ashen, much like the cloudy sky above us, I step forward and stand before him, ready for a confrontation.

Chapter 17

“Did you forget to tell me something during the interview that you now want to disclose?” I demand, my gaze piercing into him. “We can sit again and talk in detail.”

“No, not really,” Jesse says.

“Then why are you telling your friend to lie about where you were when your mom died?” I ask.

“I wasn’t telling him to lie,” he protests. “I was talking to a friend but never asked him to lie.”

“Oh! I see. Maybe I got that wrong. It seems we both did,” I say, pointing between Sam and me. “If that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I don’t know what you heard, but I never told my friend to lie,” he argues, avoiding eye contact.

“Did you have any involvement in your mother’s death?” I ask directly.

“Are you crazy? Why would I kill my mother?” he furiously asks. I notice the stark shift in his tone and demeanour from the previous interview - he’s no longer calm and polite but somewhat defensive and agitated.

“Maybe for revenge,” I suggest. “She asked you to leave the house and find another place to live,” I point out.

“Yeah, she did ask me to leave. That’s true. She gave me a final warning,” he admits. “However, killing her wouldn’t solve any of my problems.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“I’m staying at Wylie’s place because of my mom. Now that she’s gone, I must find somewhere else to live. If you’re suggesting I killed her because she wanted me to move out, it doesn’t add up. By killing her, I gain nothing and lose any chance to negotiate to stay at Wylie’s longer. Your theory doesn’t make sense,” he says, pausing. “I might be a bit adventurous, but I’m not dumb enough to do something that would land me in jail. I’m not desperate enough to live for free forever.”

“Alright,” I nod. “You’re free to leave for now. But don’t hesitate to reach out if you change your mind and decide to talk. We’re trying to get to the bottom of what happened to your mother. Your cooperation would be a huge help,” I tell him. I then reach into my pocket for my card only to realize that I forgot to grab some today amidst the morning chaos. Thankfully, Sam comes to the rescue, handing a card to him.

“Sure,” Jesse says, accepting the card, and walks away. Sam and I follow him as he strides along the walkway ahead of us to the front of the building. At one point, he crumbles my card and hurls it onto the grass.

“Why do you let him go?” Sam asks, surprised.

“He’s only going to deny everything for now,” I explain. “Trudy must have spoken to his friends. We can confront him with all the evidence tomorrow, so he can’t deny his involvement.

“Why would he lie about his whereabouts if he has no involvement in the murder?” Sam questions.

“Maybe he’s somehow linked to her murder,” I suggest. “It’s a complex puzzle and hard to conclude.”

As we reach the front entrance, following Jesse, we spot Theodore impatiently pacing in the parking lot. “Where were you? Hurry up!” he hollers when he spots Jesse and heads toward a parked jeep in the parking lot. Jesse sprints to the jeep and jumps into the back seat.

“A Jeep Compass!” Sam exclaims.

There is no driver in the driver’s seat. “Whose jeep is that?” I ask, scanning the surroundings. Then, I notice Ben coming out of the building and heading toward the jeep.

“Well,” Sam gasps, “Ben must be the one who parked his jeep on the road in front of Lost Meadow and ran through the woods.”

“How likely is it that Ben knew the code to access the safe and retrieve the gun?” I ask.

“I would say it’s highly likely,” Sam comments. “Especially considering he’s Fleming’s best friend.

“But Wylie said he didn’t mention it to anyone outside his family,” I point out.

“Maybe it came up during a casual chat that he doesn’t remember,” Sam suggests. “We all know how late-night drinking can make you talkative and forgetful,” he smiles.

“Maybe,” I agree. “But the code was changed a few days ago.”

“There is a possibility that someone else told him the code.”

“Who? Jesse? Or Stephanie?... Possible,” I nod. “But the real question here is,” I ask, scanning Ben, “if he’s the killer, what would be the motive?”

“Stephanie was beautiful. There’s no doubt about that,” Sam sighs. “He might have approached her, and she might have rejected him. The four shots on her face seem too personal, like a vengeance for rejection.”

Ben sees us but keeps walking, acting like he’s ignoring us. Then, after a few steps, he turns back and approaches us as if he’s changed his mind.

“Is that your jeep?” I ask, gesturing toward it.

“It’s technically Delores’s, but I’m the one who rides it more often.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Nice one,” I comment.

“I’ve tuned it for off-road use since we live on the hill,” he says. “Wylie asked me to pick up the boys. I was in town when he called, so I came right away.” He then looks in the direction of Jesse and Theodore and asks. “Can I take them?”

“You can,” I say. “Are you taking them to your place?” I inquire. “Their house is still undergoing cleaning,” I remind him.

“I asked them to stay at my place, but Wylie and Theo insisted on going back home. Wylie said the cleaning was almost done, and they could enter the home. I can only offer, not push,” he sighs.

“How well do you know Wylie and family?” I ask.

“We’ve been friends since moving here on the hill. It’s been seven long years. We’re like family,” Ben explains.

“Oh, Seven years! You must know them very well,” I say.

“Indeed, I do.”

“I’d like to talk to you tomorrow if you’re free. The boys were still in shock, and I didn’t get as much information as I wanted from them. It would be helpful if you could provide insight into Fleming’s life.”

“I’ve-”

“Tomorrow at 8.30 in the morning. It won’t take long.” I say, cutting him off.

As Ben walks away and drives off, we head back to our spot. “It seems like everyone has something to do with her murder,” Sam comments. “It’s becoming more complex and confusing as we talk to more people.”

I don’t doubt that. This is one of those rare cases where everyone we’ve interviewed fits the profile of a potential suspect. With that, I know this case will be more challenging than one with no suspects.

Chapter 18

Later in the evening, Sam, Trudy, and I gather in the office to give Miles a summary of our findings. After listening, he says, “At first, we thought this case would be pretty straightforward. But now, as you wrap up the first round of interviews, there are many questions we still can’t answer.”

This is far from a simple case,” I concur.

Miles shifts his attention to me. “Who, in your opinion, might be the prime suspect in this case?”

“It’s hard to say,” I shrug. “I’m pretty sure Ben was the one who ran through the woods, but I’m confused why Jesse lied about where he was. Gail Knight, his friend, said Jesse didn’t meet him until 9.45. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get in touch with another friend, Jack Pollard, before Jesse talked to him. However, I have a recording where Jesse asks his friend to lie about his whereabouts.”

“After discovering that Ben owns a Jeep Compass, Curtis asked me to retrieve Ben’s shoes. Following his instructions, we collected his shoes and compared them with those footprints on the road. As anticipated, both sets of footprints were identical.” Trudy glances at me and asserts, “No need to doubt. It was Ben who ran through the woods. Regarding Jesse, Jack initially provided a false alibi for his friend. However, he admitted to the truth when we questioned him further. Jesse asked Jack to lie on his behalf.”

“Not only those two,” Sam chimes in. “Theodore was reluctant to provide his girlfriend’s information and refused to provide accurate timelines.”

“Let’s not forget,” Trudy adds, “Wylie’s story had many inconsistencies, and his first wife died similarly.”

“Hold on. Hold on,” Miles interrupts, raising his arm and voice. “So, basically, you guys suggest that everyone in that family and the neighbours are potential suspects?” he questions, annoyed.

“Maybe they all are part of this crime,” comments Trudy. “Otherwise, why are they all lying or trying to hide something? Every one of them,” she stresses, “except Austin.”

“You mean they all did it together? I seek clarification, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think so,” I shake my head.

“Why not?” Trudy asks.

“They might have pulled it off more smoothly if they were all involved,” I suggest.

“How’s that?” Miles asks.

“Well,” I explain, “if everyone were in on it, there wouldn’t be a need to lock the dog in the room, hide the gun under Austin’s bed, or have someone run through the woods. They could have staged it to look like a suicide.”

“That’s a good point,” Miles nods in agreement.

“But there’s a chance,” I say, leaning in, “that Wylie and Theodore planned this murder together.” As I lay out this theory, everyone’s interest sharpens. “Theodore got to the scene before Jesse. They both said they came home right after getting the call from Wylie, but Theodore, who was three miles away, arrived before Jesse, who was only half a mile away. Yes, Theodore got a ride, but still... We need to look into when Wylie called Theodore and Jesse. If there’s a big gap between those calls, it’s suspicious.”

“Hold on a sec. I have those details,” Trudy chimes in, flipping through her notes. After a brief pause, she relays, “At 10.38, Wylie dialled 911, followed by a call to Theodore at 10.44 and Jesse at 10.50. Police responded to the scene at 10.57. Theodore arrived before the police, whereas Jesse came after the police at 11.02,”

“Shouldn’t Wylie have told Jesse first since he’s Stephanie’s biological son?” I ask.

“He should have,” agrees Miles.

I take a deep breath and continue, “Another thing that bugs me is why Theodore and Wylie are so set on staying at their place. A murder just happened there, and they turned down their best friend’s offer to stay with him. Many motels are around, but they want to return to the crime scene while it’s still being cleaned. Shouldn’t they be worried? What if the killer comes back? Their lack of concern means they’re sure the killer won’t return or are so unbothered that they don’t care if the killer does. Doesn’t that seem suspicious?” I glance around at them. “There’s a link between Wylie and Theodore. Even if their alibis seem solid, I think they’re hiding something. We need to keep a close watch on them.”

“So, is that your plan for tomorrow?” Miles asks.

“Tomorrow, we’ll proceed with the interviews. Trudy and the team have already checked their alibis. I’ll review them and check for any discrepancies,” I reply.

“My team is still in the process of collecting call details and phone signals around the time of Stephanie’s death,” Trudy adds.

“Keep me posted,” Miles says. “I’ve looked into Gordon Keith, Stephanie’s ex. He’s out on bail, staying 400 miles north of here. A few months back, he was spotted in Beachtown, just an hour away. That’s a bit worrying. When he was in jail, he talked a lot about wanting revenge on Stephanie and his exes and even said he wanted to kill them all. I’m trying to confirm his alibi for the day Stephanie died.”

“That added one strong suspect to our list,” I say.

“This case is getting trickier, isn’t it?” Miles says, handing me a journal he’s pulled from the desk. “This is Stephanie’s.”

“Huh?” I look at him, perplexed.

“This belongs to Stephanie,” he repeats.

I glance between Miles and Trudy. “You mentioned finding gun documents, bank details, health records, and insurance papers, but you didn’t say anything about a journal,” I point out to Trudy. “I remember asking you about what you recovered; a journal never came up. Stephanie was a book club member, so I thought she might have kept a daily log. I didn’t think she’d have time for it with all her responsibilities, but I assumed it was something you’d find if it were there. I trusted you’d be thorough, so I didn’t specifically ask about a journal. But that’s what I had in mind when I asked if you found anything else.” Trudy looks away, her face reddening, and the guilt is apparent in her eyes. “I even asked for a copy of everything they took from the house, and she gave them. Still, she didn’t mention this journal,” I say, turning back to Miles.

“Don’t blame her. I told her not to inform you about it,” Miles explains.

“Why? I frown. “Don’t you think, as the lead investigator, I have the right to be informed of every detail in this case?”

Miles nods and concedes, “You do, you do. I just wanted to see what’s inside this journal. That’s all.”

“Now I get it,” I say, the realization sinking in. “That’s why everything’s been laid out for me without asking, and things are moving so fast that I cannot look them over myself. You prefer to keep us in the dark, handling everything within your team before deciding what to share. I didn’t expect this from you, Trudy,” I say, giving her a disappointed look. “But why?” I turn to Miles. “Why involve us if there’s stuff you don’t want us to see?”

“Now you’re exaggerating,” Miles says. “The only thing I asked for from the scene was this journal. I get regular updates from Trudy, but I haven’t interfered with your investigation.”

I toss the journal onto the desk and retort, “What about this journal? You didn’t meddle with it? And I’m the one exaggerating?” I take a deep breath and continue, “The dog was at the scene and left before we arrived. Why? The house search was almost done by the time we arrived. How did that happen?”

“I wanted to catch the killer as quickly as possible,” Miles explains. “I put a big team on this to get it done fast. I’m honest; the only thing that came to me before you did was this journal. I wanted to see if my name came up in it. It’s got nothing to do with manipulating the investigation like you think.”

“Miles, you know better than that,” I say. “The more people at the crime scene, the higher the chance of contamination. It’s not going to speed things up. And seriously, how’s your name even in her journal?” I ask. “You two were done ages ago. No way she’s still writing about all her exes. There’s got to be another reason you wanted it. You’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Miles insists.

“Well, I’m done,” I say, pushing my chair back. “I’m out of this investigation. I’ve had enough. I can’t speak for Sam,” I say, glancing at Sam, and he is already on his feet. That is another reason he is my best friend - he sticks by me no matter what.

“You’re taking this too far,” Miles says.

“What are you going to do, fire me?” I retort with a grin. “Go ahead. I’d rather work somewhere else with a boss who has some integrity.” I turn and head for the door, with Sam following right behind.

“Stephanie and I were involved,” Miles confesses as I reach the door.

I freeze, spinning around to face them. “What?” I ask, totally confused. I look at Trudy; her wide eyes and slightly open mouth show she’s as lost as I am.

“We’ve had an on-and-off thing for over twenty years,” Miles admits, looking sheepish.

“What?” I gasp, shocked. “Even before she married Wylie and throughout her marriage?”

“I know,” he snaps, frustrated. “I know,” he repeats more softly. “It was a mistake. I couldn’t let her go. I saw her a week ago, and she seemed genuinely happy. There didn’t seem to be any issues with her and Wylie. I needed to check if she wrote anything about us in her journal. I couldn’t stand the thought of our secret coming out. That’s why I wanted the journal.

“How did you two communicate?” I inquire.

“Through our phones.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t find out?” I grin.

“Listen, Curtis. I can’t afford the world to discover this. That’s why I assigned you and Sam to this case. I need you to stay on it and find the killer immediately. It’s the only way I can save my reputation.”

I take a moment to consider. The ball is in my court now, and I must maximize its potential. With this shared secret, perhaps I can mend his sour attitude…, not just for now but for the long haul. “I’ll continue, but I need your assurance that you won’t interfere further,” I propose.

“You have my word,” he promises.

“All right, I’m in,” I declare as I enter the room, taking the journal before heading out, with Sam following me.

“Maybe Miles is the one who murdered Stephanie. Who knows?” Sam jokes as we leave the building and walk toward the parking lot.

“It could be anyone,” I reply, mulling over his joke. Could Miles be the killer? He was in an on-and-off relationship with Stephanie for years but hadn’t harmed her in the last two decades. Why would he suddenly kill her now? Then it hits me - Miles owns a Jeep. I remember seeing photos of him with a jeep on Facebook a while ago, though I can’t recall the make. I pull out my phone and check his Facebook photos. Ironically, the Jeep pictures are gone. Did he delete them? Why? “Maybe Miles is the one who murdered Stephanie. Who knows?” Sam’s words echo in my mind. He meant it as a joke, but I no longer ignore the possibility.

Chapter 19

As we approach the car, Sam says, “Natasha called me when you were interviewing Jesse.”

“And you’re telling me now?” I inquire.

“You made it clear you didn’t want updates about her,” Sam reminds me.

“That hasn’t changed,” I retort. When he stays silent, I press, “So, why did she call you?”

“Well, I thought you weren’t interested in knowing,” he says with a straight face. I shoot him a sharp look. “If you insist,” he grins, “she just wanted to check if you were okay and see how things were going. She’s worried about you.”

“That’s always been the issue,” I sigh, pulling the car key from my pocket and unlocking the door. “She’s always worried about me.”

As I’m about to get into the car, Trudy comes running over, out of breath. “Curtis, I’m sorry about that,” she says.

“Sorry for what?” I snap. “For lying to me or for not doing justice to your job?”

“Miles is my boss, and I can’t go against him. You know that, right?” She looks at me, her eyes pleading.

“So, you’d do anything for him?” I ask, staring her down. “Tomorrow, if he invites you over for a drink at his home, would you go? Would you do whatever he asks because he’s your boss?”

Sensing the tension, Sam leans in and whispers, “That’s inappropriate. You should apologize.”

“I was using an example,” I defend, glancing at Sam. But when I see the hurt in Trudy’s eyes, I realize she’s genuinely offended. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It was my mistake. Let’s move on,” I say, rubbing my fist over my chest. I open the car door and step inside when Trudy grabs my arm and pulls me back.

“It’s not your mistake; it’s mine,” Trudy says, taking a deep breath. “Just so you know, we found the journal before you arrived. When I told Miles, he asked me not to inform you and to send it to the station instead. I wouldn’t let him tamper with the evidence, so I photographed every page before sending it off. I’ve sent those photos to your email - every page is there.” She pauses, then adds, “And for the record, I don’t think Miles will ever invite me for a private drink, and if he does, I wouldn’t accept. Period.”

A wave of embarrassment washes over me. “I’m sorry, Trudy. I was frustrated when I found out you’d kept the journal from me.”

“You have every right to be upset,” Trudy says, her voice strained. “From now on, I won’t keep anything from you. You can take my word for it if you still trust me.”

I pull her into a comforting embrace. “I trust you more than my own instincts,” I say softly. While still holding her, I give Sam a silent thumbs-up. He’s leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, watching us with a satisfied smile. “By the way,” I ask Trudy, pulling back slightly, “do you know if Miles owns a Jeep?”

She smiles, and Sam does, too. “I’m not sure, but I can find out for you,” she replies. Then, with a warm smile, she adds, “He didn’t kill Stephanie, in case you’re wondering.”

“He better not,” I say, slipping into the driver’s seat. I give Sam a quick wave as I pull out of the parking lot and head toward Dr. Livingstone’s office.

Dr. Livingstone, a respected psychologist with a doctoral degree, has his office a few blocks from the police station. I’ve worked with him before and know he’s dedicated to his work, even if it means staying late. Despite making him wait a few hours after closing, I find a sense of calm in his serene after-hours office. I settle into a cozy armchair in the warmly lit room, watching the hexagon-shaped shelves adorned with neatly arranged plants on the beige wall. As Dr. Livingstone enters the room and shakes my hand, I apologize, “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“No problem, Curtis, it gave me a chance to thoroughly review the document you sent,” he replies.

“What’s your take on it?” I ask him.

“I also spoke with Austin’s doctor, Dr. Sullivan, so this is our combined opinion. There’s no way Austin could have done what you’ve described if he were the killer. He faces challenges like difficulty expressing needs, trouble understanding facial expressions and gestures, limited speech, minimal interest in others, intellectual disability, poor cognitive functioning, and behavioural issues. These are just a few key points; many other factors are involved. While he had a bond with Stephanie and Louis, he found it hard to connect with others. The incidents with his brothers were likely triggered, possibly worsened by Stephanie’s absence.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have much information about those incidents,” I say.

“The limited information on his record is understandable, considering Stephanie’s fear of him being taken away, which led her to withhold much information. Given his intellectual limitation, it’s impossible that he could have carried out the described steps before and after killing Stephanie. Dr. Sullivan, who has been treating Austin for the last fourteen years, emphasized that the boy adored his mom, and there’s no way he could have harmed her. Though his intellectual ability is low, his affection toward his mom knew no bounds.”

“Despite his low intellectual ability, he can identify genders,” I point out.

“Not necessarily,” he responds. “It was through Stephanie’s training that he started calling people with long hair ‘nana’ and those with short hair ‘momma’ at age ten. According to Stephanie, developing that skill took nearly a decade of consistent practice. It shouldn’t be considered completely accurate.”

“So, you conclude that Austin couldn’t have killed his mom.”

“After a comprehensive review of all his records, I can confidently say that he lacks the capability to cause his mother’s death in the manner in which she was found.”

“Thanks a lot. I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” I say, standing up.

“No problem at all,” he replies, shaking my hand. As I reach the door, he asks, “Austin’s in the hospital, right?

“Yeah,” I answer.

“It might be a good idea to have his meds reviewed,” he suggests.

“Why do you think so?” I ask.

“He’s on some strong meds, and I’m not sure he needs all of them. I don’t have much info on his behaviour, though.”

“I’ll look into it,” I say, heading back to my car.

Driving home, my thoughts are all about Natasha. I wonder if she’s still at home and debate internally on what to say to her if she’s. Should I convince her not to leave, or should we part ways amicably?

When I get home, I notice her car is gone from the driveway. The door, which I left open in the morning, is now locked. I unlock it and step inside, greeted by the fresh scent of eucalyptus. The house is spotless, like Fleming’s place. The floor is freshly mopped, everything is neatly arranged, and the dirty dishes are washed, dried, and put away. In one day, I had turned the house upside down, and now it’s back to Natasha’s order, but she’s not here. Then I see a note on the kitchen counter.

“I MISS YOU, BADLY,” it reads. I stand there, staring at it, my eyes welling up for reasons I can’t comprehend. Then, at this moment, I suddenly realize that I miss her just as much.

July 19, 2023

Chapter 20

At 4 am, I sink into the couch with a hot cup of coffee. I stayed up late last night reading Stephanie’s journal, so my sleep is far from complete. The early morning wind rushes through the open window, brushing against me, and the crisp chill in the air helps keep me awake. As I sip my coffee, my thoughts drift back to the journal. Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed. She wrote only about Austin and Louis, entirely omitting Wylie, Theodore, Jesse, and Aria, as if they had never been a part of her life.

After finishing my coffee, I dive into Trudy’s notes detailing her conversations with Stephanie’s family and friends. What grabs my attention most is the absence of surveillance systems at the Flemings' and Hughes' residences and vehicles - no security cameras, dash cams, or GPS trackers. This means the times Wylie and the boys claimed to leave their homes are assumptions, not verified facts. Even if they’re being honest, their departure times could easily be off by a few minutes, either earlier or later than reported. I cross-check their statements with the time of Stephanie’s death, searching for inconsistencies or clues that might point to the real culprit. Trudy’s notes are incredibly helpful, and she even includes observations about how each person behaved during the interviews. “Theodore mostly looked at the sky and around, not at my face. Is my face that hard to look at?” she writes with a winking emoji. I smile as I draft an email to Trudy. “Theodore must be silly to miss what’s right in front of him! Your notes are awesome, just like you! Thank you!!!”

Within a minute of sending that email, my phone rings. I pick up with a smile and remark, “Seems like someone’s having trouble sleeping at night.”

“I’m at the age where sleep eludes me,” Trudy replies.

“I’ve heard people lose sleep when they’re in love,” I joke.

“Possible,” she giggles.

“Joking aside, what’re you up to?” I inquire.

“I was going through Stephanie’s journal,” she says.

“And?” I prompt

“You know, I once respected Stephanie for how she cared for Austin. But after reading her journal, my opinion changed. Nowhere in her journal did she mention Jesse, Theodore or her newborn. No wonder the boys felt distant from her.”

“It was a surprise to me, too,” I say.

“What do you think of them after reading my notes?” she asks.

“About who?”

“Everyone I interviewed.”

“That’s a lot to explain over the phone. It could take some time,” I caution her.

“I’m free. Love to hear your perspective, Boss,” she laughs.

“Alright. Let’s start with Wylie,” I begin. “His alibi seems solid. He was captured on Sobeys' security footage at 9.19 am. The 25-mile distance from Lost Meadow to Sobeys takes about half an hour to cover. For Wylie to have reached Sobeys by 9.19, he must have left around 8.45 unless he somehow sped through the road exceptionally fast.”

“So, is he off your list?” she asks.

“Absolutely not! Although his alibi checks out, he remains on the potential suspect list because of the many inconsistencies in his statements. I’d like you to gather as much footage as possible between Lost Meadow and Sobeys, covering the time frame between 8.45 and 10.30.”

“Is that to determine when he passed through each specific spot?”

“Exactly. Now, who do you want to know about next?” I ask.

“Theodore,” she says.

“Theodore arrived at Destiny’s home at 9.10. You checked the footage at her house, right?” I ask.

“Yes, I verified it,” Trudy confirms. “I also spoke to Destiny. She said it was a planned visit, arranged a day before to watch a movie at her place. Theodore was the one who suggested it.”

“Destiny’s home is three miles from Lost Meadow; it could be a short 15-to-20-minute bike ride. Theodore’s claim that he left home shortly after Wylie does seem possible when you consider the timing of his arrival at Destiny’s. Plus, Jesse mentioned that Theodore’s bike wasn’t there when he left home around 9, supporting his story. His alibi seems credible. However, his odd choice to watch a movie at his girlfriend’s house so early in the morning is suspicious, so he’s still on my list.”

“What about Jesse?” Trudy asks.

“If Jesse is telling the truth about not being involved in his mother’s death, there’s a chance the killer was already there when he left Lost Meadow.”

“That’s frightening!” she exclaims.

“The big question here is whether he’s being truthful. He lied about his alibi, so trusting him is tough. His friend Gail said Jesse joined him and Jack at Silver River at 9.45. Since the river is close to Jesse’s house, the bike ride should’ve taken five to ten minutes tops if he didn’t stop anywhere. Jesse said he left home around 9. Even if it took him ten minutes to get there, there’s still a 35-minute gap that’s unaccounted for. So, what happened between 9 and 9.45 am? Where was he? And why is he lying about it?”

“Maybe he was involved in Stephanie’s death and used that time to hide evidence before meeting his friends at the river,” Trudy suggests.

“Maybe. That’s why he’s not off my suspect list.”

“Seems like everyone’s still on your list!” Trudy remarks.

“Not Austin and Louis,” I say.

“You took Austin off your list?” Trudy gasps.

“I talked to Dr. Livingstone yesterday. Both he and Austin’s family doctor, Dr. Sullivan, confirmed that Austin doesn’t have the intellectual capability to pull off something like this, especially given the circumstances of Stephanie’s death. Based on their assessments, he’s off the suspect list.”

“Same with Louis, who was out of the country on a sports trip when his mother was killed, right?” Trudy asks.

“Exactly.”

“At least your list is down by two,” Trudy sighs.

“Not really,” I respond. “I added Gordon Keith, Stephanie’s ex-husband, to the list. I didn’t have any reason to doubt him before, but his recent sighting in Beachtown and rumours that he talked to inmates about killing Stephanie put him back on my radar.”

“Miles said he’d look into it. That must be a relief,” Trudy says.

Not really,” I reply. “I prefer to check things out myself, but he’s not the priority right now.”

“Of course, you do,” Trudy giggles. “What about the neighbour, the real estate agent?” she asks.

“Ben had a meeting scheduled with a client at 9.30 to show a house in Dark Hill, just a mile from Lost Meadow. He mentioned that he’d been there since around 9.07, right?”

“He told me he’d been there since 9.10, but the footage showed him arriving at 9.07. He looked visibly distraught, pacing back and forth.”

“I read in your notes that his wife mentioned he left home around 8.55.”

“Actually,” Trudy interjects, “Delores didn’t see him leave but heard the door open and close around 8.55. She was on the phone with a customer in her basement office - she works from home. Ben confirmed hearing her talking to her clients as he left. I got her phone records, which show she was on the call from 8.45 to 9.16. I also got her customer’s contact information in case we need further verification.”

“She seems credible. Her phone records are solid enough to take her off my list. She couldn’t have been the one who pulled the trigger while talking to a client. Plus, based on our potential witness’s description, we’re focusing on someone with short hair.

“You’re right. She does have straight, long hair,” Trudy agrees. “We were talking about Ben,” she reminds me.

“Oh, yeah, Ben,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Jesse left his home at 9, passing by Ben’s place. Your notes don’t mention Ben and Jesse crossing paths. If Ben parked the jeep, how could Jesse not have seen him or the jeep on his way to the fishing spot? Their reported timelines are way off.”

“It’s not like they were heading to work or an appointment where they’d remember the exact minute they left home. Ben’s probably the only one who knows the exact time he left.”

“Exactly,” I nod, then add, “and the killer.”

“Is there a chance Ben and Jesse worked together to kill Stephanie?” Trudy asks.

“Great question, Trudy. I was thinking the same. We’re in sync,” I say playfully before getting serious again. “The gunshots were heard at 9 am, and allegedly, Ben left home at 8.55. Is it possible he parked near the house, walked to Lost Meadow, accessed the gun, shot Stephanie, returned to his car, and reached his destination by 9.07? It seems unlikely, but it’s possible if everything went his way or he had an accomplice like Jesse.”

“Wow, complicated, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” I agree, stretching my arm. “Well, that’s all for now. I’ll see you shortly.”

“Thank you, Majesty, for taking the time to explain everything in detail,” she says.

“My pleasure,” I reply.

After wrapping up the call with Trudy, I update my list, removing Louis, Austin, and Delores, and rearrange the remaining names. Ben moves up past Wylie and Theodore, just below Jesse. They all need to be investigated, but Ben and Jesse are the top priorities for today, I decide. Then, with a whistle, I add another name in bold at the bottom of my list - MILES.

Chapter 21

By the time I finish my analysis and get up from my seat, the morning sun is flooding the house with light. Even though I had a hearty dinner of spaghetti and meatballs that Natasha made before she left, I’m hungry again. I head to the kitchen to find something to eat. Opting for something quick, I grab the last two eggs from the fridge and whip up some scrambled eggs. I had planned to buy more eggs from the shack I noticed on my way to Lost Meadow, but that idea slipped my mind, thanks to my lousy headache. I should pick some up today; otherwise, I might end up starving in the coming days. Since I’m not much of a cook, I’ll have to rely on eggs and bread for now. I’ll consider a more permanent solution once this investigation is over. After hastily finishing half-cooked scrambled eggs and a slice of fresh bread, I hurry to my room to prepare for the day.

At 8.30, right on schedule, Ben arrives at the station. Anthony leads him to the interview room, where Sam, Today’s interviewer, is already seated. Dressed neatly in black pants and a plaid shirt, Ben sits across from Sam, crossing his legs. As Sam prepares for the interview, Ben keeps shifting in his seat like it’s covered in needles. I watch him on the screen from the adjacent room while sipping my coffee. Within two minutes, I lose track of how many times he crosses and uncrosses his legs, squirming in the chair.

After the introductions, Sam gets to the point with a direct question. “Do you own a gun?”

I jump, spilling a few drops of coffee on my shirt. That’s Sam - always direct and to the point. I should’ve known what he had in mind - that’s on me. I set the cup aside and refocus on Ben.

Yes, I do own a couple,” Ben replies.

“So, I suppose you’re quite familiar with how to use them,” Sam continues.

“Yes, I am,” Ben affirms, glancing nervously at Sam. His arms tremble, and he squeezes them between his thighs, trying to hide his unease. But Sam’s eagle eyes miss nothing, and his sharp tongue stays on point.

“Feeling a bit nervous?” Sam probes, his eyes scanning Ben. “You’re shaking!”

Ben tries to brush it off. “I’m a bit cold. That’s all.”

“It’s about 29 degrees Celsius in here,” Sam mocks. “You must be thin-blooded.”

“Indeed, I am,” Ben agrees, feeling a small sense of relief as Sam provides an excuse for him.

“Where were you yesterday morning?” Sam asks, switching gears.

“I was at home until around 9,” Ben responds. “I left around then to show a house to a client. I’m a real estate agent.”

“When was your appointment with your client?”

“Half past nine.”                                   

“How long does it take to get there from your house?”

“About five minutes.”

“So, what time did you get there?”

“Around ten past nine, I believe.”

“Why did you arrive late? Didn’t you leave at 9?”

“I’m just giving an estimate; I might not have left exactly at 9, maybe a few minutes earlier or later. I spent a little time in the car, scrolling through my phone. I wasn’t in a rush, so I must have driven slowly.”

“Why did you leave at 9? That’s a bit early for a 9.30 appointment.”

“I always arrive ahead of my clients to make sure everything is perfect when they arrive.”

“Where was your wife when you left home?”

“She was downstairs in her office, talking to a client, so I didn’t interrupt her.”

“You and your wife were very close to Stephanie and her family. Can you describe the relationship between the two families?”

“We moved to Dark Hill from the States seven years ago. Having lived in a town before, the change to the hill was tough, especially during heavy snow. Our first winter was rough, with a big snowstorm and a power outage that lasted four days. During those hard times, Stephanie and Wylie showed us incredible generosity. They helped with everything, even providing us with food. That was the start of a lifelong friendship. Over the years, we’ve become more than friends; we’re like family now, to the point where we don’t need an appointment to visit each other’s homes.”

“You can enter each other’s home without an invitation!” Sam seizes on that point, sensing an opportunity. “And conveniently, you’ve got a pathway connecting the homes,” he comments.

“It’s quite convenient,” Ben agrees. “It only takes a few minutes to reach their home from ours.”

“Did you go into Lost Meadow yesterday morning, the morning of Stephanie’s death?”

“No, I didn’t. Delores told me Stephanie had come over to meet her, but I didn’t see her.”

“Did you hear gunshots at any time yesterday?”

“No,” he says firmly.

“That’s strange,” Sam points out. “You were within a mile of Lost Meadow when the shooting happened. Four rounds fired, and you didn’t hear a single one?”

“I didn’t.” he insists, his gaze shifting uncomfortably. “I guess I didn’t pay attention.”

“Why did you park your jeep near Lost Meadow yesterday?” Sam questions.

Ben’s face pales as he quickly denies, “I didn’t park near Lost Meadow yesterday.”

“We found the tire impression of your jeep on the roadside near Lost Meadow,” Sam states.

“Oh, that…,” Ben hesitates, thinking. “The day before yesterday, I might’ve parked the jeep by the side of the road. But that was closer to my home, not Wylie’s. When my client called to confirm the address, I was coming back from town, so I pulled over to send them the directions.”

“So, the day before yesterday, you parked your jeep on the side of the road between your home and Fleming’s on your way back from town?”

“That’s correct. It was a quick stop to send the directions to my client.”

“Have you parked your car in front of your property any other time?”

“No,” he says firmly. “That was the only time I parked there.”

“But the tire impression of your Jeep Compass wasn’t in the direction toward your home - it was facing the opposite way.”

“It wasn’t me,” he falters.

“Didn’t you park your jeep on the road, go to Lost Meadow, and then return to your jeep through the woods?” Sam asks, eyeing him closely.

“No, I didn’t,” Ben stammers, his lips quivering as he struggles to regain his composure.

“How about we check your jeep’s dash cam?” Sam suggests.

“I don’t have a dash cam in my jeep.”

“GPS? Do you have a GPS tracker?” Sam presses.

“No,” Ben shakes his head. “I’ve got one on my Highlander, but not my Jeep.”

“You own a Highlander as well?”

“Yes, I do. Typically, I drive my Highlander, and Delores takes the jeep. But due to engine issues with my car, I’ve been using the jeep for the last few days.”

“Dark Hill isn’t huge; finding that jeep won’t be hard for us. It’s only a matter of time before we get solid evidence and question you again. If you know anything, now's the time to tell the truth,” Sam emphasizes.

“I didn’t park my jeep there yesterday. I don’t remember if I parked there before, but it’s possible.”

As Ben’s statement wavers, Sam presses him further. “A moment ago, you said you hadn’t parked there recently. Now, you’re not so sure?”

“I haven’t done it recently, but I might have parked near my place before and forgot about it.”

“There was heavy rain two days ago. Any old tracks would’ve washed away. We’re only interested in the most recent ones,” Sam says, eyeing Ben’s shoes. “What size shoes do you wear?”

“Twelve.”

“We found tire imprints of a Jeep Compass near Lost Meadow and footprints matching a size twelve. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I had nothing to do with Stephanie’s murder. You’re wasting your time on me,” Ben snaps defensively.

“Yet, the evidence suggests otherwise,” Sam retorts.

Ben tries to reason, “Think about it logically. How much time would I need to get into Lost Meadow, find the gun, shoot Stephanie, and then carry on with my day like nothing happened? It’s not possible. I don’t even know where the safe is, let alone how to open it. I only know it’s somewhere in the master bedroom, and finding it would take time. Stephanie was home - she’d have noticed if I barged in. And how could I open the safe without the code?”

“Maybe you know the code,” Sam counters. “You did say you and Wylie are like family, entering each other’s homes without notice.”

“That’s true, but I’d never pry into their lives like that. It’s not my style. You can ask Wylie and the boys if I’ve ever asked for the code,” Ben replies, sounding sincere.

“So, you’re saying you had nothing to do with Stephanie’s murder?” Sam presses.

“I’ve got nothing to do with it,” Ben insists.

“You left home at 9. Jesse also left at 9, heading to Silver River for fishing. Did you see him on your way?”

“No, I didn’t, but-” Ben suddenly stops.

“But what?” Sam prompts.

Ben hesitates before continuing, “When I got to the house I was showing, I saw Wylie’s truck speeding down the road with Theo in the passenger seat. Real fast! I was on the phone with my client when they passed by. My jeep was parked in the courtyard, so they didn’t see me.”

“Wylie and Theodore together!” Sam exclaims. “Are you making this up?”

“Why would I?” he counters.

“Maybe to divert attention from yourself.”

“No, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t have any evidence, though. After all, isn’t it your responsibility to figure it out?”

“Trust me, Ben. We’ll check out every single thing you have said. Don’t worry about our efficiency,” Sam snaps back.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Ben says, realizing Sam didn’t appreciate his comment.

Ignoring the apology, Sam continues, “Do you think Wylie and Theodore have something to do with Stephanie’s murder?”

“I’m not saying they did it. I’m just saying they left after me, which means they were home when I passed Lost Meadow. How could I have shot Stephanie without them noticing?”

“What if they left before you but got stuck on the road somewhere?”

“If that were the case, I should have seen them, but I didn’t.”

I stand up, hands on the table, leaning in, eyes glued to the monitor, thrilled about the new lead. My suspicions were on point. Wylie and Theodore are partners in this crime. The idea of two people acting together in Stephanie’s murder makes more sense than a solo perpetrator. But here’s the issue - I’m almost sure Ben is the one who fled through the woods. If he’s not the killer, why is he so tense, and why did he run through the woods?

Chapter 22

Jesse finally arrives at the police station by 1 pm, after a frustrating three-hour delay and four phone calls. My threat to send a police car to drag him in finally did the trick.

Sam, already irritated, doesn’t hide his frustration as he starts the interview. “We checked out your claim of being with Gail Knight and Jack Pollard yesterday morning from 9.10 am,” Sam says bluntly. “Unfortunately, our findings don’t match your story. Why did you lie?” he asks.

Jesse sticks to his story. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t lie.”

“Gail said you didn’t join them until 9.45. The bike ride from your place to Silver River takes at most ten minutes. So, what were you doing between 9 and 9.35?” Sam presses.

Jesse doesn’t waver. “Gail must have gotten the time wrong. I was definitely there,” he insists.

“How do you explain two people making the same mistake?” Sam asks.

“Who’s the other person?” Jesse asks, looking puzzled.

“Gail and Jack,” Sam replies.

“Didn’t Jack say I was with him by 9.10?” Jesse asks.

“Only because you asked him to,” Sam says.

“Well… he did say I was there with him,” Jesse counters.

“I’m not finished yet,” Sam continues. “At first, Jack lied to cover for you, but once he realized we had evidence, he came clean.”

“You forced him to speak against me. That doesn’t represent the truth,” Jesse argues.

“How about we listen to your voice coaching your friends to lie?” Sam suggests, activating a voice recording on his laptop at a low volume, making it inaudible.

Jesse turns pale as he insists weakly, “I didn’t kill my mom. I’ve nothing to do with her murder.”

“You were the last to see her alive,” Sam reminds him.

“That is not true,” he objects. “Austin was at home.”

“He was sleeping. Regardless, we don’t believe that he killed his mother.”

“Me neither,” he agrees.

“Then where were you between 9 and 9.35 am?” Sam presses.

“I was fishing,” Jesse says, stiffening up.

Sam rewinds the audio and increases the volume to a level where Jesse’s voice becomes clear.

“Go to Gail’s house. I couldn’t reach him. Tell him what I told you to tell the police if they ask about my whereabouts; I’ve been with you guys since ten after nine. Got it?”

“Is that your voice?” Sam asks, pausing the audio.

Jesse leans back, eyes closed, looking like he’s on the edge of breaking down. Sam takes advantage of the moment and says, “You told your friend you’d reveal everything in person. Trust us more than your friend, who changed his story when he realized he might get in trouble because of you. If you’re innocent, we’re the ones who can help clear your name, not your friends. We’ll work to prove your innocence and won’t bother you again, which will also help us find your mom’s killer faster. The real culprit might be out there, targeting someone else.”

After a few moments of thought, Jesse opens his eyes and says, “Don’t tell Wylie, Ben, or anyone else.”

“I can’t promise that,” Sam replies. “It depends on what you tell us.”

Jesse closes his eyes again, wrestling with the decision to open up. Finally, he opens them and confesses, “I was with Delores.”

“With Delores!” Sam exclaims, clearly surprised.

“Yes,” Jesse says, taking a deep breath. “We’re seeing each other.”

“You and Delores!” Sam repeats, still in disbelief.

“Yes,” Jesse insists, frustrated by Sam’s reaction.

“So, you went to Delores’s place yesterday morning after leaving home at 9?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Jesse confirms.

“Was she working from home at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Was she expecting you?”

“Yes,” Jesse says, pausing briefly. “As long as I didn’t interrupt her, she was okay with me stopping by during work.”

“What time did you reach Delores’s house?” Sam asks.

“I left home around 9. I waited at a usual spot near their home for Ben to leave. Once I heard his jeep drive away, I waited a few more minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back,” Jesse replies.

“Why?” Sam questions. “Has this happened before?”

“What do you mean?” Jesse raises an eyebrow.

“Has Ben ever returned after leaving?” Sam clarifies.

“Yes, once before,” Jesse admits. “I barely got away that day.”

“How did you manage to escape?” Sam asks.

“They have a window in Delores’s office in the basement,” Jesse explains. “Delores suggested I use it, and that’s how I got out.”

Sam grins, probably imagining the scene, but Jesse stays focused on him. Sam regains his composure and asks, “So, you were waiting near Hughes’s place, and then what?”

“After Ben left, I heard gunshots. Four of them,” Jesse recounts. “It’s not unusual to hear gunshots on the hill.”

“How long after Ben left did you hear the gunshot?”

 “About a minute, I think,” he replies.

“Didn’t the close sound worry you?” Sam probes.

“I was listening to music on my earphones,” Jesse says. “I didn’t realize it was too close.”

“And then?” Sam prompts.

“I waited another two or three minutes and then went over and rang the doorbell,” Jesse continues.

“Did Delores open the door for you?”

“Yes,” Jesse confirms. “But she was busy on the phone.”

“Didn’t she know you were coming?”

“She did,” Jesse explains. “The call went longer than she expected. The client was difficult.”

“How do you know the client was difficult? Did Delores discuss work with you?”

“Not really,” Jesse says. “She was still on the phone when I arrived. I overheard part of her conversation. The client was loud, and Delores kept apologizing.”

“When did you leave?” Sam asks.

“Within half an hour,” Jesse responds.

“Do you usually visit her for a short time?” Sam asks.

“She was on the phone for several minutes while I was there,” Jesse explains. “Once she finished, we talked for a few minutes, and then she got back to work. I knew she was having a rough day, so I left early. Normally, I stay a bit longer, maybe an hour.”

“Does Stephanie know about your relationship with Delores?”

“No one knows,” Jesse says. “It started last month.”

“Last month?”

“Yes. We enjoy each other’s company, but that’s as far as it goes. We haven’t crossed that line,” he adds, sounding disappointed.

“It seems like you wanted to, but Delores wasn’t interested,” Sam comments.

“She wasn’t ready,” Jesse admits. “She needed more time.”

“How did your relationship begin?”

“You know…” Jesse pauses, thinking before he continues, “When you’re in love, it shows. I could see it in Delores’s eyes.”

“So, she was the one who made the first move?” Sam asks.

“Sort of,” Jesse replies. “I sensed her feelings but knew she had trouble expressing them because of her age and relationship with my mom. I talked to her about it. At first, she denied it, but then she opened up.”

“How did you stay in touch?”

“We didn’t talk much on the phone. We mostly met in person,” Jesse says. “Delores would drop by almost every day when Mom was busy with Austin. Sometimes, I’d visit her place when Ben wasn’t around. We’re still figuring out this relationship thing.”

Sam asks a few more questions about their relationship. When nothing significant comes up, he says, “That’s all for now. You can go.”

Jesse stays seated, his hands clasped together. “Please,” he pleads earnestly, “don’t tell Wylie or Ben about this. I’m not worried about myself, but Delores. Our relationship was short, and nothing physical happened.”

“Why do you say it was short? Are you planning to end it?” Sam asks.

“Delores thinks it’s inappropriate to continue out of respect for my mom,” Jesse explains. “She has a point. Mom would have been devastated if she had found out. I want her soul to rest in peace.” He pauses and asks, “Can you please keep this confidential?”

“I can’t guarantee anything at this point,” Sam replies. “It depends on how the investigation unfolds. You’re free to go.”

Jesse gets up and leaves the room, his head hanging low. From his expression, it’s clear how much he cares for Delores. I wonder if she feels the same way about him. I’ll find out that when I interview her. That’s my next step - interview Delores.

Chapter 23

In the afternoon, I receive a call from Dr. Hannigan, Austin’s attending physician at the hospital.

“This is Dr. Hannigan from Wellness Way Center. If you’re available, I’d like to arrange a meeting to discuss Austin in person,” Dr. Hannigan states without preamble.

“Certainly. How about 2.15?” I suggest, glancing at my watch.

“That works for me. I’ll see you then,” he responds before ending the call.

An hour later, Sam and I are seated in a small office at the Wellness Way Center, awaiting Dr. Hannigan’s arrival. After approximately 10 minutes, we hear a knock on the door. A tall man with glasses strides in, carrying a white coat draped over his arm and twirling a stethoscope. He frees his hands and extends a handshake before sitting across from us.

“Apologies for the delay. There was an emergency,” he explains.

“No problem,” I reply, settling back into my seat. “How is Austin doing?” I inquire.

“His condition is stable, but there has been a shift in his sleep pattern. He sleeps a lot during the day,” Dr. Hannigan responds.Bottom of Form

“He must be still in shock,” I comment.

“Undoubtedly,” agrees Dr. Hannigan. After briefly pausing, he elaborates, “We conducted a series of medical examinations on Austin, including neuroimaging and electrocardiogram. However, no significant neurological damage was discerned in those tests that could elucidate his behaviour.”

“Does that suggest the incident at the police station could be an isolated episode triggered by witnessing his mother’s death?” I ask.

“I believe so. Those are essentially responsive behaviours, often triggered by stimuli like pain, fear, or unmet needs,” Dr. Hannigan explains.

“He hasn’t exhibited any further episodes since being hospitalized?” I ask.

Dr. Hannigan confirms with a shrug. “No. There haven’t been any occurrences of responsive behaviours - verbal, physical, or otherwise.”

“So, is he medically fit to be discharged?” I inquire.

“Yes, he’s fit to go home, but I’d like to keep him here for a few more days for observation. However, there’s an additional matter I need to discuss with you,” Dr. Hannigan states, a hint of hesitation in his tone.

“What is it, Doctor?” I prompt.

Dr. Hannigan shares, “Some aspects of my conversation with Dr. Sullivan, Austin’s family physician, raised concerns. Austin was prescribed strong antipsychotic medications like Loxapine and Haloperidol. He was on amitriptyline before, which was discontinued a month ago. I reviewed his history, and apart from the two reported violent incidents with his brothers, there haven’t been any other significant events in the last ten years that suggest he should be on these medications. I contacted Dr. Sullivan, Austin’s family doctor, and he mentioned that these medications were initiated based on Stephanie’s account of Austin’s behaviours, which were not adequately substantiated.”

“Medical negligence?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Possible. I’ve already forwarded my concern to our regulatory body. They’ll conduct an investigation. However, that’s not my sole concern,” he pauses.

“What else?” I prompt.

“One thing that caught my attention during my conversation with Dr. Sullivan was that Austin had monthly appointments, which seemed excessive. What’s more concerning is that Austin didn’t accompany Stephanie to all these appointments. The fact that Dr Sullivan prescribed strong medications based solely on Stephanie’s input has me wondering.”

“So, you suspect a potential relationship between Dr. Sullivan and Stephanie?” I ask directly.

“I’m not drawing any conclusions at this point. Since I know there is a homicide, I simply wanted to bring this to your attention for further investigation if deemed necessary,” Dr. Hannigan clarifies.

“Thank you for providing this information. We will certainly look into it,” I respond, smiling. “Just to clarify, are you suggesting that Stephanie might have been administering unnecessary medications to Austin?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Dr. Hannigan affirms. “However, reaching a clear-cut conclusion is difficult as Stephanie can no longer answer our questions.” He pauses and continues, “We’ve since adjusted Austin’s medication regimen and will closely monitor his progress. Surprisingly, the changes haven’t impacted his behaviour or activity. He has a standing order for Ativan, which could be utilized if needed in emergencies if his behaviour becomes uncontrollable.”

“Why did Stephanie do this? Driven by a desire for attention, perhaps?” I wonder aloud, pondering Stephanie’s motives.

“Quite likely. With appropriate intervention, Austin has the potential for significant improvement in speech and overall function. Stephanie may have preferred the image of a devoted mother caring for a sick child. As I mentioned earlier, this is speculative. However, I believed it was important to bring it to your attention if it aids your investigation,” Dr. Hannigan concludes. “I’ve another appointment to attend. If you have any further questions, feel free to reach out.”

Dr. Hannigan exits the room with us. Once in the hallway, we exchange a firm handshake before going our separate ways.

Chapter 24

After meeting with Dr. Hannigan, Sam and I return to the office, where Trudy eagerly waits to share some exciting news. She bursts in with enthusiasm, saying, “Phone signals put Theodore near Lost Meadow at the time of Stephanie’s death. He took his phone to his girlfriend’s place, but Wylie left his phone at home. Wylie’s phone pinged at Lost Meadow all morning. We’ve also got footage from a gas station showing Wylie’s truck passing through at 9.11.”

Sam, thrilled by the news, gives my thigh a hearty slap and cheers, “So, they were both at or near Stephanie when she was shot, unlike what they have told us in their interviews.”

“Exactly,” Trudy agrees.

I wince from Sam’s slap but ask, “How do we get Wylie and Theodore to confess? That’s the next step.”

“Simple,” Sam says. “We can confront them with this info.”

“But Wylie could claim he forgot his phone,” I point out.

“He left home around 8.45 and was seen on gas station footage at 9.11. It took him about 25 minutes to get there, which is only five or six miles from his place,” Trudy says.

 “He might come up with some excuses that make it tough to prove he was at Lost Meadow when Stephanie was killed. We need more solid evidence, like footage of them together on the road,” I sigh.

“We’ve already checked that,” Trudy says. “We looked into homes along Daffodils Way, from Lost Meadow to Destiny’s house. Most are hidden in the woods. They have video coverage, but you can’t see the road. We also asked locals if they saw them, but no one’s given us any useful leads.”

“That’s a bummer,” I say.

“I’m curious about the motive,” Trudy adds.

“Maybe he found out about her affair with Miles,” Sam suggests.

“That seems unlikely,” Trudy replies. “They didn’t have much phone contact, and she deleted all the messages right away.”

“How many exactly?” I ask.

Seven calls and four messages between them in the last six months,” Trudy says.

“No wonder. How would she find time to talk to Miles with Austin around all the time?” Sam asks.

“She was in her last trimester and had a baby at that time. Maybe that’s why they didn’t communicate much,” I suggest.

“By the way,” Trudy says with a wink at me, “I checked out Miles’s vehicle. He previously owned a Jeep Gladiator, but he no longer has it. Anyway, he didn’t kill Stephanie. He was at a workshop at the police headquarters when Stephanie was shot. He cancelled the program halfway through and got here yesterday morning when he heard the news.” She pauses as the door creaks open, and Miles walks in.

“Things are clearing up on one side and getting complicated on the other,” Miles says, sitting beside Trudy. “Ben must be telling the truth about seeing Wylie speeding away with Theodore in the passenger seat. The new phone signal info seems to back that up, right?”

“Exactly,” Sam agrees. “It seems like Wylie and Theodore were a team in this. Wylie’s Parkinson’s means he couldn’t shoot, so Theodore likely helped him out. Since Wylie married Stephanie, he’s been distracted, and Theodore resented her. He’d be more than willing to help his dad.”

“For now, it’s only a theory,” Trudy says. “Let’s hope it’s correct.”

“I’m wondering why Wylie left his phone at home but let Theodore keep his,” I ask, puzzled.

“Yeah, it’s confusing,” Miles sighs. “At least we’ve cleared up Jesse’s situation. He was with Delores before meeting his friends for fishing.”

“Jesse might seem honest, but we should still talk to Delores before making any conclusions,” I suggest. “She turned down an interview today, saying she’s not feeling well but is available to talk tomorrow. She won’t come to the station because of her busy work schedule, so we’ll need to make a trip to her place tomorrow.”

“So, you don’t completely believe Jesse?” Miles asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Is there a specific reason not to believe him?” Trudy chimes in.

“What if he’s lying about waiting near Delores’s house?” Sam answers for me. “What if, at that time, he was actually at home, killing Stephanie? He said he left home at nine, waited at the spot for Ben to leave, and heard the gunshot a few minutes later. Stephanie was shot at nine. Either he’s got the time wrong, or he’s lying. Remember how honest he seemed in his first interview and how much he lied then,” Sam points out.

“It’s possible he’s the killer,” I say with a grin. “Like the hundred other suspects we’ve had.”

“Like the possibility of Ben being the killer?” Trudy adds. “If Ben isn’t involved, as he claims, why was he so nervous? Why did he flee through the woods?”

“What if he helped Wylie and Theodore in Stephanie’s murder?” Sam suggests. “He’s Wylie’s best friend.”

“Not likely,” I reply. “If that were the case, he wouldn’t have mentioned Wylie or Theodore’s names. It’s like sawing off the branch he’s sitting on.”

“What if he found out about Jesse and Delores’s relationship and went after Jesse in a fit of rage? But then Stephanie caught him with the gun, so he shot her instead. When he realized Jesse wasn’t home, he could have locked the dog in Jesse’s room to frame him,” Sam suggests.

“I don’t think Ben went into Lost Meadow planning to kill Jesse when Stephanie and Austin were there,” I say. “Plus, how would he know Wylie went to town, or Theodore went to his girlfriend’s place unless someone at home told him? And if he wanted to frame Jesse, he would have left the gun under Jesse’s bed, not Austin’s.”

“That makes sense,” Miles agrees with me.

“For me, Theodore and Wylie are more suspicious than Ben, though Ben is hiding something,” Trudy says.

“I agree,” Sam adds. “I was only exploring all potential scenarios.”

“What about their phone records?” Miles asks. “Any leads there?”

“No suspicious calls or messages,” Trudy reports. “Stephanie’s family history is complicated - divorced parents, no siblings, and an abusive ex-husband.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Miles chimes in. “Gordon has nothing to do with the murder. He was with his probation officer at the time of Stephanie’s death. It’s confirmed. So, you can take him off your list,” he tells me. “Go ahead,” he then instructs Trudy, gesturing to her.

Trudy continues, “Stephanie was close to her mom, who passed away four years ago. She had no contact with any relatives, including her father, who is now living with another family in British Columbia, or with her ex-husband. On the other hand, Wylie has a large family in Saskatoon. They never warmed up to Stephanie after she married Wylie. She kind of lost interest in them until Aria was born. Her only friend was Delores, and while they met every day, there were fewer messages between them recently compared to a couple of months ago due to Delores’s new job and busier schedule. Stephanie’s phone records reveal no suspicious calls. Louis called her at 8.01 am yesterday, and the call ended at 8.16. That was the only call she received on the day of her murder, and she had two messages. One was a shopping list texted to Wylie, who replied with “Got it.” The other was from a book club friend, explaining why she was not attending the book club meeting later in the evening due to a family emergency.”

“I recall you mentioning that you investigated every member of that book club, and all of them are cleared,” Miles comments.

“That’s right. My team questioned them and some of the neighbours, and they had no reason to hold grudges against Stephanie. Their alibis are proven,” Trudy reports.

“What about the phone records of the family member?” Miles asks.

“Wylie’s phone records had loads of business calls and messages. He also had a few chats with Stephanie, plus some with his family and cousins from Saskatoon. Wylie and Ben exchanged many messages, but none on the morning of Stephanie’s death. Louis called Wylie at 8.55 yesterday, but he didn’t pick up. Neither Jesse nor Theodore answered Louis’s call at 8.56. However, Theodore promptly returned the call at 8.56 and spoke for about 57 seconds. Louis was the link between everyone in that house, and they all adored him,” Trudy takes a breath, pausing briefly. “Theodore had lengthy conversations with his girlfriend daily, including long phone calls and adult-oriented messages. There are a few texts and calls between Wylie and him, as well as him and some of his friends, but nothing suspicious. Jesse and Delores didn’t communicate much through the phone, with only two phone calls in a month and nine short messages. Jesse regularly talked to his few friends, mainly Jack Pollard and Gail Knight, but nothing suspicious either,” Trudy concludes. She deliberately excludes Miles and his communication with Stephanie from her list, and we all appreciate her effort to sidestep those awkward moments.

“What about the neighbours?” Miles asks.

“Nothing significant on Hughes’s phone record. Calls and messages to friends, family, and some work-related calls. That’s all.”

“As you were talking, something clicked,” I tell Trudy. “There’s a solid point to confront Wylie. How could he forget his phone when he needed to check the list Stephanie sent him for groceries? Even if he did forget, wouldn’t he have returned home to get it?”

“We compared the groceries he brought with the list she sent,” Trudy explains. “It had everything she asked for. So, he might argue that he has a good memory and didn’t need the list.”

“That’s true,” I nod. “He’s not someone who struggles with creating stories.”

“Stephanie wasn’t exactly an angel either,” Trudy adds. “She told her family and friends she was volunteering twice a week at the hospital, but in reality, she was frequenting pubs and bars.”

Sam suddenly shifts in his chair, becoming noticeably tense. I glance at him, then at Trudy, and casually ask, “Where to?”

“A posh resort in Sandy Bay,” Trudy replies. “It’s about 50 miles away.”

“We should get the footage from there. It might reveal if she had any acquaintances at the resort.” I suggest while watching Sam’s face go pale.

“What about Dr. Sullivan and everything you mentioned on the phone?” Miles asks.

“Dr. Hannigan suspects Dr. Sullivan might have misused Austin’s medication at Stephanie’s request,” I say, hinting at Hannigan’s concerns about a possible affair between Stephanie and Dr. Sullivan.

“We should check his alibi,” Miles suggests. “There’s a chance he might have used his position to help Stephanie because of their connection. If there were disagreements, she might have threatened to expose him. That could be the motive.”

“That makes sense,” I agree. “Trudy is already digging into it,” I add.

“Well,” Miles says, getting up. “I have an important meeting today that I can’t postpone. I’ll let you guys proceed for the day. Keep me updated.” He walks to the door and turns around. “Did you read Stephanie’s Journal?” he asks me.

“I did.”

“Anything stands out to you?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head.

“Alright,” smiles Miles. He then signals for Trudy to join him and walks outside the room. Trudy promptly gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket and call my friend, Ryder, a security guard at headquarters. As the phone is picked up, I ask, “Did you have a workshop there yesterday?”

“Yes,” Ryder confirms. “On Leadership and Management.”

“Who was conducting it?”

“Miles, Brent and Sharon.”

“What was Miles’s role?”

“The workshop began at half past eight with an introduction, and 21 people attended it. Miles Joined at 9. He had two sessions. One is from 9 to 10, and the other is from 10.15 to 11.15 after a break. He cancelled his second session when it was about to finish and left. It was my understanding that he had an emergency call.” He pauses before asking, “Everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah. I came across some info about the workshop and thought I’d ask you. It’s for a friend. Thanks, buddy,” I say, wrapping up the call.

I then glance at Sam, who gives me a disapproving look. “You don’t trust Trudy?” he frowns. “Even after having a romantic banter with her all night long.”

“Yeah, right! Discussing Stephanie’s murder is now romantic banter!” I shoot him a dismissive look, regretting sharing our conversation with him.

“Still! You didn’t call me, but her,” he pulls a face.

“I didn’t call her. I sent her an email, and she called me.”

“Whatever! You talked to her for hours, but don’t trust her!”

“Who knows, maybe Trudy and Miles are a team,” I joke, opening my laptop and removing Miles’s name from my suspect list. “Didn’t you hear what she said? “He didn’t kill Stephanie.” She said it like it was a fact, not just her opinion,” I say, half serious, half-jokingly.

“Seriously!” Sam scoffs, “You thought Miles might have done it?”

“Miles brought in his best officers from all over the province to this investigation. He wouldn’t have brought me or you in unless he’s innocent. No one else is as desperate to solve this case as he is. I knew the chances were slim of him being the killer, but I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

“You don’t believe anyone,” Sam complains. “God knows when you will add my name to that list. It’s only a matter of time,” he adds, a nervous grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t give me ideas,” I say, typing his name in bold letters at the top of the list.

“Well, in that case, I accuse you and Miles of being a team, and you’re here to protect him,” Sam says, avoiding my gaze.

“Maybe Miles hired both you and me to murder Stephanie and then bury the case forever,” I suggest.

“Or hired me, you, and Trudy,” he counters.

“We could play this game all day,” I tell him.

“I agree,” he says, deadpan. Then he gives me a fist bump, and we both burst into laughter, the tension of the moment lifting.

 I save the updated list, keeping his name on it, and close the laptop.

Chapter 25

As the sun dips toward the horizon, I pull into the parking lot of a small motel in Beachtown. Beachtown, with a population of less than 10,000, boasts two motels. One is a modest single-story building with a handful of rooms, while the other is a bit more upscale.

Gordon was spotted in Beachtown four months ago, where he got pulled over for speeding. During this stop, the cop ran his license in the system and noted his criminal background. When asked about his presence in Beachtown, far from his hometown, he said he was meeting a friend at the local motel. I watched the footage of his interaction with the cop, and he appeared unfazed. I can’t help but wonder who this friend might be. His good looks and the fact that he mentioned meeting a friend in a motel make me wonder if it’s a woman. Another possibility is that this friend might be an acquaintance from jail who could have helped him kill Stephanie. That’s why I’m here, despite him having a solid alibi, to figure out what he was doing in Beachtown, which is not very far from Dark Hill. I somehow believe that this is not his first visit to this town. If so, the staff in this motel could help me find out who this mysterious friend is.

Approaching the deserted reception, a young man greets me warmly from behind his desk. “Good evening. How can I help you?” he asks politely.

“I’m here to meet my friend, Gordon Keith,” I explain. “Unfortunately, I lost his number, and I’m not sure which room he’s in. Could you please let him know that Stefan is here to see him?”

“No one named Gordon Keith booked a room here,” he responds without even checking his computer.

“Are you sure?” I inquire, glancing around. “He said we’d meet at Saddle Wood Inn.”

“I’m positive,” he replies with a smile. “We only have one occupant at the moment, and he isn’t Gordon Keith.”

“Oh, really?” I say, pulling out my phone and browsing through it. “Today’s July 19th, right?” I ask, turning the phone toward him, displaying a photo of Gordon. “You didn’t see him, huh? He’s a regular customer here,” I say.

He studies the photo and responds, “I’ve been here almost every evening for the past six months. I’ve never seen him.”

“Do you have any video surveillance?” I ask, glancing around.

“Why?” He gives me a suspicious look.

“Just wondering, you know, in case…,” I reply casually.

“We’ve got one at the entrance, but it hasn’t been working for a few months. They just fixed it last month.”

“Very well,” I say, tucking back the phone in my pocket. “I guess there’s some miscommunication. Sorry to bother you. Have a good evening.”

“Good night,” he says, turning to the computer to avoid any further conversation.

From Saddle Wood Inn, I make my way to Pine Mill Lodge. A warm, plump woman at the reception greets me with a warm smile as I recount the same story. As expected, the response remains the same - no one named Gordon Keith had reserved a room.

“As far as I know, he’s a regular customer here,” I note.

“Honey, I’m the owner of this motel, and I’m always here. No one named Gordon Keith frequents this place,” she assures me. “There must be a misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure he said Pine Mill Lodge,” I insist, showing her a photo on my phone.

“Oh dear, this isn’t Gordon Keith,” she remarks kindly. “This is Alex Greig. You’re right; Alex and Laura are our regulars.”

“Are they booked a room for tonight?” I ask.

“No, they were here a few months back. They visit only two or three times a year. There’s a ranch nearby, and they’re big into horse trekking. That’s why they make the trip every year,” she shares. “Did they mention they’re coming tonight?” she asks.

“Yes,” I nod. “How long have you known them?” I ask.

“Oh, for quite some time. Maybe seven or eight years,” she responds.

“Wow, that’s a long time,” I remark.

“They usually call ahead to reserve their favourite room if they’re coming. I didn’t receive any call today,” she recalls. After a moment of thought, she mentions, “But his name isn’t Gordon Keith.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “I may have mixed things up.”

She assesses me with a scrutinizing gaze and inquires, “I feel like you’re hiding something. What’s the matter, dear?”

Choosing not to lie again, I flash my badge and say, “I’m a police officer. It’s related to an investigation.”

“Oh my,” she murmurs. “I hope everything’s all right with Keith.”

“I can’t disclose much as it’s an ongoing investigation,” I say. “Do you have security footage here?” I ask, pointing towards the video camera on the wall above the reception.

“We do,” she confirms.

“I need to have a look at it,” I say.

Oh, my,” she wails, adjusting her glasses. “We run a friendly, family-oriented motel. We’ve never had any problems here, especially with the police involved. News travels quickly in a small town like this, and police involvement could hurt our small business.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “I’ll keep this visit confidential. As long as it stays between us, it won’t be disclosed. I need to review a few footage clips, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“I’m not familiar with the technology, dear. Let me call my son. He might be able to help you.”

While she dials the phone and speaks to her son, I sit across from the lobby, hoping to confirm whether Laura is the person I believe her to be.

July 20, 2023

Chapter 26

The next scorching morning, as we drive toward Hughes and pass by the egg shack, I suddenly shout, louder than I intend, “Stop!”

Sam pulls over, looking puzzled. “What’s up?”

“Eggs. I need to buy some eggs.”

“Can’t it wait until we’re on our way back?” Sam suggests.

“If I miss out today, I’ll be stuck with just yogurt and half a loaf of bread at home. Who knows when we’ll be done today? The shops might be closed by then.”

“Grab one for me, too,” Sam says as I step out of the car.

I enter the shack and grab three cartons - two for me and one for Sam. As I skim through the short payment instructions, I notice a camera in the corner, pointed at the road. Excitement rushes through me. I toss twenty dollars into the box and dash out, not bothering with the change. With the cartons in one hand, I dial Trudy as I head back to the car.

“Hey, there’s a surveillance camera by the egg shelf at house number 312 on Daffodils Way. Get in touch with the owners and see if you can get the footage,” I instruct. “If lucky, we might spot Wylie’s truck on it.”

“Wow!” Trudy gasps. “I noticed that egg shelf before but never thought they’d have video surveillance. The owners weren’t home when we checked the other houses yesterday. I’m so glad you found it. This could be the missing piece we’ve been desperate for.”

“You’ve got to act fast. Those cameras might loop over the old footage once the storage is full. We’ve got that appointment with Delores, so there’s no time to waste,” I urge.

“I’ll send someone to get it right away,” she assures me before hanging up.

This unexpected twist boosts our spirits. Sam and I feel more energized and optimistic as we continue our journey. When we arrive at Hughes’s place, a sprawling, one-story L-shaped building with expansive windows and high ceilings, Ben greets us with a serious expression. “Delores is in her office. I’ll let her know you’re here,” he informs us.

“No need. We’ll head down ourselves,” I tell him.

As Ben nods, we descend the stairs into a spacious basement. It has a storage room, laundry area, and two large rooms, each with a bathroom. The office space beneath the vertical part of the L is simple but functional - a desk, a chair, a recliner, and a wall-mounted shelf filled with neatly organized files. Delores, dressed in a blue linen shirt and black jeans, is seated at her desk, typing on her laptop. The scent of medicated cream lingers in the air, and I notice a tube of Voltaren next to a bottle of Advil on her otherwise tidy desk, which only holds a laptop. When she sees us, she stands and shakes my hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, offering a firm handshake. As she greets Sam and exchanges a few pleasantries, I glimpse a resume on her laptop screen. Noticing my gaze, she quickly straightens the laptop.

“Are you all caught up with work?” I ask casually.

“Not quite. I’m on a break right now,” she replies, glancing at the wall clock.

“Then let’s make the most of it,” I suggest.

“Sure,” she agrees, pulling out two chairs from the storage room and setting them in front of the recliner. I settle into the recliner while Sam and Delores get comfortable in the chairs. Delores still seems to be mourning her best friend’s death - her face is puffy, and her eyes are swollen. The weariness in her eyes might be from the grief of losing her best friend, but the dark circles underneath suggest a more prolonged struggle, like life hasn’t been kind to her. Her once dark, thick hair is now streaked with gray, and faint creases are starting to show on her forehead.

As I try to figure out how to start the conversation, my eyes drift to the photo wall across from her desk. The first picture is of their wedding, a young Delores looking angelic in her white gown beside her strikingly handsome husband. In the next one, taken years later, she still looks stunning, her layered pixie bob ideally in place as she stands arm-in-arm with Ben. Not a strand of gray in sight. The last picture shows them on a beach, a sunset glowing in the background. “Nice pictures,” I say, pointing toward the frames.

“Thanks!” she beams. “The first one’s our wedding pic, obviously. The second is from when we moved in here, and the last,” she points, “is from our Cuba trip three months ago. Louis took that one. He’s quite the photographer.”

“Louis took it? Did Fleming join you for the Cuba trip?” I ask.

“Yeah, it was our yearly trip. We spent a whole week there in April.”

“You look so…,” I glance between her face and the photo, “different.”

“My new job’s a bit much. I barely have time for anything these days. Not sure I can stick with it much longer,” she sighs, her shoulders dropping. “That trip was the best. Never thought it’d be our last,” she adds, her eyes welling up.

“Life can be so unpredictable. We have to roll with it,” I say, trying to comfort her. Glancing at the fast-moving second hand on the wall clock, I decide to dive into the matter. “So, you were in your office when you heard the gunshot on the 18th?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she confirms.

“What were you doing when you heard the gunshot?” I ask.

“I was on the phone. I heard some noise but didn’t pay much attention. Gunshots are pretty common around here.”

“Is it usual to hear gunshots in the morning, especially a few in a row?”

“The youngsters in the hills are determined. When they spot a deer in the backyard and fancy some meat, they go for it, no matter the time. It’s not unusual to hear those sounds around here at any hour,” Delores explains.

“Where was your husband at that time?”

“He’d already left a few minutes earlier.”

“Do you work from home?” I ask.

“Yeah. My job involves a ton of phone calls and chats with clients, mostly dealing with unhappy customers.”

“Are your phone calls with customers recorded?”

She thinks for a moment and replies, “I think so. Probably for quality purposes.”

“What time did you hear the gunshot?” I press.

“I was on the phone from quarter to nine for about half an hour. It happened sometime in between. Around 9, I believe. I don’t remember the exact time, though,” she replies.

“Did Jesse come to visit you around the same time?” I steer the conversation into more sensitive territory. After all, the primary goal of our visit today is to verify the authenticity of Jesse’s statement, and I must accomplish that before she signals my time is up.

Her expression remains unchanged - no shock, surprise, fear, or embarrassment. It seems like Jesse might have given her a heads-up, and she was indeed expecting this question. “I hope you keep it confidential,” she whispers. “Our relationship,” she adds, glancing at the door. With a deep breath, she continues, “Halfway through the call with my customer, I heard the doorbell. I was looking through documents and talking to my client. It was one of my difficult customers, and I didn’t want interruptions. I figured Jesse would leave if I didn’t open the door, as he sometimes did. But he stayed and rang again, so I opened the door. He didn’t stay long, though. He saw how busy I was.”

“What time did he leave?”

“About half an hour later. Around 9.30.”

“Was he with you when you heard the gunshot?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How did your relationship start?” I probe further.

“My husband has been extremely busy with work and distant from me lately. Then, I don’t know how, but I suddenly started liking Jesse. I guess strange things happen during menopause,” she admits sheepishly.

“Even though he was much younger than you,” I emphasize.

“Have you seen him?” she asks, smiling.

“He’s handsome,” I agree. “After developing this liking, you started to see each other. How often?” I inquire.

“Pretty much every day. Either I’d go to his house, pretending to visit Stephanie, or he’d come here. Mostly, he came here and hung around when Ben wasn’t home.”

“Isn’t your job already stressful? Wouldn’t having him here be too much of a distraction?” I ask.

“Yeah, my work is stressful, but he preferred being here rather than in Lost Meadow. He’d chill in the recliner, watching videos on his phone. He was quiet and well-mannered. He never interrupted me, so it was all good with me.”

“It seems like you have strong feelings for him, yet your relationship wasn’t physical,” I note.

“I wasn’t ready yet. We’ve only been together for a month. He’s young and impulsive. Having more life experience, I felt it was best to take things slowly.”

“Didn’t you feel guilty having an affair with him while still married to Ben?”

“I did. It wasn’t something I took pride in, but it happened.”

“Did Stephanie know about it?”

“No.”

“I heard you were best friends with Stephanie. You must know some of her secrets,” I comment.

“Not really. Stephanie kept the sad stuff to herself. She projected happiness, but deep down, she struggled because of Austin, though she never talked about it.”

“So, you’re saying you two were very close friends, met almost every day, but only discussed the positive aspects of life,” I frown.

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t sound like two typical middle-aged women!” I remark.

“Believe it or not, we liked focusing on the positive.”

“Have you ever inflicted harm upon Stephanie or plotted to do so?” I ask.

“Absolutely not,” Delores fumes. “Why would I ever want to harm my best friend?” she asks, her tone high-strung.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she discovered her son’s new affair and tried to intervene. So, you and Jesse plotted and killed her.”

Delores chuckles as if finding the accusation absurd. “What a cliché thriller story, huh? Unfortunately, your story sucks,” she scoffs. “There’s no way she could have discovered our relationship. It’s just in its infancy, and we were very cautious. If she had known, she would have cut all ties with me. If you know her personally, you’d understand. She came to seek my opinion an hour before she was murdered. It’s because my opinion mattered to her.”

“What time did she come to meet you on that day?” I ask.

“Between 8 and 8.30. She popped in to discuss the snack for the book club meeting. I was expecting a call from my customer. She didn’t stick around for too long,” Delores says, her voice breaking as she adds, “I wish she had.”

“You were her close friend. Do you know if she had any enemies?”

“No, she was a kind soul; there’s no way she could have had any enemies. She had a beautiful heart.”

“Just as beautiful as she was,” I add.

“Oh, absolutely! She was exceptionally stunning. You couldn’t help but stare, especially at those sparkling blue eyes. God forbid the moron who aimed at those beautiful eyes.”

“You’re right,” I agree, shaking my head. “How could someone commit such an act! Must be a coward who envies her beauty, intelligence, and competence,” I remark. She nods.

“How was her relationship with Wylie?” I probe.

“Normal, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did you know of any infidelity on either of their parts?”

“Never,” she snaps, glaring at me. “Wylie took pride in having such a beautiful woman in his life. On the other hand, Stephanie was grateful to Wylie for providing well for her and the boys. Sometimes, she felt a bit overwhelmed handling everything at home by herself, but she never complained.”

“You claimed you both only shared positive thoughts. Then how do you know this?”

“She never told me anything, but I pieced together hints from our conversations.”

“Do you know where Wylie keeps his gun?”

“Somewhere in their master bedroom. That’s all I know.”

“Did Stephanie, Jesse, or anyone else ever tell you the code to open the safe?”

“Not that I can recall. I’m not good with numbers. Even if they did tell me, which I highly doubt, I must have forgotten it.”

I glance up at the window and gesture toward it. “Can one person fit through this?”

Surprised, Delores asks, “What?”

“Is it possible for someone to squeeze through this?” I repeat my question.

“If they’re slender enough,” Delores responds.

“Someone like Jesse,” I suggest, “or perhaps you,” I add, glancing at her slim physique.

She smiles smugly. “I’ve never attempted it. First off, I’ve never needed to. Secondly, I’m forty-four, have stiff joints, and take medication for arthritis, so my body isn’t that flexible anymore. With Jesse, it happened only once. Ben unexpectedly returned home one day, and we were startled. In the spur of the moment, he managed to slip out through the window.” She sighs, as if rewinding that episode in her mind. “Are you finished? I have to get back to work,” she says.

“No worries; we’ll get in touch if needed,” I say as I rise from my chair.

“If you want to talk to me further, let me know in advance, and I can arrange something outside my office hours. I’m still on probation and don’t want to risk it. But I also want to help with this investigation as much as possible. I want to make sure my best friend receives the justice she deserves.”

“Please feel free to reach out if anything crosses your mind that might help our investigation,” I offer her my card.

“Sure,” she says, placing it in the drawer. As we are about to leave, she adds, “I hope you do not disclose my relationship with Jesse to Ben.”

“I’m not revealing anything to him for now. As for the future, I can’t make any promises,” I tell her and step out of the room.

Chapter 27

As we reach the upper level, we find Ben, visibly anxious, pacing in the living room.

“I had an appointment with a client, and I’m running late,” he complains.

“Did I ask you to wait?” I snap.

“Delores hasn’t been in good spirits since she heard the news. I didn’t want to leave her alone. I hope you didn’t upset her more,” he says.

“She’s strong. She can handle things on her own,” I assure him before we make our way outside. Once outside, I see Trudy's Ford pull into the compound and park next to our car. She slides down the window as we approach.

 “We retrieved the footage from the security camera. Fortunately, the storage wasn’t full and didn’t start overwriting the old recording. At 9.08, the footage recorded Wylie’s truck, and someone was seated in the passenger seat. The truck is recognizable, but Theodore is not, as it was speeding away. The video’s quality is not optimal either.”

“Is Destiny’s house nearby?” I ask Trudy.

“Hardly half a mile away from this egg shack.”

“According to this video, Wylie might have dropped Theodore near her house around 9.10, and then he reached Sobeys at 9.19. It’s about twenty-two miles from Destiny’s house to Sobeys, and he covered it in 9 minutes. He must have driven triple the speed limit through the hills and at least nearly double the speed through the town,” I say.

“Wylie deliberately left his phone at home and opted for a vehicle without a GPS tracker to prevent us from establishing his presence at or near home during Stephanie’s fatal shooting. He didn’t expect this evidence,” Sam says. “The distance from Lost Meadow to the egg shack is about two and a half miles. If he left home at 8.45, he must have been close to town by 9.08, but he wasn’t. That means he didn’t depart at the time when he claimed he did.”

“My team is already gathering the footage from the route between Lost Meadow and Sobeys. This will help us figure out how fast he was driving. With things clearer now, I think it’s time to proceed to the next investigation phase. Should we place Wylie and Theodore in custody?” Trudy inquires.

“Isn’t it better to talk to them again and clarify a few points before taking them into custody?” Sam suggests.

“That sounds like a better idea,” I nod in agreement.

“How did your interview with Delores go?” Trudy asks.

“Jesse was with her from around 9.05 until 9.30. His statement checks out,” I say.

“I don’t believe Jesse has anything to do with Stephanie’s murder,” Sam asserts. “How could he kill Stephanie and then arrive here within minutes?”

“It’s possible,” Trudy interjects. “He could have shot her, escaped through the door, and reached Hughes within two minutes using this pathway,” she says, pointing to the trail leading to Lost Meadow. “It’s easy for him to dispose of evidence, like clothes or gloves, especially if he was heading to the river. What if Delores is lying about his alibi to protect him?” Trudy proposes.

“Curtis asked Delores if she and Jesse together killed Stephanie, and her response made sense. Stephanie was her best friend, and there was no motive to harm her. Stephanie visited Delores an hour before her death to discuss the snack for the book club meeting. That speaks to the bond between them. There’s no reason for her to protect Jesse if she believes he killed her,” Sam says. “I believe, like the rest of you, that Wylie and Theodore are more suspicious than Jesse.”

“We’re all on the same page. But as your boss mentioned,” Trudy glances at me, “we shouldn’t remove anyone from our list unless we have concrete evidence. That’s why I’m still considering Jesse, even though we all know the real culprits.”

“Exactly,” Sam replies, casting a smile my way. “My boss usually says things that make sense in the long run.” I remain silent, absorbing their ongoing discussion and observing their animated enthusiasm. By now, I have an idea of who killed Stephanie; I just need to untangle the riddle and gather substantial evidence. I refrain from sharing this information with Trudy or Sam, as my trust, especially in this investigation, has been shaken since the journal incident.

Chapter 28

After leaving Hughes’s house, we drive into Lost Meadow and park in the yard. I notice the chairs in the yard, still untouched, tucked away in the same corner in front of the garage. There’s no indication that a murder happened here two days ago, but an eerie sensation grips me as soon as my foot makes contact with the ground.

Wylie, taken aback by our unannounced visit, ushers us inside. With an urgent tone, he says, “We don’t have much time. I came from the hospital to freshen up. We’re all heading back now.”

“How is Austin doing?” Trudy inquires.

“He sleeps most of the day,” Wylie replies.

“Hope you don’t mind speaking with us for a few minutes,” I say.

“If it’s a few minutes, no problem,” he responds.

“Why don’t you and Sam chat with the boys while I talk to Wylie? It might speed things up,” I propose to Trudy, framing it as a new suggestion even though it had always been our strategy to talk to Wylie and Theodore separately to compare their responses.

“We want to clarify a few points from Theodore’s first interview,” I explain to Wylie.

“Alright,” he agrees.

As Sam and Trudy feign a discussion about their strategy, I lead Wylie outside. “Let’s take a seat out here,” I suggest. He agrees, and we head to the chairs in the yard.

“Nice house,” I remark as I settle into the chair, letting my gaze drift toward the house. “Why did you build such a beautiful place in the woods?” I ask.

“I’ve always loved nature,” Wylie says, sitting across from me. “Owning a house in the woods was a dream since I was young, and fortunately, I made it happen in my early thirties.”

“You started building this house not long after your first wife was shot dead,” I remark. Instantly, a flicker of regret passes over Wylie’s face. His shoulders stiffen, and he seems momentarily uncomfortable, as if he wishes he hadn’t agreed to this interview.

“A few years later,” he admits after a brief pause. “I left Saskatoon after my wife committed suicide. I didn’t want to stay there any longer. I needed a change.”

I lean forward, my voice softening slightly. “Can you tell me more about her sudden death?”

“We’d just had Theodore, and she was suffering from postpartum depression. I was working as an administrator at a nursing home then. One day, I came home from work to find her dead, and Theodore, only a few months old, was sound asleep in his cot.”

“Did they investigate her death?”

“They did,” he replies, his voice steady but distant. “She’d been dead for several hours by the time I got home. There were no signs of forced entry, and the door was locked from the inside. They ruled it a suicide.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “She was killed by a gunshot to the face, wasn’t she?”

“One shot to her forehead,” he confirms.

“Just like Stephanie,” I comment, watching him closely.

He looks at me, his expression turning serious. “Did Stephanie have a gunshot to her forehead?” he asks.

I tilt my head slightly. “You were the one who found her dead, yet you didn’t notice the gunshot wound on her face?”

Wylie fidgets with his wedding ring, his voice strained. “Her face was covered in blood, completely unrecognizable. It was hard to even look at her. My first wife’s death wasn’t as gruesome as Stephanie’s.”

“I see,” I nod. “So, you moved out of the province within weeks of your wife’s death?”

“Two months later.”

“How did you meet Stephanie?”

“We relocated to Northern Ontario because the nursing home where I worked in Saskatoon had a sister facility, and they had an opening for an administrator. I took the job, and Stephanie joined a year or two later as the activation lead. She was going through a tough time - her husband had recently left her. We both needed support, and I needed a good mother for Theo. She proved to be just that, and we married soon.”

“You both had successful careers. Why leave it all behind and move into the woods?”

“We initially planned to settle there, but her husband showed up at our workplace and threatened to kill us. That changed everything. When we found this place at a remarkably low price, we didn’t hesitate. We quit our jobs, moved into a small rental home in Creekbridge, and started building this home. Once it was finished, I started my own business.”

I narrow my eyes and note, “It seems like the money from your first wife’s insurance policy was enough to build such a beautiful house, quit your job, and start a business.”

Wylie’s face tightens, and he counters, “I was financially well-settled from a young age. My parents helped significantly with buying the property and more.  If you have questions about Stephanie’s death, ask them. I don’t have much time.”

“I’ve got plenty of questions, but let’s focus on two for now. First, I need a list of all the people Austin identifies as ‘Nana.’  Include anyone who comes to your mind,” I instruct, pulling out a pen and paper from my pocket and handing them to Wylie. He takes his time, jotting down names before handing the list back to me. I scan it and tuck it away.

“Now, onto the second matter,” I continue. “I want to revisit a statement from your previous interview. You said you left your house at 8.45 am on the day Stephanie died. Was anyone else in your truck?”

“No, I was alone,” Wylie replies.

“We have a witness who saw you and Theodore speeding through Daffodils Way between 9.05 and 9.10 that same day.”

After a brief pause, Wylie mutters, “That wasn’t me.”

I notice the slight tremor in his voice and the colour draining from his face. I lean in and say, “It was you, Wylie. We’ve got video footage that proves it.”

Another silence stretches between us before he finally speaks. “I ran into a kid on the road. He was riding his bike, and I got too close. He swerved and ended up in a ditch, hurting his knee. I lifted him and dropped him off a few miles away.”

“Why didn’t you mention this during your first interview?” I ask, noticing the tension in his posture.

“I... I completely forgot. My wife had just been murdered, Austin was out of control, and I was exhausted. My mind wasn’t working right.”

“So, you’re saying it wasn’t Theodore in the truck with you, but a random cyclist?”

“Yes,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Whoever saw us must have mistaken the cyclist for Theo. They looked similar, with long hair and almost the same physique.”

I give him a sarcastic look. “Ah, the cyclist also had long hair, just like Theodore?”

“That’s right.”

“The footage is from only three miles away from your home. You left home at 8.45. Yet it took you almost half an hour to get there. What took so long?”

“The incident with the cyclist delayed me. We talked briefly, and getting him into the truck took a while since he was injured.”

“You made it to Sobeys by 9.19, which means you covered nearly twenty-two miles in nine minutes. Within this timeframe, you also made a stop and let the injured passenger out. How did you manage that?”

“I don’t remember,” he shrugs, looking uneasy. “I must’ve driven fast because of the incident.”

“Would you recognize the cyclist if you saw him again?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“He was on his bike, so he likely lives nearby. We’ll track him down soon enough,” I say, watching Wylie closely.

“It doesn’t have to be someone from the hill,” Wylie argues, his voice rising slightly. “I’ve lived here for fourteen years and know the folks well. I didn’t recognize this young man. He isn’t from the hill unless he’s new.”

“Interesting,” I nod thoughtfully. After a brief pause, I continue, “You recently doubled your wife’s life insurance policy. Why?”

“We increased Austin’s policy as well. That wasn’t my doing, though. It was Stephanie’s idea. She wanted to make sure Austin was taken care of if anything ever happened to her.”

“But you’re the beneficiary, not Austin,” I point out.

“I handled the bills, so she kept my name on it. She trusted me to manage the money better. Doesn’t that show how strong our relationship was?” he counters, his tone defensive.

I stay silent for a moment, thinking, and ask, “Would you be willing to undergo a polygraph? There are some inconsistencies in your statements that we need to clear up.”

Wylie hesitates before saying, “I will. I’ll take the polygraph so you can stop harassing me and my family. But I’m also going to consult a lawyer. This investigation is heading in the wrong direction. Involve me if you have to, but my children are off-limits. I’ll defend them, no matter what.”

I finish his sentence for him, “No matter what… even if they killed your wife. You can’t shoot because of your Parkinson’s, but Theodore can. If you’re covering for him, you must stop and let justice prevail.”

“He had nothing to do with Stephanie’s murder!” Wylie shouts, leaping from his chair and storming back toward the house.

Chapter 29

As Wylie rushes into the living room where Theodore, Jesse, and Sam are talking, I follow him and stay by the door.

Wylie shouts at Theodore, “Stop talking to them. That’s enough.”

Perplexed, they all get to their feet. “The questioning is over,” Sam notes, hands tucked into his pockets. “Now it’s just casual chat.”

Wylie scans the room and asks, “Where’s the other one?”

“I’m here,” Trudy replies, descending the stairs.

Wylie’s frustration flares, and he shouts, “What are you doing upstairs in my house?”

Trudy stays composed and apologizes, “Sorry, I was only looking around.” She then motions toward the boys and says, “I got their permission, though.”

“This is my house, not theirs. Get out!” he yells, pointing to the door.

“Wylie, what’s going on?” Jesse interjects. “They’re trying to help us find my mom’s killer.”

“No,” Wylie snaps back. “They’re trying to frame us. They want to pin it on someone. At this point, they don’t care if it’s the real one or not.”

“Sorry to upset you, but Jesse’s right. We’re trying to help, but you’re refusing it. Thanks anyway,” I say, turning back. Sam and I leave the house, with Trudy following a few steps behind. In the background, the argument between Jesse and Wylie escalates, and the door slams shut.

“He’s furious because I accused Theodore of killing Stephanie. What did Theodore say?” I ask Sam.

“He insisted it wasn’t him in the truck with Wylie,” Sam tells me as we walk side by side. “He claimed he had no idea who was with his father but was adamant it wasn’t him.”

“Wylie said the same thing,” I add, “though when he learned about the footage, he didn’t deny having someone in the passenger seat. He spun a story about a run-in with a stranger who conveniently looked like Theodore and said he gave him a ride.”

“Pathological liar,” Sam mutters.

Trudy catches up to us and announces, “I found a phone.”

Sam and I both turn to her, surprised. “What?”

“I found a phone hidden behind a drawer in Austin’s room,” she explains. “After checking the safe in the master bedroom, I was heading back to Sam when I noticed Austin’s room. It was still a mess from two days ago - clothes everywhere, drawers open. Something made me go in and check under the bed where we’d found the gun. As I stood up, I hit my head on the side of the drawer. Out of frustration, I slammed it shut and heard a noise. The phone was tucked back there.”

“Just what we needed,” Sam says, his eyes widening. “Today is our lucky day.”

“Good job, Trudy,” I commend her. “Hope you can add this to your inventory list, alongside the items you seized the other day.”

“With Miles involved, anything is on the table in this case,” Trudy remarks.

“It’s probably Stephanie’s phone since you found it in Austin’s room,” Sam suggests.

“We’ll take a closer look once we’re back at the office,” I say.

We leave Lost Meadow, Sam and I in the Lexus, with Trudy following in her Ford. Once we arrive at the station, we head straight to our office.

Trudy places a sealed evidence bag on the desk. “I didn’t touch it, in case you need to check for fingerprints.”

I put on a glove and carefully remove a small pink iPhone from the bag. “It’s locked,” I note, sliding the screen.

“How do we unlock it?” Trudy asks.

“By trying random combinations,” I say, typing in 123456. It doesn’t work.

“Try 111111,” Sam suggests. I do, but no luck. After a few more attempts, a message pops up.

“Disabled for 1 minute due to multiple failed attempts,” I read aloud.

After waiting a minute, we start trying again. We go through possible codes - her date of birth, Wylie’s birthday, their anniversary - but nothing works.

“Try the boys' birthdays,” Trudy suggests. “It was Austin’s birthday for her phone.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I correct. “It was 123456.”

“No, it was 150305. We changed it to make it easier to remember,” she insists.

“Why didn’t you mention that earlier? We should’ve tried that first,” I say, entering 150305.

“Still nothing. What are the other kids' birthdays?” I ask, ready to try again.

“Give me a sec,” Trudy says, scrolling through her phone.

“Try 070403,” she suggests.

“Nope.”

“280605.”

“Nope.”

“191209?”

“No.”

“We’ve tried everything,” Trudy sighs, placing her phone on the desk.

“Give me a minute,” I say, deep in thought.

“We’re not even sure if it’s Stephanie’s phone,” Sam remarks.

“It’s got to be hers. Who else would hide a phone in Austin’s room? If someone else did, they wouldn’t leave the drawer open like that,” Trudy counters.

“True,” Sam agrees.

“It’s a secret phone so that she wouldn’t use an easily guessable number,” I muse. I close my eyes, thinking hard. Miles claimed he didn’t use a separate phone to communicate with Stephanie, and I believe him. She must’ve kept this phone to contact someone else. But who? The answer isn’t complex, though I have two possibilities. I scroll through a folder, find the number I need, and try it. No luck. So, I enter the second number, 211082, and it works exactly like I thought it would.

Trudy and Sam cheer. “Wow, you’re unbelievable! What’s that number?” Trudy asks.

“Patience, dear. You’ll see in a minute,” I reply.

I browse through the contact list - completely empty. The call log is the same.

“Check the texts!” Trudy urges, excited.

“Hold on, my dear,” I say, opening the messages folder. There are only two messages.

I read the second-to-last message aloud, sent on the day Stephanie died, at 8.35 am - “Where were you? I swung by your place. Didn’t see you, but I had a chat with your ever-charming wife. Theo’s off to see his girl. Sending Wylie to grab groceries. Swing by before Austin wakes up, please. If anything changes, I’ll hit you up. XOXO.” Then I read another message which was sent at 8.50 - “Wylie and Theo are out. Jesse’s getting ready to bounce. Swing by around 9. Just a heads-up, I’m not at my best, so don’t expect too much.”

“It’s to Ben!” Sam shouts. “Stephanie went to see Delores that morning. Is the code Ben’s birthday?”

“It sure is,” I say, grinning. Ben - another one of Stephanie’s lovers. Not shocking at all. I’ve had suspicions for a while, but now it’s confirmed. Stephanie wasn’t who she pretended to be. The only thing I’m wondering now is, how many more boyfriends does she have?

July 21, 2023

Chapter 30

As Sam begins the introduction, I sit back and sip my coffee, feeling at ease. The mystery surrounding Stephanie Fleming’s killer may be a tangled mess, with everyone somehow fitting the profile, but I’m confident I can untangle it and find the real culprit. Cooperation from those connected to Stephanie is crucial, and Today’s interview with Ben feels like the first step in that process.

My thoughts drift to the future, imagining the moment we hand the final file to Miles with ‘Case Closed’ stamped on it. We’ve done this with many cases before, but the satisfaction never gets old. Every time Miles acknowledges our work with a handshake, it feels as rewarding as the first time - exhilarating. The only other time I felt the same kind of euphoria was when Natasha finally agreed to go out with me.

I first met Natasha in the local library while pursuing my master’s in Criminal Justice at the University. Coincidentally, she was also a student at the same university, specializing in Forensic Psychology. She was gorgeous, and as I sat across from her, I was captivated by the silver ring on her left finger engraved with the word ‘purity.’ I felt a magnetic pull at that moment, much like King David to Bathsheba. Natasha was in a relationship with an attractive lad, but with that purity ring in her possession, I sensed it wouldn’t last. I kept an eye on them, and when I saw them sitting at separate tables in the library one day, I knew it was my chance. I approached her, but she wasn’t ready for another relationship so soon after her breakup. I didn’t give up, though. I kept trying for a year and eventually won her over.

That’s my approach to any case - hard work and persistence. In my experience, success often needs a mix of luck and relentless determination. This is where my belief in a Higher Power comes in; sometimes, it feels like something left behind by the perpetrator is meant to catch the investigator’s eye. It could be anything… like the crucial tip I got in this investigation.

I shift my focus back to Sam and Ben. Sam sits confidently, legs crossed, while Ben, clearly nervous, keeps moving in his seat and cracking his knuckles. I’m letting Sam take the lead today since he’s better at being confrontational, and that’s precisely what’s needed with Ben.

True to form, Sam dives right in. He opens a bag and pulls out a phone. “Seen this before?” he asks, holding it up so Ben can see. Ben’s face goes pale, and he doesn’t say a word.

“A lot of messages were deleted right after being sent, but we recovered them all,” Sam informs Ben. Ben remains silent, head lowered. Sam’s tone sharpens as he presses, “It would be in your best interest to tell me everything now.”

After a tense pause, Ben finally looks up and admits, “Stephanie and I have been in a secret relationship since we moved here.”

“Seven years?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, seven years,” Ben confirms.

“You managed to keep this a secret all this time?” Sam asks.

“Yes.”

“After seven years, you got bored. You didn’t need her anymore, and she wasn’t ready to let you go. So, you killed her,” Sam suggests.

“I didn’t kill her,” Ben insists, shaking his head. “It wasn’t me.”

“You got a text from Stephanie at 8.35 am the day she died, inviting you over. She asked you to be there by 9. She was shot at nine the same day. That means you were there when she was killed. You’re the one who parked the jeep by the roadside. You’re the one who shot her. You’re the one who ran through the woods afterward. My only question is,” Sam pauses, “why?”

“I did park the jeep there. I did run through the woods, but I didn’t kill Stephanie. Our love was as strong as seven years ago,” Ben insists.

“There’s no point in lying now. The truth is already out,” Sam says.

“Trust me,” Ben begs, his voice desperate. “I had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Then tell me what happened that day,” Sam demands.

“I got Stephanie’s message that morning. I left home around nine and parked the jeep by the roadside. Suddenly, I heard gunshots. It threw me off, but I decided to stick to my plan to meet Stephanie.”

“Did you go through the woods?” Sam interrupts.

“No. I used the main entrance. I knew only Stephanie and Austin were home, so I didn’t expect to run into anyone else. I always had an excuse ready if I did. Besides, it’s not unusual for us to drop by each other’s homes without notice. We have that kind of relationship, although Wylie and I rarely do that. The ladies usually do,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts.

“Hmm,” Sam mumbles.

“When I got there, the front door was partially open, but I went in through the kitchen door like I always did. Stephanie would leave it open for me. As I walked in, I saw her lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Austin was there, screaming. Panic hit me, and I bolted through the woods, jumped in my jeep, and sped off. I parked in the driveway of the house I was showing and paced, not knowing what to do. Then my customer called to say they’d be a few minutes late. While on the phone, I saw Wylie and Theodore driving by in the truck.”

“You didn’t check if Stephanie was breathing?”

“No, I was too panicked. I didn’t even look at her face. There was so much blood, I was sure she was dead.”

“What about Austin? What was he doing?”

“He was freaking out and screaming, ‘nana,’ pointing to the door. I got out of there so fast; I didn’t see what else he was doing.”

“Your story doesn’t add up,” Sam accuses. “You were near Stephanie’s home when you heard the gunshots. When you arrived, nobody was there except for Stephanie’s lifeless body and a distressed Austin. Later, you saw Wylie and Theodore speeding away in the truck from the house you were showing. They weren’t home when you were there. Did you see them on the way?”

“No. Wylie’s truck wasn’t there when I arrived, and I didn’t see them on the road.”

“You and Stephanie were in a relationship. You argued, got the gun, shot her, and left. Now, you’re trying to blame someone else,” Sam asserts.

“If that’s the case, how did I open the safe? I didn’t know the code,” Ben counters.

“Maybe Stephanie told you the code.”

“No. She never did.”

“I don’t buy it. It’s as simple as that,” Sam cuts him off.

“We never argued. You said you recovered all the messages between us. Did you see anything that suggested problems between us? I’m sure not. We loved each other deeply. So, tell me, why would I kill her?”

“You wanted to end the relationship,” Sam suggests.

“Why? It lasted seven years. We were in love, and nobody knew about it. Why end it? And even if I did want to end it, why would I kill her? I could’ve just talked to her. She was mature and understanding. Don’t you think she would’ve let me go if I asked?”

“I don’t know why,” Sam says. “There could be many reasons I’m unaware of,” he pauses. “Let me ask you something. Did you always park your jeep in the same spot when you visited Stephanie? Weren’t you worried someone might see you?”

“I parked my jeep in front of my property, not Wylie’s. That’s where I usually park when I’m working on my land. Nobody would question it except Delores. If she saw my jeep, she might’ve checked it out. But she was working that day, and when she was working, she never left her office. So, I felt safe.”

“What kind of relationship did you have with Stephanie?” Sam inquires.

“A mature one,” Ben replies.

“Really,” Sam mocks, then he takes the phone and reads from it.

Stephanie wrote, “What do you like the most about me?

You replied, “Everything about that face, especially your sparkling, blue eyes.”

“And then?”

“That long, perfect nose.”

“Then?”

“Those full lips.”

“Then?”

“This is something to say when I see you.”

“This conversation doesn’t match what you claim was a mature relationship,” Sam scoffs. Ben flushes with embarrassment as Sam continues. “How’s your relationship with your wife, Delores?”

“It was normal. She didn’t know about me and Stephanie,” Ben replies.

“Ben, let’s get this straight. This doesn’t look good for you. The evidence indicates you were at Stephanie’s house around the time of her death. It’s more complicated than you might think.”

“What if I take a test to prove my innocence?” Ben suggests.

“What test?” Sam asks.

“The lie detector test,” Ben answers.

“We can arrange that,” Sam says. “But I can’t guarantee the results will prove your innocence. They are generally inadmissible in court.”

“No problem,” Ben replies. “If I pass the test, it’ll show I’m innocent. Then, you can at least focus on finding the real culprit. Once you catch them, my innocence will be confirmed.”

“Alright, I’ll set up the Polygraph,” Sam agrees. “Also, we need your phone - the one you used to communicate with Stephanie.”

“No problem,” Ben says, cutting Sam off. “The only thing I left out in my previous interview was my relationship with Stephanie. I have nothing to hide now that it’s out in the open. The phone is in my Jeep. I’ll get it for you.” As Sam allows him to leave, Ben stands up and walks out with newfound confidence, more relaxed than when he arrived.

Chapter 31

As Sam concludes Ben’s interview, I call Miles.

“Ben has agreed to take a polygraph. Can you arrange it as soon as possible? If we can get a slot in a day or two, that would be great,” I request.

“Let me see what I can do,” Miles replies before hanging up.

Half an hour later, Miles calls back. “I’ve secured a spot for this afternoon at 1.45 at Universal,” he informs me.

“This soon? Everything seems to be moving unusually fast,” I comment with a hint of sarcasm. Usually, I’d need to apply considerable pressure to speed things up, but with Miles involved, a simple request seems enough for swift action.

“They had a cancellation due to a medical emergency, so Tracey agreed to fit Ben in,” Miles explains. I suspect there wasn’t a cancelled spot, and they likely adjusted their schedules to accommodate Ben, but I choose not to bring it up.

After hanging up, I update Trudy and Sam, checking my watch. “There’s a slot open at Universal Polygraph Center at 1.45. If Ben agrees, you should head out now and get there about 15 minutes early.”

“You’re not coming?” Sam asks.

“No, I want to review the interviews again to see if I missed anything,” I respond. Sam gives me a skeptical look but leaves with Trudy without further comment.

Once they leave, I pull out my phone and dial a number. “Good morning. This is Curtis. I’m following up on the email you sent me after our conversation yesterday,” I say.

“Hey… I’m afraid I don’t have much more to add beyond what I mentioned in the email. Our ownership has changed, and we’ve rebranded from Paramount Firearms Service to RANGE. As I mentioned, I only have limited information from a retired employee who used to work here. The person you’re interested in worked here for a few months, mostly training clients on safe and effective firearm handling. From what I know, this individual was very skilled at the job,” the voice on the other end explains.

“I understand. However, I’d like to speak with this retired employee. Can I have his contact number, please?” I request.

“Sorry, I asked him, but he declined to share his details. He’s enjoying his retirement and wants to stay out of this,” comes the response.

“Can I at least have his name?” I insist.

After a brief pause, the voice relents, “Alright, his name is Garrett Gonzales. Please keep my name out of it if you track him down.”

“That’s a promise. Thanks a lot,” I conclude.

I am confident I will locate Garrett Gonzales and obtain his testimony for the court. However, I will keep this information confidential for now and discuss it with Miles at the right time.

July 22, 2023

Chapter 32

At 8 am the following day, Sam, Trudy, and I gather in our office to review the results of Ben’s polygraph test. Miles joins us shortly afterward.

“Josephine just called me,” he says, settling into a seat. “Three DNA profiles were detected from Austin’s wound. Wylie and Ben are matched for two, but the third profile is unknown. It is also confirmed that Austin’s DNA is present on the wounds of Wylie, Ben, Jesse, and Theodore.”

Anger rushes over me suddenly, but it’s not about my ego. Why did Josephine reach out to Miles, not Sam, Trudy or me, the lead investigators? Miles assured us he wouldn’t interfere with the investigation, but he’s not keeping that promise. I sit quietly, and Sam, attuned to my frustration, pats on my back.

“What about the fingernail samples?” Trudy asks.

“Austin scratched multiple people, and his fingers were covered with Stephanie’s blood, which contaminated the sample,” Miles replies.

“We figured Wylie’s and Ben’s DNA would be there since they fought with Austin. Strangely, Jesse and Theodore left no trace after all their struggles with him. But what’s the deal with the unknown DNA?” Trudy asks.

“Oh, great. Now we’re dealing with a mystery DNA, too.” I sigh.

“Does this mean the killer could be someone else?” Miles asks, looking at me.

“I’m not sure,” I respond indifferently.

Miles looks at me, baffled. To shift the focus, Sam jumps in with a theory. “It’s possible that someone else was responsible for shooting Stephanie, and Austin confronted them, which could explain the unknown DNA on him,” he suggests.

“The unknown DNA could belong to someone on our team. There were times when some of our staff had to intervene to manage him,” Trudy explains.

Relieved, Miles suggests, “Oh, that explains it. It must be one of them. We should test everyone.”

“As if it’s that simple,” I snap. “Your team had a few hundred cops stationed there.”

“Not everyone had direct contact with Austin,” Trudy points out.

“The results will take another three days,” I add, frustration creeping into my voice. Sam squeezes my thigh, signalling me to stay calm, but I can’t.

“What’s your problem, Curtis?” Miles asks, noticing my mood.

“Nothing,” I reply curtly.

“Why the attitude?” he presses. “Do you want all of us to provide samples to prove our innocence? If that’s what it takes, we’re willing.”

“I’m not giving my sample simply to please him,” Trudy declares. “His attitude is his problem.”

“Nor will I,” Sam chimes in, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe we should start with Curtis’s sample,” he jokes. I manage a tight smile, still on edge.

“The investigation is progressing well. I’m impressed with how you’re narrowing down the suspects,” Miles says, trying to please me.

“Nothing would be possible without your help. You arranged for the polygraph on such short notice,” Sam responds.

“Ben passed the polygraph. What’s your take on it?” Miles asks as if seeking my opinion.

As I stay silent, Trudy says, “We all,” she gestures at us, “believed him after his interviews with Sam. He volunteered for the test and had the confidence of someone with nothing to hide. His only concern was his secret affair with Stephanie. Once that was out, you could see the relief on his face and body language.”

“So, he denied killing Stephanie?” Miles asks.

“That’s right,” Sam replies. “When asked if he killed Stephanie, he responded with a firm no, and his physiological responses, such as heart rate and blood pressure, remained consistent with his usual pattern.”

“Oh, I see,” says Miles.

Sam continues, “He acknowledged his relationship with Stephanie and confirmed that he still loves her. He held no grudges against her.”

“He might be innocent, but passing the polygraph alone doesn’t clear him,” Miles reminds us. “Stephanie’s last messages to him aren’t in his favour. They place him at the murder scene at the exact time of her death.”

“That’s true,” agrees Trudy. “Did you know about Ben and Stephanie’s relationship?” she asks, voicing the question on our minds.

“No,” Miles shakes his head. “I also didn’t know she was still in contact with Gordon.”

“What?” Trudy exclaims.

“Curtis didn’t mention it?” Miles asks, giving me a puzzled look. When I glance away, he continues, “Curtis looked into Gordon’s background and recent activities. It turns out Gordon and Stephanie were involved and occasionally met at a motel in Beachtown. They didn’t communicate much over the phone, though.”

“Wow!” Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “If that’s true, there’s a chance Gordon could have been to Lost Meadow and known where the gun was. Even if he has a solid alibi, he might have friends with criminal backgrounds willing to help him.”

“It’s possible,” Miles nods.

“God knows how many other affairs she had! It seems like she had a knack for attracting men, and the fools easily fell for her!” Trudy remarks, momentarily forgetting about Miles’s relationship with Stephanie. She remains unaware she called Miles a fool. Miles’s face flushes, as does Sam’s. The awkward silence snaps Trudy back to reality. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. She was very manipulative,” Trudy says, reddening like Miles and Sam.

“People wear different faces; I’ve realized that more and more lately,” Miles says gloomily.

“Much like Curtis,” Sam interjects, eyes narrowing at me. “He didn’t tell us anything about it! This is the first time he held back information from the team during an investigation. I wonder why.”

“It seems Curtis doesn’t trust us with anything,” Trudy accuses, her eyes fixed on me, “as if we’re suspects in this murder.”

I glance down, avoiding her gaze. I have my reasons for withholding information from my team. Miles’s unnecessary involvement at the start, especially with the journal incident, damaged my trust. Since then, I’ve been more cautious. However, I’m not the only one holding back information - someone on the team is, too. It’s not like I’m ignoring it. I’ll definitely address it. I’ll handle it privately once I’ve some proof.

An awkward silence hangs in the air until Miles clears his throat and asks, “Do you have any updates?”

“Yes,” Trudy begins. “Dr. Sullivan’s alibi checks out. He was in his clinic when Stephanie was murdered. He’s on administrative leave now due to an investigation by his regulatory body. We don’t have any evidence to suggest he had a relationship with Stephanie.”

“I don’t think it’s worth pursuing further if his alibi holds up,” Miles says. “Let’s allow the regulatory body to complete their investigation. We can revisit it later if necessary. What do you think?” he asks me.

“That sounds good,” I agree.

“Now that we’ve covered Dr. Sullivan, Ben, and Jesse, can we focus on Wylie and Theodore?” Miles asks.

“Wylie isn’t cooperating anymore. Plus, they’re planning to hire a lawyer,” Sam informs him.

“I spoke with him at length this morning,” Miles says. “I explained the potential consequences of his behaviour. He sincerely apologized for his actions and regretted forcing you guys out of his home. He promised to cooperate fully with the investigation from now on.”

“Good for him,” Sam comments.

“The problem is they only seem to open their mouths to lie,” Trudy adds, “and we’re not getting anywhere with that.”

“I think Wylie’s trying to protect his son. He kicked us out yesterday when Curtis mentioned Theodore’s name,” Sam says.

“In fact, Theodore always had a strained relationship with Stephanie. During his interview, he was very open about disliking her,” Trudy says.

“But here’s the thing,” Miles points out, “why now? He never liked Stephanie. Wylie and Stephanie have been married for fourteen years, and Theodore’s eighteen now, ready to move out with his girlfriend. Why would he act now after all these years?”

“Maybe that’s exactly why,” Trudy suggests. “If Stephanie’s out of the picture, he can stay at Wylie’s house as long as he wants.”

Miles looks at me and asks, “Still angry?”

I shrug casually, “No.”

“Looks like our boss has some calculations running in his head and isn’t sharing them with us,” Trudy grins.

I don’t reply, and Miles suggests, “I’ve arranged for Wylie and the boys to be home today. How about you all head to the hill and conduct another round of interviews?”

“We’ll take care of it today,” I say.

“Not this morning, though,” Miles interjects. “Louis is coming home today. They haven’t told him about Stephanie’s death yet; they wanted him to finish his trip first. It’s going to be a tough day for them. Let him settle in, and then you can include him in the interviews. He was very close to Stephanie and might know some things that others don’t. Plan for later in the day. I’ll talk to Wylie and arrange everything.”

“2 pm?” I suggest.

“A bit later,” Miles says.

“4 pm, then,” I offer.

“That’ll work,” Miles agrees, standing up. “Just a heads up - don’t get too excited when you see Louis,” he says before leaving the room.

Trudy and Sam exchange puzzled looks. “What does he mean?” Sam asks.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” I reply, nodding solemnly.

Chapter 33

After the meeting, I tell Sam and Trudy, “I need to run home quickly. I forgot my laptop.” Sam gives me a skeptical look, so I reassure him, “It won’t take long. I’ll be right back.”

A bit later, I’m driving out of town to Stonehurst, about 15 miles away. I park next to a black SUV, get out of my car, and climb into the passenger seat of the RAV4. Roland Quill, a bald guy with a rugged beard, sits in the driver’s seat, wearing a black cap and sunglasses. He looks me over and asks, “What’s going on? You didn’t say much on the phone. Why’d you make me drive all the way here?”

Roland is a private detective who’s helped us on a few cases. He’s a good friend of Sam’s and mine.

“It’s probably nothing, but I need to be sure,” I say, tapping my thigh nervously.

“What’s up, Curtis?” Roland asks, sensing something’s off.

“Sam’s been acting differently lately,” I start, trying to figure out how to explain.

“Differently?” Roland asks, biting his lip.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” I say. “We’re working on this Stephanie Fleming murder case, and I keep getting this feeling that Sam might know more than he’s telling me. Like he has some connection to her.”

“That’s probably your gut talking,” Roland says. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“I hope so,” I reply, “but for my peace of mind…, can you please look into it? I can’t do it myself without drawing attention. We’ve got a big team working on this case, and I feel we’re being watched,” I say.

“Why?” he asks. “Some big players involved?”

“Sort of,” I reply. “I can’t say much more right now.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, tipping his cap back. “So, you think Sam might’ve had something to do with Stephanie’s murder?

“I can’t see Sam doing that,” I say. “I need to be sure, though.”

“And you want to keep this between us?” he asks.

“Exactly,” I confirm.

“I’ll check it out,” Roland agrees after a pause. “I’ll need more details about Stephanie and her life, especially if you need this done quickly.”

“Stephanie had three sons, one daughter, and a stepson. She mostly stayed at home, taking care of her autistic child. She loved gardening and reading,” I tell him.

“What about her social life?” Roland asks.

“She started a local book club four years ago that’s still active. She doesn’t have many friends but has a best friend who lives next door. She loves pubs and clubs and visited a fancy resort in Sandy Bay every Wednesday and Friday. I’ll email you some photos and other details,” I say

“That’s enough to get started,” Roland says. After a moment, he adds, “How about grabbing a coffee?”

“Maybe another time,” I decline. “I’ve got to get going.”

“Alright then. See you,” Roland says as I get out of the car.

Before I shut the door, I remind him, “Keep this between us, okay?”

“If Sam finds out you’re doubting him, it’s gonna hurt,” Roland smirks.

“Yeah, it will,” I agree.

“Don’t worry, buddy. This stays between us,” Roland reassures me. I give him a quick wave and hurry back to my car. I then leave the parking lot and ride fast to the station. I need to get there before Sam and Trudy start getting suspicious about my delay.

Chapter 34

At 4 pm, the hill looms dark and gloomy, standing against the brightly lit area around it. The day is calm and still, with the woods hushed, wrapping the hill in an unsettling silence. As Sam stands by the door of Lost Meadow and rings the bell, breaking the quiet, I can’t shake the feeling that Stephanie is guiding me here. Maybe she’s leading me toward one of her favourite people - Louis. But then, a thought strikes me - did Louis really hold that place in her heart? Stephanie always expressed her love for Austin and Louis, almost as if she wanted recognition for how much she cared. Now that I’ve learned more about her, I’m questioning the sincerity of it all. Wylie meets us at the door, blocking our way. “Normally, he’s in high spirits. His mother’s death hit him hard. They were close. I wouldn’t have let him face this if Miles hadn’t asked. Please, be gentle with him. Try not to bring up anything that might upset him,” he instructs us. Wylie thinks we’re here to talk to Louis since that’s what Miles told him when he arranged this meeting. But our interest isn’t limited to Louis - we also want to speak to him and Theodore.

“If you had told us the truth, we wouldn’t need to be here,” Sam snaps. “We’ve known you were lying since the beginning.”

I worry Wylie might change his mind and stop us from speaking with Louis if provoked, so I signal Sam to quiet down. To my surprise, Wylie steps aside and asks, “He’s upstairs in his room. Would you like me to call him down?”

“No, we can go up. Why don’t you come along?” I suggest.

“It’s okay. Jesse’s upstairs with him,” Wylie says.

“Alright,” I nod and head up the stairs with Sam following me.

“One person, please,” he says firmly. “Let’s not overwhelm him.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep it low-key,” I reassure him as we continue up the stairs. From behind, Wylie shouts, “Second room on the left.”

I knock on the door and enter a bright room with posters and hand-painted art covering the blue walls featuring sports figures like Mike Trout and Joey Votto. As soon as Sam sees Louis, with his olive-green eyes and curly brown hair, he gives me a surprised look before pressing himself against the wall. Louis resembles Miles strikingly, which explains why Miles told us to stay calm when we saw him. I wince at Sam before turning my attention to Louis, who’s propped up in bed beside Jesse. As Jesse stands and starts to leave, I say, “You’re welcome to stay.”

Jesse moves to the corner and stands beside Sam. Louis tries to get up, but I signal him to remain seated. I grab a chair from his desk, place it by the bed, and sit down. Louis perches on the bed’s edge, his feet hanging over, looking at me. He looks drained - probably from the emotional toll of his mom’s sudden death.

“Good evening. You must be the police officer my dad mentioned,” Louis says.

“Yes, that’s me. You can call me Curtis. And this is my partner, Sam,” I say, pointing to Sam.

“I’m Louis,” he says, extending his hand. I’m impressed by his courage and politeness as we shake hands.

“First of all, I want to say I’m so sorry for your loss,” I start. “I know this must be incredibly hard for you,” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “You’re a brave young man. I need your help to find out who killed your mom. I know you and your mom had a special bond. I’m here to see if she shared anything with you that might help us solve this case.”

“Mom really loved me, like, a lot. In fact, she loved everyone. She was always so nice to everyone. Never did anything to hurt anyone. Why would someone hurt her?” he asks, choked up.

“We don’t know who did it or why. Maybe you can help us figure out why this happened. Did your mom ever talk about someone she didn’t like or someone she was scared of?”

“No. Everyone adored her, and she loved everyone right back,” he emphasizes.

“That’s not true. Your brothers didn’t feel the same about her as you did,” I point out.

“Austin loved her a lot. Theo and Jesse weren’t very fond of her, but they wouldn’t have hurt her,” he weeps. I extend a comforting hug, and after gathering himself, he continues, “I spoke to Mom in the morning on the day she passed. We used to chat every morning and evening since I left for this trip. She didn’t call me that evening and didn’t pick up when I rang her. Something seemed off, so I called Dad, and he said Mom’s phone was acting up. Since then, whenever I asked about Mom, they fed me some stories. I’m mad at them,” he complains, eyeing Jesse.

“That’s because everyone cares about you. They didn’t want to upset you,” I console him. “What time did you call mom that morning?”

“I don’t remember the exact time, but it was around 8.”

“Did you make any other calls that morning?” I inquire.

“I reached out to Dad and my brothers, but I believe I only spoke to Theo that morning. Dad and Jesse didn’t pick up my call.”

“What time did you call them?”

“Maybe half an hour later.”

“Do you remember your conversation with your mom that day?”

“She was super excited about the book club meeting she was supposed to host that evening and couldn’t stop talking about it. She also said she missed me and promised to take Austin and me for a long drive when I returned.”

“Did she sound like her usual self?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “She was all smiles and looked the same as always.”

“Looked? Were you video calling?”

“Yeah, we were on a video chat.”

“So, you saw your mom about an hour before she passed. Do you remember how she looked? Was she tired? Happy or sad? Did she seem scared? You know, sometimes you can tell by someone’s face or the way they sound if something’s up.”

“She was always in good spirits,” he says again. “I didn’t pick up on anything unusual. She talked like any other day.”

“You haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary?” I reiterate.

“No, nothing unusual,” he contemplates for a minute, then reaches for his phone on the bedside table as if struck by a sudden thought. “You can see for yourself,” he suggests.

“See for myself?”

“I have her pictures.”

“Pictures?” I ask, puzzled. “Did mom send you any photos that day?”

“No. I enjoy taking pictures; it’s my hobby. I take screenshots whenever we talk on video calls and play around with funny filters in an app. Sometimes, I send them to her or keep them for myself.”

“Are you saying you took a screenshot of your mom during the video call that day?”

“That’s correct,” he nods, swiping through his phone. “This is the photo I took that day,” he mentions, handing me his phone. “Keep scrolling. There are a few.”

I browse through them. Stephanie and Louis are striking different poses. She, wearing an oversized pink t-shirt and black leggings, is seen strolling around the kitchen while conversing with him. In the upper right corner of the screen, Louis’s face appears in a small square. There are seven photos in total, each showcasing different moments. They were taken between 8.01 and 8.16. Louis is right. She looks happy, though she’s missing her usual spark. There is no hint of sadness or fear, especially considering the danger ahead. She didn’t seem to be aware of the impending threat.

“Do you mind if I transfer these photos to my phone?” I inquire as I scroll through the images.

“No problem,” he replies. I send the pictures to my phone after carefully examining each one. As I scroll through the images, the eighth one grabs my attention - a photo of Theodore taken on the same day at 8.56. The phone is held low, obscuring the background, and I only see Theodore’s face and chest in the photograph. However, the top of a basswood and an extended branch of black spruce are visible in the background. Theodore is seated on his bike, wearing a red T-shirt. Like in the other pictures, Louis is contained within a small square in the upper right corner. That’s the final photo from that morning.

While casually flicking through the remaining images from the following days, it suddenly dawns on me that Theodore wore a red T-shirt in that photo taken on the day of Stephanie’s death. I quickly scroll back and zoom in on that image. Was it the same T-shirt from when I saw him that day next to Austin in the yard? No, definitely not! I can’t remember the exact colour off the top of my head - certainly not red, maybe some light-coloured T-shirt. This suggests he changed his T-shirt between 8.56 and when I spotted him in the yard. Why would he need to change unless it was dirty or perhaps stained with something he didn’t want us to see? What if it was blood?

“I think you’re tired and should rest,” I tell Louis. “I’m having a bit of trouble transferring the pictures. Would it be okay if I take this phone with me?” I inquire as I stand up from my chair.

A momentary confusion clouds his face. “No, if it helps find my mom’s killer. But you have to ask my dad,” he says, sharing a look with Jesse.

“Don’t worry. I’ll check with Wylie. Make sure to contact me if you need anything,” I reassure him with a pat on his shoulder. Then, Sam and I exit the room. As I walk down the stairs, a smile lights up my face. I hold onto the phone tightly, fully aware of its importance in the trial as crucial evidence. I’m confident it’ll help me unravel the next layer of mystery in Stephanie Fleming’s death.

Chapter 35

“That was quick,” Wylie comments as he sees me descending the stairs.

“I didn’t want to upset him, so I only asked the necessary questions,” I say, fiddling with the phone. His gaze follows the device.

“Isn’t that Louis’s?” he asks.

“Yes, it is. He has pictures of Stephanie from the day she died. Can I take it to the station?”

“Why not transfer the pictures to your phone?” he questions.

“The quality drops when transferring between phones. I’d rather handle it on my system,” I explain.

“This is all he’s using right now. He’s not even watching TV,” Wylie protests.

“I spoke to Louis, and he’s on board. He said he’s cool with it if it helps find his mother’s killer. Unlike you, he’s actually glad to help,” I respond.

Wylie shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Fine, whatever,” he says, clearly annoyed.

******

“Both Wylie and Theodore should be brought to the station for interviews,” I say to Miles, holding his gaze. “Even if that means we may need to take them into custody.”

“We have solid reasons for this,” Trudy says. “First, Ben saw Wylie and Theodore together, and we have footage to confirm it. Additionally, Theodore changed his clothes between 8.56 and when the police later saw him with his father and Austin in their yard after the 911 call. Theodore’s phone signals also placed him near Lost Meadow at the time of Stephanie’s death. I recognize the location from the screenshot Louis took at 8.56. This spot is between Lost Meadow and Bennett’s house, about 100 meters away. It’s distinctive because it’s the only area where the woods are less dense, with basswood and Black Spruce standing together. Also, Charlie headed that way but didn’t go much further. I can take Curtis and Sam there tomorrow.”

“I’ll speak with Wylie and gauge his willingness to come to the station,” Miles says. “He’s likely on board, but involving Theodore might require further discussion with him.”

“They’d better cooperate,” Sam adds. “If not, we’ll have no choice but to bring them in.”

“So, Theodore changed from a red T-shirt to a light blue one,” Miles says. “Now, we need to track down where this red T-shirt is.”

“That won’t be easy,” Trudy reminds him, “given that they’re lying about everything.”

“Are you certain Theodore is the one who killed Stephanie?” Miles asks, glancing at me. When I don’t respond, he shifts his gaze to Sam.

“Most likely,” Sam nods. “That’s our current assumption.”

Miles looks at me with a sarcastic smile. “I hope this is the last time we jump from one suspect to the next.”

“We can’t guarantee that,” Trudy interjects, her voice rising. “We receive numerous tips, but none lead us directly to the killer. We don’t believe that we’re at fault. With Theodore, he has consistently stood out as a strong suspect.”

“That’s true,” Sam agrees. “If we had only one lead, it would be much easier.”

“You should be thankful for the leads you have. What if there were none?” Miles asks.

“We’ve worked on and solved cases with no leads,” Sam reminds him.

“Didn’t you say this morning how satisfied you were with the investigation’s progress?” Trudy questions. “Were you expecting us to have the culprit in handcuffs by this evening?” she adds sarcastically.

“Well,” Miles clears his throat, taken aback by the sudden confrontation. “The media is starting to report on this homicide. I’ve already received a few calls today. Honestly, I didn’t expect the investigation to take this long.”

“Nobody did,” Trudy snaps.

I remain silent, closely observing Miles’s words and demeanour. Although he wears a half-smile to disguise his impatience, his body language gives away his dissatisfaction. The media’s calls impacted him. Even though I’m close to identifying the killer, there are still hurdles. I realize my time is running short, and unless I act quickly, I may be replaced before reaching my goal.

July 23, 2023

Chapter 36

Theodore looks up as I enter the room and close the door behind me. His eyes track my movements as I organize my folder, laptop, and water bottle on the table. Leaning forward, he rests his chin on his clasped hands, elbows propped on the table. I smile at him, and he returns a hesitant smile. Unlike our first interview in this room, he seems more attentive as I switch on the recorder.

I get straight to the point. “In your previous statement, you said you left home soon after your father did. Your father left at 8.45 am. Your girlfriend’s home is about three miles away, and you mentioned it takes around twenty minutes to get there by bike. So, by 8.56 am, you should have been at least halfway to her house.”

“Maybe,” he replies, sounding uninterested.

“Why the uncertainty?” I ask, my tone firm. “I’m talking about something that happened a few days ago, not a year ago.”

“I don’t remember the exact time. One thing is for sure,” he says. “I was far from home when Stephanie died.”

“How can you be so sure?” I probe.

“I don’t remember hearing any gunshots, that’s all.”

“Did you have a phone conversation with Louis that day?” I ask.

“Yeah, briefly. I told him I was heading to Destiny’s place, and he hung up.”

I pull a photo from the folder before me and place it on the table. “When you talked to Louis, you were wearing a red T-shirt. But when the police arrived at your house and found you in your yard around 10.57 am, after Stephanie’s death, you were wearing a light blue T-shirt.” I slide the photo across the table to him. “We spoke with Destiny, and she remembers you wearing a light blue T-shirt when you saw her that day.”

His face darkens, and he mutters a curse under his breath.

“Excuse me?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Keeping my tone steady, I say, “I’ve got two questions. First, why did you change your clothes between 8.56 and 9.10 - between when you talked to Louis and showed up at Destinies? And second, where’s the red T-shirt?”

He picks up the photo and studies it. “Yeah, I had a bit of a tumble and tore my T-shirt, so I changed it,” he explains, giving me the excuse I anticipated. Another lie, no doubt. I let out a quiet sigh of annoyance.

“So, you went home to change your T-shirt?” I ask.

“No, I always keep a spare handy,” he replies.

“In your bike?” I ask.

“Yeah, I stash it on my bike. I’ve got a backpack with water bottles and extra clothes,” he explains.

“I see.” I nod. “Where is the red T-shirt now?”

“Oh, the red T-shirt?” he pauses, thinking. “I tossed it somewhere along the way. It was useless. I can’t even remember where exactly.”

“Do you remember where you fell?” I ask, eyeing him intently. “Your T-shirt should be nearby. We could send someone to look for it.”

He hesitates. “I don’t recall the exact spot. And even if I did,” he adds, “it wouldn’t matter. The place is full of wildlife. Some critter probably grabbed it by now.”

“Ever wondered which critter snagged your T-shirt?” I ask, leaning back with my arms crossed. “We should walk the same route to see if we find any trash. Why would an animal take your shirt but leave everything else behind?” I squint. “Maybe the blood on it made it extra tempting, huh?”

“Why keep asking if you don’t want to believe me?” he counters, his eyes flicking down. “I left it somewhere along the way. I don’t know the exact location, but I took a fall somewhere near my girlfriend’s house.”

“Finally!” I say with a hint of exasperation. “At least you’re sure it’s near her place.” I pause. “So, what time did you take Louis’s call that day?”

“I’m not sure. Didn’t you say it was at 8.56?”

“That’s right. It was at 8.56 am,” I confirm. “And you left home shortly after your father?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Do you remember the exact time you left?”

“No. Probably around ten to nine.”

“On your bike?”

“Yes.”

“And Louis called you on the way. Did you stop your bike to take the call?”

“Yes, he called. Just as I was about to answer, the call dropped. So, I called him back.”

“You two talked for 56 seconds, and the call ended at 8.57.”

“That sounds about right,” he replies.

“Do you remember where you were when you answered his call?”

He thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

“Were you close to home?” I press.

“No, I’m pretty sure I was far from home.”

“How sure are you?” I press again.

“I’m damn sure,” he raises his voice.

“You’re not being honest,” I tell him. “We pinpointed where this picture was taken. The basswood tree in this photo,” I point to the picture he’s still holding, “is on your father’s property, within a hundred meters of your house.”

“There are hundreds of basswoods on the hill,” he retorts with a sneer.

“That’s true. There are indeed hundreds of basswoods on the hill,” I agree with a nod. I pull another picture from the folder and slide it over to him. “However, not all of them have the same alignment of branches as this black spruce.”

He takes the magnified image of both trees and compares it with the earlier picture of him on the bike I provided. “We identified this exact location less than 100 meters from your home. At 8.57, you were mere meters away from your house. Besides this photo, your phone’s signal also placed you near your home at that time. Around 9, Stephanie was shot. You’re lying about the fall, the T-shirt and everything else. With the evidence we have, proving you were at Lost Meadow when Stephanie died isn’t difficult.”

I lean forward, folding my arms over the desk, my gaze locked on him. “Tell me the truth, Theodore. Where is the red T-shirt?”

He remains silent, staring at the photographs. “What did you do with the red T-shirt?” I ask again.

After a moment, he lifts his eyes to meet mine and admits, “I tossed it in the river on my way to Destiny’s.”

“Why did you do that?” I press.

“It had blood on it,” he confesses, his voice breaking as he starts to cry.

Chapter 37

I stand up and walk around the table toward Theodore, grabbing the water bottle. Standing beside him, I gently pat his shoulder and offer him the water. He shakes his head, crying.

“I don’t want water,” he manages to say through gentle sobs.

I reach for a box of tissues and hand it to him. He takes a couple to wipe his eyes. Returning to my seat, I wait for a moment before speaking.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I say, breaking the silence that has pervaded the room.

“I wasn’t too far from home when I fell. My T-shirt tore, and I didn’t want to go to Destiny’s house like that. I didn’t have a backpack with me, like I said earlier. So, I went back home to change, and that’s when Louis called me,” he reveals, tears streaming down his face.

“Didn’t you tell Louis anything about the fall?” I ask. “Like, what happened?”

“Nope, I said I was heading to Destiny’s and would call him back,” he replies.

“What happened next?” I prompt as he pauses again.

“I went in through the front door. I heard Austin in the kitchen. I thought it was weird he was up early, so I took a peek. That’s when I saw Stephanie dead and Austin freaking out beside her. I froze for a second. Then Austin saw me and came charging. He grabbed my T-shirt and dragged me toward Stephanie. I managed to break free but had blood on me, so I ran upstairs and changed. Then I heard another voice downstairs. I thought it was Jesse. I was scared he’d think I killed Stephanie. So, I sneaked out and rode away,” he explains.

“Did you think Jesse might have been home when you returned?”

“No, he was getting ready to go fishing when I left. When I came back, I didn’t see his bike, so I figured he’d already gone.”

“Where did you leave your bike when you came home?” I ask.

He thinks it over for a second before responding. “Near the front door, where we usually keep them.” At this moment, I sense he’s likely lying. He didn’t come back to change his clothes but for something else. It must have been Ben downstairs when he heard the noises, but Ben didn’t report seeing a bike in its usual spot when he arrived at Lost Meadow. This means Theodore must’ve hidden his bike somewhere in the woods and entered the house with intentions he doesn’t want us to know.

“What about the clothes you took off? What did you do with them?” I ask.

“I tossed them into the river on the way to Destiny’s.”

“Can you tell me what time you fell?”

“It was shortly after I left home.”

“So, you went back home right after?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What time did you get home?”

“I guess it was after nine, maybe around five past nine.”

“Theodore,” I address him, “your story doesn’t add up, my dear. This photograph,” I gesture to a picture on the table, “was taken at 8.57. Your T-shirt doesn’t show any tears or dirt in this image.”

He picks up the picture and studies it. “It was torn here at the bottom,” he points to the right bottom side of his T-shirt. “Why don’t you trust me?” he asks, frustrated.

“Because your statements don’t add up,” I repeat, holding his gaze. “You claim to have left shortly after your father, so let’s say around 8.50. You fell not long after. You then spoke to your brother at 8.56. Afterward, you returned home around 9.05, discovered Stephanie dead, dealt with Austin, changed and disposed of your clothes, and magically appeared at Destiny’s place, three miles away, by 9.10. I mean, come on! Did you suddenly sprout wings?”

“I rode as fast as I could. It’s possible I arrived not exactly at 9.10, but a few minutes later. Destiny might have got the time wrong.”

“It wasn’t Destiny,” I explain. “The doorbell camera recorded you at her house at exactly 9.10. Technology doesn’t lie, and the evidence is clear,” I remind him.

“Well, maybe the camera was acting up,” he argues.

“Theodore… I know you’re not being honest. We have a witness who saw you in the truck with your father.”

“That wasn’t me,” he claims.

“Seriously? Lying only digs your hole deeper. You should know better,” I caution, leaning forward.

“I’m telling the truth. That was someone my father accidentally hit with his truck,” he insists weakly.

“Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?” I ask suddenly. “It could help clear things up.”

He considers my suggestion briefly before replying, “Let me talk to my father.”

******

“Well, does this mean we’re off the case?” Sam asks, nervously fidgeting with the phone in his hand.

We’re sitting in my usual spot at the back of the building, reviewing the case details. Miles and Trudy are left with Theodore for the Polygraph test. Miles managed to convince Wylie to let Theodore take the test on the condition that Miles accompany him without Sam or me. I don’t know how Miles persuades people to agree to everything, whether it’s an interview or a polygraph - things we couldn’t pull off. Maybe his high position in law enforcement makes people feel like they have to go along with what he says. What surprises me more is that he agreed to all of Wylie’s conditions, including accompanying Theodore for the polygraph. He seems desperate to pin someone as Stephanie’s killer, and at this point, it looks like he doesn’t care if it’s the real one.

“Not sure yet,” I reply.

“I think Theodore did it,” Sam says. “He never liked Stephanie. What do you think?”

“Theodore is a pro at lying and making stuff up on the spot. That’s for sure.”

“I can’t believe how fast he can do that!” Sam sighs. “I was pretty sure he was making up those stories while pretending to cry.”

“He’s probably a chronic liar. He’s got to be lying about something or other all the time.”

“Like father, like son,” Sam scoffs. “Wylie isn’t that innocent, either. I don’t get why Wylie hates us but trusts Miles.” He raises his hand in frustration. “What does he see in that guy?”

“It’s because we’re asking the questions Wylie doesn’t want to answer,” I say.

“And Wylie thinks Miles will save him,” Sam says. “He doesn’t get that Miles is just covering his own ass.”

The phone rings, and I glance at the display.

“It’s Miles,” I say, picking up.

“Theodore failed the polygraph. We’re heading back to the station for another round of interviews. Wylie’s still at the hospital with Austin. I asked him to come to the station. Get ready,” Miles says, then hangs up.

“Looks like we’re still on this investigation,” I say, standing up. “Time to take another swing at it.”

Chapter 38

I lean in, my voice low but firm. “Theodore, it’s in your best interest to be honest now. All the evidence points to you. First,” I tick off the points on my fingers, “you’ve changed your statement more than once. Second, we had evidence placing you at or near your home when Stephanie died - photos, footage, and your phone’s location. Third, there’s a motive - everyone knows you never liked Stephanie, and you confirmed it. Fourth, you admitted to destroying evidence. And fifth, you failed the polygraph.” I rest my arms on the table, locking eyes with him. “Tell me the truth, Theodore. You can’t hide forever. It’s better to come clean now than for us to dig it up later.”

He exhales deeply, then whispers, “It’s true... we planned to kill. But I didn’t kill her.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “We?”

He hesitates before finally confessing, “Me and my dad.”

The inevitable follow-up slips out. “Why?”

“We weren’t planning to kill Stephanie. We were targeting Austin,” he says.

“What?” I ask, taken aback by the shift.

“Austin’s been a problem,” Theodore begins, frustration creeping into his voice. “That jerk is all over the place, making a fuss and straight up getting violent. It’s gotten worse lately. Dad begged Stephanie to consider putting him in a care facility, but she wouldn’t listen. She always made excuses for him, no matter what. Austin and I never got along; we were always fighting. After another blowout last summer, I suggested to Dad that we get rid of him. Dad wasn’t on board at first, but eventually, he agreed. We bumped up Austin’s insurance and did the same for Stephanie’s to avoid suspicion. Then, I started keeping tabs on Stephanie, figuring out the best time to act. That’s when I stumbled on something shocking.” He pauses, eyes darkening.

“What did you find?” I press.

“Stephanie and Ben together. They were having an affair.”

“Did you tell your dad?”

“You bet I did. It crushed him. That’s when Dad decided to frame Stephanie for Austin’s murder. He told me to get the gun from the safe and mess with it. I brought Louis with me as a witness when we retrieved it. Stephanie caught us, just as I hoped, and told Dad. After that, he changed the safe’s password, so only he, Stephanie, and Jesse had access - proof I couldn’t have done it.”

“What happened next?” I prompt as he takes another pause.

“That night, Dad left around quarter to nine. He waited for me in Bennett’s driveway, the vacant house next door. The plan was simple. Shoot Austin in bed, stash the gun under the bed, climb out the window before Stephanie sees me, and join Dad. He’d drive me to Destiny’s, then head to Sobeys, giving us a tight alibi. We figured the cops would pin it on Stephanie since she’d be home alone with Austin when the shot was fired.”

I nod slowly, piecing it together. Wylie waited for Theodore in their neighbour’s driveway, and that explains how Ben missed his truck when arriving at Lost Meadow or while on the way to the house he was showing.

“Why put the gun under Austin’s bed and not under Stephanie’s? If you wanted to frame her, that would have made more sense.”

“I didn’t have that much time. There was a chance Stephanie would run upstairs and catch me. It was smarter to leave it under his bed, then I could return to my room and climb out.”

“Then?”

“After I left home, I hung outside, waiting for Jesse to leave.”

“Why not stay home?” I interject.

I didn’t want to be the last one out,” he replies.

“And then?”

“Louis called while I waited, but I cut it short, telling him I was busy. Around nine, I got back home and made sure Jesse wasn’t there. I snuck into my room through the open window, then went to the master bedroom to grab the gun. I was shocked to find the safe open and the gun gone. I rushed downstairs to the kitchen and found Stephanie’s body. Austin was sitting nearby, pointing to the door and yelling, ‘Nana.’ Before I could leave, he grabbed my T-shirt and wouldn’t let go. I managed to break free after a struggle but ended up covered in blood. In a panic, I grabbed the gun and left it under Austin’s bed as I had originally planned, without thinking. I was changing clothes when I heard someone downstairs. I peeked through the window and saw no vehicle, so I assumed it was Jesse. After a few minutes, I locked my window, went downstairs, and slipped out the front door. That’s how it all went down,” he recounts.

“Why didn’t you climb out of the window? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Yes, that was the plan. The idea was that if I shot Austin, Stephanie would hear the noise and come running, so I couldn’t use the stairs. That’s why we planned to use the window. But since Stephanie is dead, I thought it would be better to go through the front. That way, my window was locked from the inside, leaving no trace of suspicion.”

“Did you then head to where your father was waiting?”

“First, I grabbed my bike from where I stashed it in the woods, then met up with Dad. He was waiting to take me to Destiny’s.”

“What time did you meet your father?”

“Five past nine.”

“If you left at 9.05 in your dad’s truck, how did he reach Sobeys by 9.19? The distance from your house is about twenty-five miles; it usually takes at least twenty-five minutes. And didn’t he drop you near your girlfriend’s place? That would’ve taken extra time.”

“He drove like a maniac, way above the speed limit. I got to my girlfriend’s place in minutes. Her house is en route to town, so dropping me off didn’t add time.”

“Why did you take your phone while your dad left his phone at home?”

“We figured leaving both phones at home would look suspicious. That’s why I took mine with me. Dad told me to turn it off, but I didn’t listen. Should’ve followed his lead - I wouldn’t be sitting here if I had.”

“Why did your father tell the 911 operator it was a suicide? Was that part of your plan?”

“When I found Stephanie covered in blood, I honestly thought she did it herself. I told Dad, and he believed me without double-checking. He even told 911operator the same. I heard the shots while there, but I wasn’t thinking straight in the chaos.  I should’ve known better than to think someone could shoot themselves four times,” he admits, shaking his head.

“Didn’t your dad hear the gunshots?”

“He did. But like I said, we weren’t thinking clearly. It all happened so fast. We barely had time to talk since he dropped me off in a minute or so. Stephanie’s unexpected death messed with our heads, throwing everything off.”

“Didn’t you tell Dad about leaving the gun under Austin’s bed?”

“Not right then. He knew it was part of the plan, but since Stephanie ended up dead instead of Austin, I should’ve left it where it was. But at the moment, I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t realize my mistake until later, after Dad dropped me at Destiny’s. I told him about it when I got back home with Destiny’s dad.”

“Did you wear gloves when handling the gun?”

“Of course.”

“What happened to the clothes and gloves? Where’d you stash them?”

“Dad tossed them in the river on his way home.”

“I’m still having trouble believing you,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You heard gunshots nearby and ignored them, especially when you were about to carry out a shooting yourself? Who does that?”

“Do I look like I care about what’s happening around me?” he grins, pointing to himself. “Hearing gunshots was weird, but I brushed it off. I was focused on my mission.”

“Your statements have been inconsistent, and I’m questioning your reliability. Based on the evidence, I’m leaning toward believing that you and your father were involved in Stephanie’s murder because of her affair with Ben,” I assert.

“If we killed Stephanie,” Theodore argues, “we’d have made it look like a suicide. We knew Austin wouldn’t hurt his mom, and the cops would figure that out, too. So why make it look like murder? It’d only make us look more guilty.”

I know he’s got a point. Even with his track record of lying, I’m starting to believe him. He didn’t fake tears this time - he confessed everything without remorse. Classic Theodore. Those earlier tears were fake; maybe Wylie coached him to test if I’d fall for it. I didn’t, so he had to come clean. The result? Another layer of the mystery is peeled off, getting me closer to the killer.

******

In the evening, as Trudy, Sam, and I discuss the case over coffee in the office, my phone buzzes with a text from Roland: “Hey, I’ve got news. Call me when you’re free.” I immediately excuse myself and head to the restroom. Once inside, I dial his number.

“What’s the news?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“You were right. Sam and Stephanie had a connection - probably a one-night stand,” Roland says.

“How’d you find out?” I ask.

“I pulled footage from the bar Stephanie frequented in Sandy Bay. In one clip from February, Sam and Stephanie were introduced, had a few drinks and then left the bar together,” he reveals.

“Wait, was she drinking?” I ask, surprised. “She was pregnant back then.”

“Yeah, she had a couple of cocktails,” Roland replies.

“Wow! That’s wild. She didn’t even think about that baby in her womb,” I shake my head. “Just one clip of them together?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Looks like it was a one-night thing. The bar only keeps recordings for the past six months.”

“You didn’t ask Sam about it, right?” I double-check.

“Obviously not,” he replies.

“Good. Let’s keep this between us,” I say.

“Of course. By the way, have you checked the footage for vehicles passing by... what’s the name of the street leading to Fleming’s house?” he asks, pausing.

“Daffodils Way.”

“Did you check if Sam’s vehicle was on that road the day Stephanie died?” he asks.

“Yes. Only a few vehicles went through that morning, and we identified them all - Sam’s wasn’t one of them. But there’s another route he could’ve taken to reach Lost Meadow,” I explain.

“Sam’s phone records and location data should show where he was at the time of Stephanie’s death,” Roland suggests.

“I’ll look into it,” I reply, ending the call with a plan brewing. I need to get my hands on Sam’s phone. His messages and call history might reveal his connection to Stephanie. That means I’ll be hosting him at my place tonight.

Chapter 39

As Sam’s Lexus glides into the driveway of my mansion, my phone pings with a notification of his arrival. I’d invited him over earlier this evening after he mentioned his girlfriend Ava was on a girls' trip to Costa Rica. It really bothers me that he’s keeping things from me, and I’m determined to check out his phone.

To mask my true intentions, I had casually suggested, “Since you’re alone tonight, why not come over?”

 He initially turned me down. “No worries. I’ve got plans to dine out, then head home and binge-watch Sherlock until I crash on the couch. It’s been a while since I took some personal time.”

“Sherlock?” I replied, with a hint of sarcasm. “Maybe it’s time to shift the focus from Sherlock to Stephanie.”

“Come on, Curtis. You know I’m doing my best on this case!” he retorted.

“Absolutely,” I said with a mock salute. “That’s why I’m inviting you to spend the night discussing the case. Who knows, a breakthrough might come up during a casual dinner conversation?” I pressed.

He agreed, though reluctantly. I suspected he might cancel, but he showed up an hour late. Standing at the door, he rakes his fingers through his thick hair and adjusts the black T-shirt sticking to his back. I swing the door open as he’s about to ring the doorbell. Startled, he steps back, clutching his chest.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, trying to catch his breath.

“Don’t be such a baby,” I tease. I extend my arm in a welcoming gesture, and as he steps inside, I slam the door behind him with a thud, intentionally provoking him. “Welcome home,” I greet him with a grin as he frowns.

He stands in the center of the room, glancing around. Although he is familiar with my home, he seems slightly unsettled. “Make yourself at home,” I say, gesturing toward the closet. As he opens it, a roll of adhesive tape falls from the upper shelf and skids under the couch. When Natasha was here, the only items that might have ended up under the couch were a few stray popcorn kernels that missed my mouth. Since she left, I’ve turned that space into a makeshift storage unit - a fact I’m not particularly proud of.

Sam chases after the tape like a kid after a ball, managing to grab it before it disappears too far. He peers under the couch, frowning, but remains silent. He puts the tape back on the shelf, then bends down to untie his shoes, and a lint roller falls, hitting his back.

“Seriously!” he exclaims, straightening up and shooting me a glare. He then notices the cluttered closet, where Clorox bleach and a balloon whisk sit alongside shirts and pants. The once orderly shoe rack now houses everything from cooking supplies donated by Trudy to scattered bottom-up shoes on the mat in front.

“Bananas, cereal, and broccoli in a shoe rack? A miniature pantry?” he teases.

I’m starting to regret inviting him over. “Excuse the mess and help yourself,” I say, sounding nonchalant. He clears some space with his feet and places his shoes neatly in the corner of the mat.

“Well…” he hesitates, weighing whether to voice his opinion, but eventually decides against it.

“Come on, dude. You can tell me anything,” I encourage him. I can guess what’s on his mind - something about how Natasha maintained the place and how I’ve let things slide since her departure.

“It took you only a few days to create this much chaos!” he remarks.

“That wasn’t what you were going to say,” I point out, noticing his reluctance.

“You could use some help from a cleaning service,” he adds.

“Still not what you meant to say. But yeah, I’m genuinely considering getting some help,” I admit.

Sam moves towards the kitchen, surveying the mess. Clothes and a blanket clutter the couch, while pillows and more garments are strewn across the floor. The round table in front of the couch is covered with chip bags and half-empty glasses. In the kitchen, he looks at the dirty dishes overflowing the sink and sighs.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got everything under control,” I reassure him, observing his shocked expression.

“What’s on the menu for dinner?” he asks.

“Uber Eats. What do you like?” I ask.

“Shawarma wraps,” he says promptly.

“All right, shawarma wraps for both of us and a few shots,” I declare, reaching for a Jack Daniels bottle in the upper cabinet. I grab two martini glasses, and one nearly slips from my hand. In my attempt to save it, both glasses clink together.

“Careful,” Sam warns.

“Slice a lime,” I instruct him as I order the food online. Sam pours ginger ale and ice into the glasses and garnishes the drinks.

“To freedom,” I say, raising my glass.

Sam raises his hand, and our glasses clink softly.

I take a sip of the drink, savouring the flavour, and smack my lips in satisfaction. I head to the living room with my drink and sink onto the sofa. Sam follows, standing awkwardly as I realize the couch and the recliner are covered in clothes, leaving him nowhere to sit. Apologizing, I quickly gather everything and toss it into the corner of the room.

“Thanks,” he says with a roll of his eyes as he sits beside me. “So, Austin’s getting discharged tomorrow.”

“That’s Wylie’s excuse for not showing up at the station today,” I explain.

“At least he agreed to meet us at Lost Meadow tomorrow,” Sam notes.

“He doesn’t have much choice,” I reply. “After the interview, we let Theodore go with the condition that he and Wylie report to the station daily.”

“Why not interview him at the station? Why go all the way to Lost Meadow?” Sam asks.

“If we go to Lost Meadow, we might get a chance to talk to Austin. We’ve got to be careful, though. If he gets aggressive, we could end up sending him to the hospital again. We definitely don’t want that.”

“Why are you going through all this extra trouble?” he asks.

I glance at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a lead on the killer. Why not just make the arrest?”

“What?” I feign ignorance.

“I know you’ve uncovered something. Why not share it? Are you worried I’ll mess up your plan, or do you think I might be involved?” he confronts defensively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist.

“Enough, Curtis,” he raises his voice. “You’re smart, and we all know it. If you have a lead that the rest of us missed, don’t you think you should discuss it with your team?”

I enjoy watching Sam’s frustration build. “Here’s a hint,” I say with a grin. “The person you trust the most might be the one who’s hurt you the most.” I burst into laughter, then get up to grab our glasses. Humming a tune, I head to the kitchen. Filling mine with water and his with more alcohol, I return to the living room with a purpose. Little did I know Sam had other plans. He moves swiftly as soon as I set the glasses on the table and sit down. Before I know it, he’s overpowering me, pinning me on the couch with his hand wrapped around my neck.

“Spill it, Curtis,” he demands, his voice sharp. “What do you know about this murderer?”

July 24, 2023

Chapter 40

“Your every trip to Lost Meadow since Stephanie’s passing has led to significant breakthroughs. First, the footage from the egg shack and Stephanie’s hidden phone, and then Theodore’s picture from Louis’s phone. Who knows what today will bring? Maybe something game-changing,” Trudy says hopefully as we pull into Lost Meadow’s compound.

“Fingers crossed,” I reply, intertwining mine.

“I’m glad you’re switching it up and bringing me instead of Sam. At least this way, the dynamic duo is separated for a day,” she jokes.

“It’s a change for me too. Sam has been by my side every time I’ve come here,” I say.

“A change can be refreshing,” she laughs.

“As long as you’re the replacement, I’m not complaining,” I add, stepping out of the car.

It’s just past noon. Initially, I had planned for a later visit to give Austin some time to settle in after returning from the hospital, but he’ll soon be leaving for a temporary stay at a nursing home until a spot opens up in a more suitable facility. What I would like to avoid is talking with Austin in the presence of the temporary court-appointed guardian, Linda Bell, as it may elicit several objections. I’m considering taking him for a walk to have a private conversation. I’ve got a little scheme brewing in my head. If it pans out, jackpot!

I ring the doorbell, and Wylie opens the door, looking tired and dishevelled, his face blank. A faint scent of rancid butter clings to him, contrasting the pleasant balsamic aroma that greets us inside the house.

“It smells nice in here,” I comment, sniffing the air.

“After everything that happened, this place needed a thorough cleaning,” he replies.

“No kidding,” I say as I step inside. I find Austin slouched on the sectional beside Louis, with Rocky in his lap. Theodore, Jesse, and Linda are nowhere in sight, but I can hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, so at least one must be there.

“Hello,” Louis greets us warmly.

“Hello, Louis. How’s your day been?” I ask.

“Can’t complain,” Louis responds with a faint, melancholy smile. “Austin’s home.”

I turn my attention to Austin and greet him, “Hi, Austin.” He doesn’t acknowledge us, his eyes glued to the TV, watching Blippi Solves the Lunch Crime. Though alert, he looks exhausted.

“He likes Blippi. He tends to zone out watching him,” Louis explains as if to excuse Austin’s lack of response.

“They got back from the hospital only a few minutes ago,” Wylie informs me, standing by the door.

I pay little attention to his sharp tone and settle onto the chaise. Trudy stands beside the TV, surveying the room. My eyes follow, and I notice two new picture frames on the wall since my last visit. One holds a family portrait, the other a photo of Aria on Stephanie’s lap. They’re hung one above the other between two wall sconces.

The family photo is the same one I saw on Wylie’s phone, the one I used to elicit a response from Austin during the interview. Clearly, it wasn’t this picture that unsettled him, as it’s now in plain view, and he seems unfazed. The photo was taken in Purple Land, with Wylie and Stephanie in the center of a bench, flanked by Louis and Austin. Behind them, Theodore and Jesse sit slightly apart on an old wooden table. Lavender blooms surround them, their dense clusters obscuring the stems and leaves, creating a beautiful, purplish scene. Stephanie is smiling her prettiest smile, her teeth perfectly aligned. Everyone is smiling, whether for the camera or not. Looking at that picture, it’s hard to believe any of them could’ve harmed her. As I examine the image, the clatter of dishes and the running tap water in the kitchen cease. A minute later, Jesse emerges, carrying two glasses of fruit salad, followed by Linda, a petite middle-aged woman with neatly braided hair. I wave to Linda, and she returns the gesture before sitting in a chair across from the sectional. Jesse pauses upon noticing us, then continues forward, offering one glass to Louis.

“Thanks,” Louis says, glancing between Trudy and me. “Would you like to try it? It’s delicious.”

I quickly decline, “No, we’re good. Thank you.”

Louis then offers the glass to Trudy. “It’s tempting,” she admits, eyeing the colourful dessert - a scoop of ice cream atop mixed fruits like mango, pineapple, and banana, sprinkled with nuts and crowned with a cherry. “But we had lunch, and we’re full,” she adds, rubbing her tummy playfully. “I didn’t know you were a budding chef,” she compliments Jesse.

“I’m giving it a shot,” he replies, settling next to Austin as Louis shifts to make space. “Nowhere close to Mom’s cooking, though.” His voice falters, and he lowers his gaze, lips pressed tightly as if holding back tears.

“Tastes great,” Louis chimes in, trying to cheer him up. “Just like Mom used to make.”

“I didn’t know you two were here, or I would’ve made extra,” Jesse says.

“No worries. We’re fine,” I reassure him, my mind lingering on his comment about not hearing us earlier. If Jesse couldn’t hear us over the noise of the dishes, then Stephanie might not have heard anyone enter the house that day. She was washing dishes minutes before her death when Jesse left home. Rocky might have seen this person enter but stayed quiet, likely due to familiarity. I glance at Rocky, who lies motionless in Austin’s lap, his cheek resting on his arm, dark brown eyes fixed on the plain white wall, seemingly oblivious to our presence.

“I’m curious,” I say, gesturing toward Rocky. “Doesn’t he mind strangers? Is he always this calm?”

“He’s a good boy,” Louis replies, gently patting Rocky’s head. “He’s fine around familiar faces.”

“He probably remembers you from your previous visits,” Jesse adds, offering the other glass to Austin. “Look what I made for you - your favourite fruit salad.”

Austin remains unresponsive, his gaze locked on the TV. “You were hungry,” Jesse says, attempting to place the glass in his hand, but Austin refuses to hold it. Jesse then scoops a mixture of fruits and ice cream onto a spoon and brings it toward Austin’s mouth. Austin doesn’t react at first, his focus unwavering.

“It’s yummy. Give it a try,” Louis encourages, patting Austin’s arm. Austin finally glances at the spoon and opens his mouth. I realize that Austin still trusts the people who used to care for him despite Jesse’s recent efforts to be kind. Austin is far wiser and more capable than we initially gave him credit for. I need to earn his trust, to show him that I’m here to find his mother’s killer. If I can secure his cooperation, he could be a crucial witness in court. I watch Jesse feed him slowly and gently. Trudy and I exchange glances, both surprised by the transformation in Jesse. He’s taking on his mother’s role with an unexpectedly touching level of responsibility and affection - perhaps even better than she did.

“Stephanie used to make this for him. He loves it,” Wylie mentions, stepping closer.

“It’s thoughtful of you to prepare this for Austin, Jesse. He deserves a treat after spending a week in the hospital,” I say, using the moment to ease into a casual conversation. It’s important that our presence feels natural, not intrusive.

“Is Jesse taking charge of the cooking now?” Trudy chimes in, following my lead.

“Not quite yet,” Jesse responds. “But I might consider it.”

“Ben and Delores are handling the cooking for now. They insist on it. My parents are coming tomorrow, so that should solve the problem,” says Wylie. I’m surprised that Wylie still communicates with Ben and Delores, considering all that’s happened - the affair between his wife and his best friend and his decision to seek revenge on Stephanie for her betrayal.

“Where’s Theodore?” I ask.

“He’s in his room,” Wylie replies, pointing upstairs.

As we engage in light conversation, I observe Jesse feeding Austin. Distracted by the TV, Austin gradually finishes his dessert. Then, unsteadily, he gets up from his seat.

“I think he needs to use the washroom. I’ll help him,” Linda offers.

“It’s okay,” Jesse says, waving off her offer. “I’ll take him.”

Jesse rises and assists Austin to the washroom, with Linda following closely. Austin wobbles as he walks, and Jesse keeps a protective arm around him, holding him close.

“He used to handle toileting on his own most of the time. Stephanie taught him all the basics. But the medication change messed everything up. Now he can hardly walk,” Wylie complains.

“How was he in the hospital?” I inquire, even though I’m well aware of every detail of his hospitalization.

“He was all right, no more outbursts, but they switched up his meds and kept him there for a whole week for nothing. But what can I say? They don’t keep me in the loop anymore,” he grumbles.

“It’s beneficial to have him in a setting where they can closely monitor his medication adjustments,” I say. Wylie simply nods.

A few minutes later, Jesse returns with Austin. “He looks exhausted. How about we tuck him in?” Wylie suggests.

“Probably not the best idea,” Linda says, waving her hands. “We’re here to pack his essentials, and we’ll leave soon. Austin was hungry and dizzy, so I figured I’d give him something before we head out,” she says, glancing my way.

“He’s been stuck in bed all week at the hospital anyway. He could use a change,” Jesse says.

Jesse helps Austin sit back on the sectional. As I search for an excuse to speak with Austin alone, the kitchen door slides open, sending a shiver down my spine. Wylie, Jesse, Austin, Louis, and Linda are all in front of me, and Theodore is upstairs in his room. Someone is entering the house through the kitchen door- the same door the murderer exited last week after killing Stephanie. I glance at Trudy, give a subtle signal, and then stand up.

Chapter 41

“Oh, that must be Hughes with the lunch,” Wylie says, noticing my tension.

I give him a puzzled look. “You haven’t started locking the door yet?” I ask, incredulous. It’s mind-blowing. A murder took place in this house a few days ago. Coming back here on the same day as that horrific crime is already unsettling, but their disregard for leaving the door - the very one we suspect the killer used to make his exit - unlocked is astonishing.

“I lock it all the time now, but the boys sometimes forget,” Wylie explains, watching my reaction. “We never used to lock it, so they’re still getting used to it. I keep reminding them.”

“I didn’t unlock it,” Jesse protests. “I hardly ever use that door anymore.”

“Me neither,” Louis adds.

“Must’ve been Theo, then. He’s a bit forgetful. I’ll talk to him again,” Wylie reassures.

“Any chance I could get some water?” I ask Wylie, hoping to find out whether it’s Ben or Delores in the kitchen.

“Of course,” he replies, walking toward the kitchen.

I keep my ears tuned to the kitchen, catching snippets of muffled conversation. After a few minutes, Wylie returns with two glasses of water and hands one to me. “Thanks,” I say, accepting it from him. Suddenly, a sharp scream rings out from upstairs. Startled, I jump, spilling water onto the floor. Trudy rushes toward the stairs, and I follow her after setting the glass on the table.

“Don’t worry. It’s Theo,” Wylie calls out behind us. “He’s caught up in a game,” he adds, embarrassed.

Wylie hurriedly ascends the spiral wooden stairs, each step producing a soft thud, and shouts, “Keep it down!” When he returns, his face is tense, and his hand is clenched into a fist. He gestures toward the upstairs and explains, “He’s hooked on video games. I’m trying to wean him off.” Having one of the prime suspects engrossed in video games so soon after the murder doesn’t look good, and Wylie is clearly frustrated with Theodore. I can see it in his body language.

I return to the living room, still tuned to the noises from the kitchen. Standing before Austin, who remains glued to the TV, I ask Wylie, “Is that Ben or Delores?” Immediately, Austin gazes at Louis and then turns his head to look at Wylie.

“It’s Delores,” Wylie replies.

“Could you call her over?” I request, keeping my gaze fixed on Austin.

Wylie moves toward the kitchen and calls, “Delores.” She emerges, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Standing behind the half-wall that separates the dining room from the living room, she leans on it and fidgets nervously. Standing beside her, Wylie says, “The detective would like to speak with you briefly.”

“Sorry, I’m on my half-hour break from work,” Delores says before I can ask anything. “As I mentioned before, I prefer a heads-up if you need to talk,” she reminds me. Though I can see Delores in my peripheral vision, my eyes remain locked on Austin.

Austin’s demeanour shifts suddenly, impossible for me to miss. I’ve seen this exact change before, during our interview at the station when I showed him the pictures. He straightens up, eyes locked on Delores, his gaze burning with a newfound determination. A slight frown creases his forehead and his breathing quickens. He pushes Rocky off his lap, gets up, and runs toward Delores with a low groan. Knowing what’s about to happen, I quickly follow, with Trudy close behind.

“Nana,” he mutters through clenched teeth as he grabs Delores by the neck. In my recent conversation with Wylie, I confirmed how Austin addresses each family member, friend, and neighbour. I believed Wylie when he told me Austin had pointed to the door near Stephanie’s body, repeatedly saying, ‘Nana.’ Unfortunately, we initially assumed he was referring to a man. But after seeing Delores’s picture, with the layered pixie bob, I suspected Austin was calling her ‘nana’ because of her short haircut when she first met him the year she moved to Dark Hill, a suspicion later confirmed by Wylie.

“Help!” Delores cries out, struggling against Austin’s grip. I watch, holding back, waiting to see what he does. Trudy, sensing my hesitation, steps back too. Jesse and Wylie rush to Delores’s side, trying to pry Austin’s hands off her, but he quickly shakes them off.

“Austin, stop! Please, stop!” Linda shouts, grabbing him from behind. With a quick jerk, he forces her to back away.

“Stay out of it,” I command, and she retreats, frightened. Seeing Rocky circling and barking, I turn to Louis, who is standing by, watching everything unfold, and instruct, “Take Rocky upstairs.”

As Louis leads Rocky away, I refocus on Austin. Still holding Delores by the neck, he is now hitting her with his free hand. Desperate, Delores stumbles backward, searching for something to defend herself, but there’s nothing within reach. As Austin’s grip tightens, Trudy and I intervene, trying to pull him away. He shoves us off, grabs a glass plate from the dining table, and aims for her head. I quickly step between them as Trudy manages to grab his arm.

“Get outside, now!” I shout at Delores. She bolts out, running toward the pathway leading to her home.

“Follow her,” I instruct Trudy, who quickly exits, closing the sliding door behind her. As Austin tries to force the door open, I wrestle him to the floor. Once he is under control, I sit on his back, holding his arms, and yell, “Get me a rope, a long piece of clothing, anything.”

Austin struggles beneath me, still putting up a fight. Moments later, Jesse shows up with a cashmere scarf. With Jesse’s help, I tie Austin’s hands. Together, we lift him to his feet and guide him to a chair that Louis sets behind him. Even then, Austin tries to get up, dragging the chair toward the door.

“Tie his legs too,” I command, holding him steady from behind. Jesse pins his legs down while Wylie ties them securely.

“Get his medicine, please,” Wylie instructs Linda, who’s still trembling. She hurriedly retrieves a bottle from a bag in the living room and hands Wylie a pill.

“Under the tongue,” she says. He slides it under Austin’s tongue and presses his lips together firmly. Meanwhile, I maintain my hold on Austin until he finally calms down.

“I think he needs to go to the hospital,” Linda suggests.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. “The medicine seems to be working.”

Before we discuss this further, my phone rings, and Sam’s name appears on the display. Sam didn’t come with us today because I assigned him a few tasks. He might have some vital information.

“I’ve got to take this,” I say, walking outside through the kitchen door and into the courtyard, my eyes on the path where Delores and Trudy disappeared.

“We’ve got the recorded conversation from Delores talking to the client,” Sam informs me. In his high-pitched tone, I sense the positive news coming through. “Your instincts were right. There’s no gunshot heard on the recording because the call was on hold from 8.54 to 9.04.”

“On hold between 8.54 and 9.04... ten minutes. This is the missing piece of the puzzle,” I sigh, feeling a weight lift.

“There’s more,” Sam adds. “I went through Delores’s internet history. She searched for information on removing gun residue from gloves a month ago, and she’s also been frequently looking up firearm instructor jobs.”

A smile spreads across my face. I want to shout “Eureka” and sprint to Hughes.

“Good news, right?” Sam asks, hopeful.

“Definitely,” I reply, feeling a surge of triumph. “We’ve officially found out who killed Stephanie Fleming.” I end the call and dash down the path to Hughes’s house. No more games, no more secrecy. We’ve got enough evidence to bring Stephanie’s killer to justice, finally.

Chapter 42

 Delores folds her arms and leans back, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I told you. I haven’t done a thing,” she insists. It’s the fourteenth time she’s said it since being brought into the interrogation room. We’ve been at this for nearly an hour, yet she sticks to her story. My patience is wearing thin, and I’m close to switching gears.

“Patience, buddy. She’ll crack eventually. There’s no other way,” Sam’s voice crackles through the earpiece as I adjust my position and lean forward, ready to push her harder.

“I didn’t kill Stephanie,” Delores repeats, her eyes locked on mine.

“Fifteen,” I mentally note.

“Listen to this before you deny anything,” I say, playing an audio file on my laptop. I fast-forward to the ninth minute, where a lady with a shrill voice is heard whining.

“It’s highly unjust that I’ve to invest so much of my time in this minor issue. I hope this is the last of the calls related to this matter. If not, I’ll be forced to take the matter to another level,” the lady threatens.

Delores smirks, spreading her arms. “Welcome to the customer care world! That’s my daily job, and that’s one of my most delightful clients, Caleigh Steward. Isn’t she a treat?”

“Shh…” I press a finger to my lips, signalling her to be quiet. I gesture to the laptop and my ear, urging her to focus as the audio continues.

“I need to review your account. This may take several minutes. Your patience is appreciated. Please remain on hold and refrain from disconnecting,” Delores says politely.

“Hope you can work your magic and fix this issue,” Caleigh mocks.

Ignoring her tone, Delores keeps it professional. “Thank you for your patience. Please stay on the line.”

“Alright,” Caleigh replies with a bitter edge, “if this is what it takes.”

“Kindly remain on the line. Do not hang up until I say so,” Delores repeats.

“Jeez!” Caleigh sighs. “I got that part, lady,” she snaps.

Delores puts her on hold, and the familiar tune plays, interrupted by a voiceover:

“Thank you for holding. Your call is important to us. Our representative will be with you shortly.” It drags on for ten minutes. At 9.04, Delores is back.

“Thank you for holding,” she says, breathless.

“Jeez… That took forever. Almost half an hour,” Caleigh snaps, her tone cutting. “Did you do that on purpose? Why did it take so long?” she shouts, her frustration boiling over. Although Caleigh exemplifies the typical customer who calls customer care, venting about anything and everything to someone who probably can’t solve the issue but takes notes and forwards them, she makes a valid point here. Why did it take so much time to check an account?

 “I thoroughly reviewed your account. It’s still on hold, preventing me from determining the exact issue. I’ve forwarded your concerns to the relevant team, and they’ll contact you within 24 hours,” Delores says.

“Good grief,” Caleigh groans. “I ordered a gift card for my friend’s birthday. Now, I can’t attend the party tonight without a gift. You can either cancel it or send it now.”

“I’m sorry,” Delores says, still catching her breath. A bell chimes faintly in the background. “I’ll submit a cancellation request immediately.”

“This is the third time I’ve talked about this, and nothing’s been done. You took an hour to tell me that my account is locked. If you don’t know what to do, why did you bother calling me early this morning to waste my time?” Caleigh fumes.

“We requested you to send the documents to process the order, but you didn’t,” Delores retorts.

“I’m not giving you my IDs for a simple gift card,” Caleigh snaps. “This account has a history of many purchases, so questioning its legitimacy over a routine update of my Visa card’s expiry date seems overly dramatic. Let’s be sensible. If there are doubts, why not call or email me to confirm? But no, you insist on holding my order until you get my ID,” she ridicules.

“I understand your concern, Ms. Stewart, but it’s our policy. I apologize for any inconvenience.” As Delores issues her hollow apology, the doorbell rings again, followed by the faint creak of a door opening.

The chatter continues on the recording, but I hit the stop button. “I’ve got many questions after hearing this conversation,” I say, resting my hands on the table. “Firstly, Stephanie was shot at 9 am. You placed your customer on hold between 8.54 and 9.04 am. Where were you during that time?”

“I was reviewing her account. I said that during the call. Didn’t you catch it?” Delores asks, looking at me with a feigned innocence.

“Ten minutes?” I raise an eyebrow, locking eyes with her. “The account was locked. What were you doing during those ten minutes?”

“I might have used the restroom. I occasionally do that between calls.”

“Might have! You’re not even sure!” I point out. “Is that your strategy when dealing with a difficult customer? Take a break and leave them hanging? Wouldn’t it have been more reasonable to end the call and move on rather than keep her on hold and test her patience?”

“Maybe I was trying to waste her time. She was such a bully,” Delores admits, eyes dropping to the table. After a pause, she continues, “She reminds me of this awful colleague I had at my last job - Eliza. She was so terrible that I left my perfect six-year job because of her. Some people wake up thinking about whose day they can ruin. It’s just a lack of education, I guess. In my experience, the fewer their credentials, the worse their attitude. They try to make everyone miserable, but they end up suffering themselves.”

“We’re drifting off-topic, but what was your previous job?” I ask.

“I worked in the food industry.”

“When did you quit?”

“Five months ago.”

“Back to our main point… when you returned to the line, you sounded out of breath, like you’d been running. Why?”

“I remember now,” she finally meets my eyes. “I ate something bad that morning. My stomach was upset, and I had to rush upstairs because the downstairs washrooms were out of order. I ran back down because I didn’t want to keep Caleigh waiting. That’s why I was out of breath.”

“What was the problem with the washrooms?”

“The flushes weren’t working.”

“Believable!” I shake my head. “The flushes in both washrooms stopped working at the same time? Convenient.” I frown. “Tell me, Delores, why did you decide to call Caleigh in the first place? She wasn’t assigned to you; we’ve confirmed that with your management. Her file was flagged as a tough customer, so you knew what you were getting into. Her complaints were unresolved, and her account was locked - you knew that beforehand. So, why did you call her then, especially when you claimed to have a busy day?”

“I told you. I wanted to waste her time. She was a bully, and I wanted to teach her a lesson.”

“You had never interacted with her before. Why did you pick her to teach a lesson?”

“I knew she was difficult. That was my only reason,” she insists.

“In your first interview, you said you were waiting on a call when Stephanie stopped by, and that’s why she left quickly. But actually, you were the one who made the call, not the customer. And, fun fact, that customer wasn’t even assigned to you, according to your management.”

 “I meant I was preparing to call a customer. It was a slip of the tongue.”

“Your tongue seems to slip quite often,” I say, trying to provoke her.

“I’ve nothing else to say on this matter,” she snaps, folding her arms.

“All right,” I sigh. “Since you refuse to answer this question, let’s move on to next. Austin became visibly upset when I showed him your picture, and his reaction intensified when he saw you in person. We have grounds to believe he witnessed the crime and recognized the killer.”

“He’s out of his mind. Who would take him seriously?” she counters.

“Despite his disabilities, he could still be a credible witness in court,” I reply calmly.

“I didn’t kill Stephanie,” she repeats, but there’s less conviction this time.

“Sixteenth,” I whisper.

“What?” she asks.

“That’s the sixteenth time you’ve claimed innocence,” I smile. “But each time, you seem a little less certain.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill her.”

“We’ve seen your bank statement, Delores. In December 2022, you withdrew $26,000 from your TFSA account. What was that for?”

“I spent it.”

“On what?”

“Some random shopping.”

“For $26,000?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you buy?”

“I don’t remember. It was months ago.”

“It was only a few months back. Seems like a lot of money to forget about.”

“What can I say if I can’t remember?” she argues.

“Listen, Delores. You’re not answering my questions, and that won’t do you any favours. We have significant circumstantial evidence against you. You likely knew the code to open the safe as Stephanie’s best friend and Jesse’s girlfriend. You placed Caleigh on hold at the exact time of Stephanie’s death. You also had a motive - Stephanie had an affair with your husband. Plus, the police dog sniffed around your downstairs office, indicating your potential connection to the crime. Coincidentally, you reported a medical emergency and left home just before the dog arrived, only to decide mid-journey that you were feeling better and didn’t need treatment. These are a few points that could lead to a custody order.”

Delores pauses before saying, “Ben’s shirt had blood on it. That’s what drew the dog to our house.”

“That’s possible,” I reply, cueing up a recording from my previous interview with her. “But I’d like to hear your reasons for a specific statement you’re about to listen to,” I say, pressing play.

As the audio begins, Delores lowers her head, listening intently.

“You were her close friend. Do you know if she had any enemies?”

“No, she was a kind soul; there’s no way she could have had any enemies. She had a beautiful heart.”

“Just as beautiful as she was.”

“Oh, absolutely! She was exceptionally stunning. You couldn’t help but stare, especially at those sparkling blue eyes. God forbid the moron who aimed at those beautiful eyes.”

“Delores,” I pause the audio and call out, and she lifts her head, meeting my gaze. “Clarify something for me. How did you know the killer aimed at Stephanie’s eyes? Only the police had that information. Not even Wylie or Theodore, who saw her body, knew because her face was severely bloodied and disfigured. Only one person besides us knew that detail - the person who pulled the trigger.”

A flicker of realization crosses her eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the slim chances left for her. Still, she makes one last attempt. “I assumed it,” she says, her voice trembling. “I heard her face was unrecognizable, so I guessed.”

I detect the undeniable fear in her eyes and continue. “You’re lying, Delores; your face says it all. There’s no sense in maintaining this façade. The only way forward is to be honest. What happened in Lost Meadow that day? It’s time to tell the truth.”

She stays silent, leaning back with her head resting on the chair, staring blankly at the wall. As her eyes glisten with unshed tears, I add, “Keeping quiet won’t help. We have enough evidence to arrest you, even if you say nothing.” She continues to be silent but begins tapping her foot anxiously. Breaking the silence, I press on, “Austin had fresh scratch marks on his arms when we found him restrained by his father and brothers that day. We swabbed his wounds, tested them and found a few DNAs. We matched those DNAs with everyone who had physical contact with him, including your husband. Two matches came up, which we expected, but what we didn’t see coming was the presence of an unknown DNA. I know who it belongs to, but the law requires confirmation. There’s no reason for your DNA to be on his wounds; you were nowhere near him on that day.” I slide a form across the table. “It’s the consent form to obtain a sample from you to match with that DNA. Sign this form to prove your innocence,” I say, attempting to coax her into confessing.

Delores doesn’t touch the paper. Instead, she buries her face in her hands.

“Could you roll up your sleeves and show me your hands?” I ask. She stays still, her face hidden. “Since I first saw you, I wondered why you wear full-sleeve shirts in this heat. This is particularly intriguing considering we suspect the killer may have some scratching marks on their hand.”

A minute of silence passes. Slowly, she brushes her palms to the opposite side, firmly massaging her eyebrows, leaving her face flushed. When she finally looks up, the fear and tears are gone - replaced by this cold, steely resolve. She starts to chuckle, rocking back and forth in her chair. After a few moments, she stops, her eyes locking onto mine. “You’re desperate for the truth, aren’t you?” I stay quiet. She straightens up, her gaze sharp. “Here it is. I killed her. I killed that whore because she deserved it.”

“Why?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Do you know the worst thing about betrayal?” she asks with a sad smile. When I don’t respond, she says, “It comes from the ones we love, not our enemies.”

Chapter 43

“She was having an affair with my husband behind my back,” Delores confesses, her breaths ragged. “All the while pretending to be my best friend. How blind could I have been all these years? How could I have been so naive?” She murmurs, her gaze dropping. When she finally meets my eyes again, helplessness and anger ripple through her otherwise steady demeanour. She shuts her eyes, inhaling profoundly. When she opens them again, the turbulent emotions are gone.

“You took Stephanie’s life because of her involvement with your husband?” I press for a direct answer.

“I killed her because she was a whore,” Delores retorts, her tone cold. “Any woman who comes between a married couple deserves nothing less than death. Don’t you think she deserved it?” She raises her eyebrows, challenging me.

I curl my lips and counter, “Doesn’t the same principle apply to a married woman who isn’t faithful to her husband?”

Delores chuckles. “I understand what you’re getting at. You’re referring to my supposed relationship with Jesse. Just so you know, I was never in a relationship with Jesse. We never crossed any physical boundaries. All we did was talk, and it was never sexual.”

“So, you’re suggesting that you and Jesse maintained a relationship for a month without discussing anything a typical couple would, especially at the beginning of their relationship?” I ask skeptically.

“All that poor boy wanted,” she sighs, “was some attention and someone to talk to because his mother had neglected him all his life. Yes, he made a few attempts, but I managed to slip away whenever such topics arose. I purposely avoided any sexual encounters or conversations.”

“Then why…, why did you try to charm him in the first place?” I inquire.

“I needed to find out where the safe was and the access code,” she admits.

“And he shared that with you,” I note. “Yet he lied to us, insisting he hadn’t disclosed the code to anyone else. It seems he genuinely cared for you.”

“Okay, let me lay this out,” she says, leaning back and crossing her legs. “He never considered me a suspect in his mother’s murder. He probably thought mentioning my name would throw everyone off the real killer’s trail. He didn’t doubt me for a second because I never asked any questions regarding the code. When Wylie changed the code a few days ago, he blurted it out. After all, he cared about me and didn’t want me to be under suspicion.”

“Basically, you took advantage of his innocence,” I remark.

“Yes,” she confirms with a nod. “I would never have done it if Stephanie had shared the code with me. I tried to get it from her, but she refused. Do you know why?” She pauses, waiting for my response. When I remain silent, she continues with a subtle smile, “She was entangled with my husband. She didn’t trust me.”

“So, Jesse had no clue you were using him?”

“Nope. Since Austin was born, Stephanie’s been all about him, neglecting her other son. Jesse craved attention, and I gave it to him. He spilled all about the safe and the code without suspecting my intentions. Thanks to him, I even figured out when Stephanie was home alone,” she says, tapping her foot.

“There must have been several occasions when Stephanie was alone at home with Austin. Why did you choose this particular day?” I ask.

“When Stephanie met me that morning and mentioned Theodore going to his girlfriend’s and sending Wylie to the grocery store, I realized this was the chance I’d been waiting for. I figured my husband would go to meet her, so it could also be my opportunity to trap him. Jesse was coming to meet me, giving me the perfect alibi. This was a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity. Once Louis got back, everything would change. He’s homeschooled and always at home, leaving me no way to carry out my plan.

“You wanted to kill Stephanie,” I point out, “yet you’ve forgiven your husband?” It’s a question that has lingered since I identified the killer. Regardless of Stephanie’s allure, Ben, as a committed man, was responsible for keeping his distance, which he didn’t. Shouldn’t he be the one facing the consequences?

Delores interrupts my thoughts, declaring, “Who said I forgave him? If my plan had succeeded, the police would have arrested him, believing he was at Lost Meadow when Stephanie was shot. That’s why I mentioned in my interview that he left home at five to nine. If you hadn’t figured it out, you would have received an anonymous tip about his affair with Stephanie within a month.”

“You had it all planned,” I remark, shocked as I imagine what might have happened if I had fallen for her ploy to frame her husband. After a brief pause, I ask, “Did you use gloves when you killed Stephanie?”

“Of course, I did,” Delores replies.

“Where did you discard them?”

“I didn’t discard them,” she says, her tone almost smug. “I stored them at home. I washed them with an antiseptic solution, folded them neatly, and left them on the dresser in our master bedroom. I want to see them every time I walk into the room.”

“You seem quite vengeful,” I observe.

“The people around me made me this way,” she hisses.

“Why did you lock Rocky in Jesse’s room? Were you planning to frame him as well?”

“Hell no!” she exclaims. “Rocky followed me upstairs while I was getting the gun. I noticed him trailing behind, so I entered the next room, which was Jesse’s, and locked him in. I didn’t want any interruptions.”

“After getting the gun, you went downstairs. Then what happened?”

“Stephanie was about done with the dishes. In between, she drank some of her smoothies.”

“Smoothie?”

“Yeah, smoothie. She’s been having them for breakfast forever. Just soaks some oats overnight, then blends them with fruit and milk in the morning - one of her beauty secrets, you know? She was in a rush, so she didn’t finish it. She opened the fridge, tossed the cup inside, and grabbed a water bottle. That’s when I shot her - in the eyes, nose, and mouth - four times. After that, I left the gun next to her. As I turned to leave, I saw Austin there. He tried to stop me, and we fought, but I managed to get away.”

“Your husband mentioned you were in your basement office when he left. He heard you talking to a customer as he departed. Did you leave after he did?”

“No, I left before him,” Delores admits. “Before leaving, I played a pre-recorded conversation on my phone to make it seem like I was talking to a client. I knew he would back up my alibi if needed.”

“How did you get from the basement to Stephanie’s house?”

“I used the windows,” she says.

“Didn’t you say you have arthritis and can’t climb that window?”

“I do have arthritis,” she acknowledges, “but I managed to do it with practice. I’d been climbing that window for weeks while monitoring Ben’s movements. Our stairs creak, so I couldn’t use them. Stephanie used to visit him at my house before Louis’s trip. Once he was gone, they met at her place. Jesse was hardly home, Theodore stayed in his room, Wylie was always in his office, and Austin slept through most of the morning. It all seemed convincing, except for Louis. Thanks to the window in my office,” she says with a sad smile, “I was able to keep track of them.

“When did you discover Stephanie and Ben’s relationship?”

“Not too long ago. Only a month ago. I suppose they got too comfortable over the years and became careless toward the end. Ben occasionally borrows my Jeep because his car has an ongoing engine issue. One day, he left his secret phone in my jeep, and I found the message on it.”

“Wasn’t the phone locked?”

“It was,” she says, “but it had the same password as his other phone.”

“What did the message say?”

“Oh, just the usual,” she scoffs. “They were acting like lovesick teenagers, sending texts like, “What do you like most about me?”

“How did you know it was from Stephanie?”

“At the end of the message, he mentioned he would tell her when they met. I knew he was going to see his secret lover soon. I followed him to Lost Meadow and saw them together - my husband and my best friend,” she giggles, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Did you have any idea your husband would be at Lost Meadow on the day of Stephanie’s death?”

“Yes, I knew,” she nods. “When Jesse mentioned his fishing plans, and Stephanie told me Theo was going to his girlfriends and Wylie was going to the grocery store that morning, I knew my husband would be there. I also knew he had a showing at 9.30, so he wouldn’t stay long.”

“Why did you choose that specific time for the murder? One mistake and Jesse would have realized you weren’t at home when his mother was killed. He would have just had to look around the house to see you weren’t downstairs.”

“You’re wrong,” Delores says with a smug grin. “It was the perfect timing. My husband was planning to leave shortly. I informed him of my busy work schedule. He never bothered to say goodbye if I was in my office, so I didn’t have to worry about him. I could hop on a bike and return home within two or three minutes after killing Stephanie. I knew Ben would visit Stephanie… it was a great opportunity to set a trap for him. Meanwhile, Jesse would be waiting for Ben to leave, plus a few more minutes, as I had instructed him. I texted Ben one day, asking him to return home shortly after he left while Jesse was with me. I want Jesse to know the importance of waiting a few more minutes after Ben’s departure. Since then, he has always followed through, so I had no concerns about him either. I had sufficient time to complete the task and return home while establishing a solid alibi. I was confident Jesse and Ben would vouch for me if needed. That phone call was an extra precaution. I didn’t expect you to dissect it so thoroughly.”

“Where was Jesse waiting for you?”

“He wanted to wait somewhere on the trail between my house and Fleming,” Delores explains, “but I convinced him that wasn’t safe. He waited on the other side of the compound, between our house and Adams’s, where he could hear Ben leaving.”

“Why did it take so long to open the door? Jesse had to ring twice. Didn’t everything go as planned?”

“One thing happened that I didn’t expect,” she sighs, her frustration evident. “Austin came downstairs and caught me in the act. He clung to my T-shirt and wouldn’t let go. I had to struggle with him, and in the process, I scratched him. He scratched me too,” she says, rolling up her sleeves to reveal the healing marks on her wrists. “I needed to check for blood and change into a long-sleeved shirt before opening the door. That’s why it took a while. That’s also why I faked sick and didn’t make it to Lost Meadow that day. I figured wearing long sleeves on a hot day would look suspicious. I didn’t want to raise any red flags.”

“How did you escape Austin’s grip so easily? Wasn’t he strong?”

“He was initially confused,” she explains. “He didn’t know whether to attend to his mom or fight with me. I took advantage of his confusion and directed his attention away.”

“You managed to fool him!” I remark. “Basically, you thought you could kill Stephanie and outsmart everyone, didn’t you?”

“I could have fooled all of you if Austin hadn’t intervened,” she admits, sounding disappointed. “I underestimated him. I never imagined he could perceive things as he did and remember them. He’s the one who tricked me. If it weren’t for him, I could have evaded suspicion my entire life, couldn’t I?”

I flash a bright smile and respond, “You underestimated not only Austin’s capabilities but also the efficiency of the investigation team. Although I initially cleared you as a suspect, midway through the investigation, I began reconsidering you as a potential suspect. The crime undeniably appeared to be one of passion and revenge, highly personal. Although Wylie was our prime suspect and stayed on and off the radar throughout the entire investigation, I had a sense that he wasn’t Stephanie’s killer. Initially, we were fixated on finding a man, especially with Austin pointing to the door and saying Nana. Sometime during the investigation, it struck me that he may not be pointing to the door but to the pathway leading to your home, which is parallel to the door. When I learned about Ben’s affair and realized he wasn’t the culprit, my attention shifted to you. With the DNA results, my suspicions heightened because you’re the only individual from whom we never obtained a sample, considering that you were never at the scene. When I saw the Advil and Voltaren on your otherwise clean table and smelled the strong ointment, I thought you put them there on purpose to make it seem like you have a medical issue and couldn’t climb the window or shoot Stephanie in that short time. Then, I noticed the photo on your office wall, the one with short hair from the year you moved into Dark Hill. I sensed there might be a chance Austin would call you Nana, and Wylie confirmed it later. I considered the possibility that your picture might have been the cause of Austin’s agitation at the station. The only setback was your seemingly solid alibi. Just when confusion set in, you made that statement about shooting into Stephanie’s eyes. At that moment, I became certain that you were the killer. I intended to take Austin for a walk to your house when I visited him this afternoon to see if that triggered him, but that became unnecessary when you showed up at Lost Meadow,” I smile, pausing briefly before continuing. “When I realized you’re the culprit, I decided to delve deeper into gathering as much information as possible. We should’ve done it much earlier if not for your strong alibi. You successfully misled us, but only for a brief period. We didn’t immediately apprehend you because we wanted to make sure no one else was involved in the crime and needed to rule out every other potential suspect. Today, when I obtained information about you holding the phone during the conversation with your client and your Google search on getting rid of gun residue, I didn’t need to think twice. The four shots on Stephanie’s face targeted her eyes, nose, and mouth, the very areas Ben mentioned he liked most about Stephanie. Only an experienced shooter could execute such accurate shots. When I came to your home for the interview and saw your resume, I noticed you worked as a firearm instructor in your youth. Your former colleague spoke highly of your abilities and even agreed to testify against you. We’ve amassed evidence against you, and it’s only a matter of time before I catch up to you, if not for Austin,” I conclude.

“Oh, well,” Delores admits with a sigh. “It seems I underestimated you.”

I lean back and lock eyes with her. “You certainly did,” I state. “And you still do.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, perplexed.

“You’re still not being completely honest,” I reply. “You’ve confessed to quite a lot, so why not be entirely truthful?”

“I don’t get it,” says Delores.

 “You didn’t kill Stephanie because of her affair with your husband,” I say.

“What?” she asks, avoiding my gaze.

Chapter 44

“You said you found out about Stephanie and Ben’s affair a month ago when you saw a message, but that can’t be true. That message was almost a year old and had been deleted around that time. If the affair was your motive, you would’ve acted long before now, not waited a year. So, what’s the real reason you killed Stephanie?”

Delores looks at me, puzzled. “You’re sharp. You’ve figured everything else out. Why not this?”

“I’ve got common sense, but I can’t read minds,” I reply.

“Any guesses?” she asks with a sly smile.

“Does it have something to do with the $26,000 you withdrew from your account?”

“Close enough,” she says, her smile widening as if impressed with my deduction.

“You loaned $26,000 to Stephanie, and she didn’t pay it back?” I ask.

“That’s right.”

“Why such a large amount?” I inquire, piecing things together.

“It was part of a deal,” she reveals.

“What kind of deal?” I press.

“That baby was meant for me,” she confesses.

“Which baby? Little Aria?”

“Yes, Aria.”

“You paid $26,000 for Aria?” I ask, astonished.

“Yes,” she confirms. “I’ve had trouble conceiving. We tried everything, even IVF, but nothing worked. I desperately wanted a baby. I thought having one would keep Ben from straying,” she says, her voice trembling. “Stephanie wasn’t planning on having another child, but I convinced her with the money. Once she was pregnant, though, she had a change of heart.”

I lean in, asking, “Did Ben know about this? Was she a surrogate for you?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Ben and Wylie had no clue. It was entirely my idea.”

“How did you plan to handle the baby without Ben or Wylie finding out?”

“Stephanie was going to tell Wylie that Austin had hurt Aria and convince him to give her to us. He wouldn’t have cared much; he wasn’t thrilled about being a father at his age.”

“And Ben?”

“He was eager to have a baby. He wouldn’t have objected.”

“Why did Stephanie change her mind after Aria was born?”

“It was my fault,” she says, her voice wavering. “I planned to take the baby back to the States and have Ben and the baby all to myself. We left the States because we couldn’t have a baby, and Ben’s family was harsh about it. I wanted to surprise them and show them I could be a mom, too. But I let my plan slip, and Stephanie didn’t like the idea of Ben leaving. So she refused to give me the baby.”

“What about the money? Didn’t she return it?”

“She spent it all,” Delores says. “I was furious. I told her I’d spill everything to Ben and Wylie and make sure I got that baby. That’s when she sent Aria to her in-laws, people she’d never had a good relationship with. They’d always thought she was a slut. Suddenly, they were best friends.”

“So, what happened next?”

“I told Ben. He brushed it off, saying there was no way to get the money back without proof that I’d given it to her. He blamed me and refused to confront her. We had a huge fight about it.”

“So that’s why you were angry and decided to set him up for Stephanie’s murder?”

“Exactly.”

“And then?”

“I didn’t speak to her for about a month. I was too upset. I felt I deserved that baby more than she did. It was probably Ben’s baby, anyway. Giving her that money was generous of me.”

“When did this all happen?”

“A couple of months ago, just before Aria was born.”

“Did you make the first move to reconcile after the month of silence?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“By then, I’d worked everything out. There was no way I was going to share my husband, end up without a baby, and lose all that money. She practically invited trouble.”

“Did Ben or Stephanie know that you knew about their affair?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“When did you find out about them?”

“It was three years ago, long before I saw that message. I found them together at their house on Canada Day when the boys and Wylie went into town to see the fireworks.”

“Why didn’t you confront them?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” she says, shaking her head. With a heavy sigh, she adds, “Enough questions for now. You had no idea about any of this, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. When I learned about the large withdrawal from your account, I suspected you might have lent her money, given her extravagant spending despite no visible income. But I never imagined it was connected to Aria.”

“Still confident about your team’s efficiency?” she mocks.

“Absolutely. How else do you think I got all these confessions from you within a week after the murder?” I snap, smiling.

July 25, 2023

Chapter 45

In the morning, I wake up to a call from Josephine. We’ve been in regular contact lately, particularly after I expressed my frustration to Miles about her discussing the findings with him instead of Sam or me. An early phone call, however, is unusual.

“Hello?” I answer.

“I’ve got something important,” she says with urgency. “The preliminary toxicology results are in. Stephanie had a significant amount of amitriptyline in her system.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to grasp the implications.

“Her levels were over 330 ng/ml. The standard therapeutic range is between 100-300 ng/ml.”

“What does that mean?” I press.

“It means she took a high dose of amitriptyline recently,” Trudy says.

“When exactly?”

“I can’t pinpoint it right now. I’ll have more details once I get the final results.”

“Delores and Wylie mentioned she was drowsy and lethargic for a few days before she died, which led Wylie to suspect suicide,” I point out.

“Sedation and drowsiness are side effects of amitriptyline toxicity,” Trudy explains. “If she was experiencing these symptoms for about three or four days, it’s likely she was taking an excessive dose daily.”

“Could that be fatal if taken in excessive doses gradually?”

“It could be,” Josephine explains. “If she continued at that dose, it could have been fatal.”

“She wasn’t on any prescribed medication, according to her family doctor,” I say.

“Yeah, I know,” she replies. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you right away. Do you have any idea where the amitriptyline could have come from?”

“Austin used to take it, but that was some time ago. I believe it was discontinued a month ago,” I reply.

“So, you think she did it on purpose?” Josephine asks, confused.

“Who knows,” I say, frustrated. “Maybe she did it herself… maybe someone else gave it to her. What a mess, either way.” I sigh heavily. “But seriously, how could someone even give it to her without her knowing?” I ask, rubbing my temples.

“Maybe they slipped it into her food or drink without her noticing,” Josephine suggests.

“Doesn’t it taste bad if mixed with food, though?” I ask.

“Not really, especially if she was taking it with something sweet. It probably wouldn’t have been that noticeable.”

“Just when I thought everything was wrapping up neatly, this happens,” I mutter in frustration.

“It’s quite a blow, isn’t it?” Josephine asks sympathetically. “I’ll send the report to your email, but we’ll need to wait for the final report to get more details.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to my team and get back to you,” I tell her before hanging up. I immediately put Miles, Sam, and Trudy on a group call. “We need to meet,” I say, my voice betraying my tension.

Chapter 46

“So now you want to reopen the case and start from scratch? Are you out of your mind?” Miles nearly yells, his face tight and red as he leans over the desk, his hands braced firmly.

“I don’t want to start from scratch,” I reply calmly. “But we need to figure out how the amitriptyline ended up in her system at such a high dose.”

“She might have taken it intending to end her life,” Miles growls.

“You saw her five days before her death, and she seemed happy and content,” I counter.

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t struggling internally. People often hide their true feelings,” he argues.

“We all know how self-absorbed and narcissistic Stephanie was. Honestly, I don’t think she committed suicide,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice.

“I don’t care what you think,” Miles snaps.

“I know you better than anyone. You don’t give a shit about my opinion. You don’t even care about this investigation; you’re just trying to protect your own dignity,” I shoot back.

“You’re crossing the line, Curtis,” Miles warns.

“You are too,” I reply. “You’re asking me to ignore the autopsy results.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore them. We can look into it, but not right now. We just told the media yesterday that we’ve solved the case,” Miles insists.

I shake my head, refusing to back down. “No, we need to act on this now. I told you to hold off on the press conference until we got the DNA results on Delores, but you didn’t listen. This mess is on you.”

“I didn’t know my super-efficient detectives wouldn’t fully solve the crime and would come up with another twist,” he teases. My blood boils, and I can feel my face getting hot.

Before I can respond, Trudy jumps in, sensing the tension. “Curtis, this doesn’t seem like a huge issue. She might have taken the medication intentionally. Maybe she’d been using the pills over time, considering suicide.”

“Tell me this, Trudy,” I say, directing my frustration at her. “Who takes medication slowly over days in small amounts to kill themselves bit by bit? If she wanted to die, she would have taken a lethal dose all at once. I’m not suggesting we announce anything to the media yet. I want to restart the investigation as soon as possible.”

Miles pauses, his anger giving way to thoughtfulness. “Alright,” he finally says, “but it’s only you, Sam, Trudy, and Josephine handling this - no one else. We need to keep this quiet for now.”

“Fine,” I say, exchanging a look with Sam.

“If you need anything, let me know. And keep me posted,” Miles says, standing up and heading for the door, still clearly annoyed.

Chapter 47

“Where do we even begin?” Trudy asks as Miles heads out.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I admit, scratching my head. “We need to figure out how the amitriptyline got into her system.”

“So, are we going with the possibility someone else gave it to her instead of Stephanie taking it herself?” Sam asks.

“We’ll consider both, but let’s start with the idea that someone else did it. That seems more likely,” I say.

“What are the chances Delores did it?” Trudy asks.

“Pretty slim,” I reply, mulling it over. “She would’ve mentioned it when she confessed everything else. Plus, slipping a pill into Stephanie’s food or drink every day doesn’t fit with her situation. And she wasn’t as close to Stephanie as she used to be.”

“If she was planning to shoot Stephanie anyway, why bother with the amitriptyline?” Sam asks.

“What about Ben?” Trudy chimes in.

“Same deal,” I say. “It’s possible, but it’d be really tough for him to give it to her consistently, especially since we think she was getting a dangerously high dose over the last few days based on her symptoms.”

“So, this points to someone else - probably a family member,” Trudy says. “They’d be the only ones who could give it to her regularly.”

“Most likely by adding it to her food or drink, right?” Sam asks.

“I can’t think of any other way they could get it to her,” I reply.

“But which food? She makes her own meals. How could someone add something without her noticing?” Trudy asks.

“It’s more likely they added it to a drink or something else,” Sam suggests.

“I don’t know,” I admit, scratching my head.

“Delores did mention seeing Stephanie drinking her smoothie that morning,” Trudy points out.

“But Stephanie makes her smoothie in the morning. How could someone add the medication after it was prepared? She might drink it right away,” Sam counters.

“She soaks the oats overnight,” I say. “So, someone could have added the medication then.”

“But who? Wylie or Theodore?” Sam asks.

“No way,” I reply firmly. “It’s the same situation with Delores. If they were planning to shoot her, why bother giving her pills every day?”

“That only leaves three - Louise, Austin, and Jesse,” Trudy says.

“Louise is out; he wasn’t even here,” I add.

“That leaves us with just two. Austin or Jesse. I’ve got a feeling it’s Jesse,” Sam says with sudden enthusiasm.

July 26, 2023

Chapter 48

I’m meticulously going through the photographs, searching for the bottle of amitriptyline. The tension in the room is thick; we’ve been at this for a while. To make the search easier, we’ve divided tasks - I’m focusing on the photos, Trudy is scanning the videos, and Sam is sorting through the documents.

“This isn’t good,” I mutter, frustration creeping in. “We can’t delegate this to anyone else. We need to handle it ourselves. We’re losing valuable time.”

“I get it,” Trudy responds. “We’d move faster with more people, but we don’t have that luxury.”

We continue our detailed examination of each image and clip. Trudy’s team had documented every inch of the house. Their attention to detail might be what saves us now.

“Hold on,” Trudy says suddenly, pausing a video and zooming in on the screen.

I slide my chair closer, narrowing my eyes at the image. “That’s it,” Sam confirms, reading the label on the bottle.

“Where was it?” I ask.

“It was stashed in the bottom drawer of a dresser in Jesse’s room, tucked away in a small box,” Trudy says. “As I mentioned, there’s a cabinet in the kitchen where they keep all the meds - a little safe with a code. It keeps the meds secure, especially since Austin could’ve gotten to them without anyone noticing. But this bottle wasn’t kept there, but in Jesse’s room.”

“There’s no way Stephanie would’ve left the medication unattended like that. It must have been there without her knowledge,” Sam adds.

“How did we miss it during the search?” I ask, frustrated. “We should have picked this up during the initial search.”

Whoever found it probably didn’t know about the medication cabinet. Different people were assigned to various areas of the house, and we were all focused on the gunshot - the murder didn’t seem connected to the meds.”

I take a deep breath. “We must retrieve that bottle and follow proper procedures before questioning Jesse.”

“Miles won’t allow it. You promised him this new investigation would stay under wraps,” Trudy reminds me.

“Damn it,” I say, whacking my fist into my palm.

“How do we proceed without raising suspicion, especially since Miles wants to keep it quiet?” Sam asks, glancing between us.

“We’ll approach it like we did with the phone,” I suggest, already forming a plan. “The three of us will go together. Two of us will create a distraction while Trudy retrieves the bottle. She’s good at finding things,” I add with a brief smile.

Trudy grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, we need to be careful. We’re bending the rules here.”

“That’s because your boss insisted on keeping things quiet,” I remind her.

“My boss is your boss, too,” Trudy snaps.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I reply with a wry smile. “In any case, we can’t afford mistakes. Let’s go over the plan one more time.”

We huddle together, carefully reviewing each step. This could be the key to uncovering the truth; we can’t afford errors.

Chapter 49

Recovering the amitriptyline bottle turned out to be easier than expected. We timed our visit perfectly, waiting until Wylie and Theodore came to the station for their daily signing. That left us with only Louis and Jesse to deal with. We also managed to grab Stephanie’s smoothie bottle. But the real challenge was the waiting - the long, nerve-wracking wait. With the evidence being processed as an emergency, we should get the results within 12 hours. Twelve hours felt like a lifetime, though. We spent the day pouring over notes and discussing every possibility.

As darkness falls, my impatience grows. “Why is it taking so long?” I mutter, pacing in the room.

“Patience, Curtis. They promised results before midnight. A few more hours, and we’ll have them,” Sam consoles.

“We’ve reviewed their chat history, Google searches, everything. No one looked up this medication on their phones or computers. If they planned to use it, wouldn’t they have at least Googled it?” I say, confused.

“We need to see if anyone uses a computer outside the home, like at work or a library,” Trudy suggests.

“We already checked Wylie’s work computers, and we didn’t find anything. Theodore and Jesse might have used a friend’s phone or another device, and tracing that could be tough and time-consuming. Louis was homeschooled and used to go to the library often to use the computers, but since he’s been away, it might not be worth pursuing,” Sam says.

“What about Ben?” Trudy asks.

“I checked his stuff, too. Nothing significant,” I say.

“What if it is someone who couldn’t Google anything because they didn’t have access?” Trudy raises an eyebrow.

“Austin?” I ask, trying to piece it together.

“Think about it. He was always around and could easily get into Jesse’s room. He might be the one who left the meds there.”

“He can’t Google anything, but could he manage to give his mom enough meds to overdose? Is he intelligent enough to plan a slow death without anyone suspecting?” I ask, analyzing the situation. “It doesn’t add up. And you’ve seen how devastated he is by her death,” I add.

“Then who could it be?” Trudy asks, throwing up her hands in frustration.

“I don’t know,” I reply, shaking my head.

“Once again, we’re back to Jesse,” Sam says.

“Once again, we’re back to Jesse,” Sam says.

Just then, my phone rings, interrupting our conversation. It’s Davis from the Forensic Identification Unit.

“Hey, Davis,” I answer, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Did you find any matches?”

“Yes,” he replies. “We’ve got matches from the smoothie cup and the medicine bottle.”

“Who are they?” I ask, holding my breath. After a quick conversation, I hang up and take a deep breath. Then I turn to Trudy and Sam and say, “We’d better check those library computers.”

July 27, 2023

Chapter 50

“What do you think, Miles?” I ask. “If Delores hadn’t shot Stephanie, Wylie and Theodore might have done it. And if not them, then Austin and Louis could have caused her death with an overdose.”

Miles sighs, clearly torn. “Louis is my son, and I care about him, but he needs to face the consequences. If he doesn’t, he could become a real danger. What’s confusing me is how he got Austin involved. How could he have taught Austin all those things, especially with his autism? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Munchausen syndrome,” I say, thinking out loud. “It’s when a parent or guardian fabricates or induces illness in a child to gain attention or sympathy for themselves, disregarding the child’s well-being. In extreme cases, this can lead to serious crimes, even murder. In Austin’s case, he might not be as limited as we initially believed, and it’s possible that Stephanie exaggerated his condition to gain sympathy.”

Miles looks at me intently. “So, you’re saying Austin might be more involved in Stephanie’s death than we thought?”

“That’s right,” I reply. “The evidence points to it.”

Trudy chimes in, laying out the facts. “Louis looked up everything about amitriptyline - its dosage, effects, and how to overdose. We found fingerprints from both Austin and Louis on the bottle, so it’s likely Louis showed Austin how to use it. Since Louis was away, it had to be Austin who mixed it into her food. Plus, we found Austin’s and Stephanie’s fingerprints on the smoothie cup. So yeah, it’s pretty clear he was involved.”

“What’s the next step?” I ask, feeling the weight of the situation. “We can’t keep this a secret anymore because we can’t question Louis without an adult present.”

Miles takes a deep breath, looking determined. “He is my son. I’ll handle the questioning myself.”

We all fall silent, taken aback by his unexpected decision. It’s a resolute choice, I must acknowledge. However, interviewing Louis without a parent or approved guardian is against the rules. While Miles is Louis’s father, there’s no evidence to support this beyond their physical resemblance. But given that our actions in the final stage weren’t exactly above board, who’s to say it matters?

Chapter 51

In my usual spot behind the police station, Miles and I sit quietly as the evening sun stretches shadows across the ground. Louis stands facing Miles, ignoring our request to sit. I pretend to scroll through my phone but focus on Miles and Louis. Miles insisted I stay close during his talk with Louis, ensuring no room for mistrust later.

“Your mom was shot dead, and we found who killed her,” Miles begins, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve heard about it, right?”

“Yes,” he nods.

 “Do you know what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been shot?”

Louis shakes his head, looking confused.

“Your mom was going to die anyway,” Miles continues. “Do you know how?”

“I don’t know,” Louis falters.

“She had a lethal dose of amitriptyline in her system. She would’ve been dead within days.”

Louis’s face drains of colour. “Really? How’d that happen?” he asks.

“You should be the one to explain,” Miles says.

“Me?” he replies, pretending to be surprised.

 “Why did you do it, Louis?” Miles asks, his eyes searching the boy’s face.

“I didn’t do anything,” Louis mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

Miles pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads - “What is amitriptyline? Does an overdose kill people? How much do you need to give over a week to avoid suspicion and make it look like they died from a sudden illness? What’s the meaning of therapeutic range?”

Louis stares at the paper, his hands trembling.

“You Googled all these questions from the library computer, Louis,” Miles presses. “We found your and Austin’s fingerprints on the amitriptyline bottle. We found Austin’s fingerprints on your mother’s smoothie cup. It’s clear that Austin did it but under your instructions.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis says, shaking his head vigorously as he starts to walk away. “I want to go home.”

“To whom?” Miles asks, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

“To my dad. I’m going to tell him everything you said. He’ll come with a lawyer and sue you and your department for falsely framing me and my autistic brother.”

“Come here,” Miles calls, waving Louis over. When he doesn’t budge, Miles stands up and walks over, placing a hand on Louis’s shoulder and pulling him closer. After an awkward moment of silence, he finally says, “Louis, Wylie isn’t your dad.”

“What?” Louis replies, his mouth hanging open.

“Wylie isn’t your dad,” Miles repeats.

Louis’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Then who is my dad?”

“You’re my son,” Miles says, letting the weight of it sink in.

“What are you talking about?” Louis pushes Miles’s hand off his shoulder and steps back.

“I am your real dad,” Miles says, his voice shaky.

“No, you’re not,” Louis responds, his eyes wide with shock.

“Yes, I am,” Miles insists, taking a step closer.

“Why are you lying to me?” Louis asks, his voice trembling as he fights back tears.

“I’m not lying,” Miles says, pulling out a photo from his wallet. “Look, this is me when I was your age. We look just alike. You’re my son.”

Louis studies the photo, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re my dad?” he whispers.

Miles steps even closer, his tone turning serious. “Why did you kill your mom, Louis?” he asks, locking eyes with him.

“She was evil,” Louis sobs. “She gave Austin unnecessary medications and kept him a prisoner so she could enjoy herself.”

“When did you realize that?” Miles asks, his voice softening.

“About a year ago, I started taking responsibility for Austin’s medication to help Mom. Initially, I gave him all the medication she instructed me to. But then I began questioning why he was on so much, and Mom couldn’t answer clearly. So, I began reducing the amount I gave him without her knowing and eventually stopped altogether. Over time, Austin improved significantly. I explained to him how the medications were making him sleepy, lethargic, irritable, and even causing hallucinations. I told him to pretend to be the way he was before.”

“Does Austin talk much?” Miles asks.

“Not very well, but more than you think. He can talk in short sentences.”

“Is that the only reason you killed her? Because she gave Austin unnecessary medications to keep him sedated?” Miles asks.

“That’s not all,” Louis says, his voice choked with emotion. “I was tired of all the random men coming to our house. She’d send Austin and me out for a walk whenever they showed up. She didn’t care how we felt. In some ways, it wasn’t all bad - I got to spend time with Austin, teach him the basics, and we got close. But for him to have a better life, she had to go. She was a whore anyway, so it didn’t matter.”

“What do you mean by all the random men? How many exactly?” Miles asks.

“I don’t know, there were a lot,” Louis says. “Some came only once, others a few times, but none stuck around. Sometimes, she’d say they were friends or family. I wasn’t dumb enough to believe her stories.”

“You got fed up with it, so you taught Austin to mix amitriptyline into her smoothie?” Miles asks, his voice heavy.

“Yes,” Louis confesses.

“How much did he give her?” Miles asks.

“Not much - 4 to 5 tablets, 100 mg each,” Louis replies. “He did it for three days, starting the day after I left for the trip. She started showing symptoms - headaches and nausea and said her vision was getting strange. She thought she was aging too quickly and wanted to stay in bed all day. She didn’t bother going to the doctor, figured it was early menopause. That’s what she told me over the phone.’

“Why didn’t the bottle have Stephanie’s fingerprints, but only yours and Austin’s?” Miles asks.

“She always used gloves while handling medicines. She was obsessive about that.”

“How did you get so many pills without Stephanie noticing?”

“This was Austin’s old medication. They kept changing his meds now and then. When the bottle was finished, I grabbed them and put the old medications I saved without giving them to Austin. Then I taught Austin how to add it to my mom’s oats.”

“How come you kept the medication in Jesse’s room?”

“We initially kept it in my school bag, but one day she opened it. She didn’t see the bottle, but I knew it wasn’t safe. Theo’s and Jesse’s rooms were the only places Mom wouldn’t clean. Theo hardly let anyone in his room, except me sometimes, so there was no way we could’ve kept it in there. Jesse’s room was safe enough. Austin used to go in and out, playing with the cupboard or table. Even though Jesse didn’t like it, he didn’t say anything because Mom would get angry and tell him to move out.”

“Was Austin intentionally fighting with Theo often?”

“He was totally faking it, acting like he wasn’t improving. If Mom found out Austin wasn’t taking his meds and was doing fine, she would’ve done something nasty.”

“Oh, Louis, what have you done?” Miles says sadly.

“What’s going to happen to me now? Am I going to prison?” Louis asks, his voice trembling.

Miles puts a hand on Louis’s shoulder and says, “Louis, you shouldn’t have done this. You should’ve talked to someone you trust.”

“I don’t have anyone to trust,” Louis says, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Mom was the only one, and when I found out she was faking it, it really hit me. I felt so alone.”

I can see the pain in Miles’s eyes as he replies, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Louis. But we can’t overlook the fact that giving her amitriptyline to kill her was wrong. You and Austin will have to deal with the fallout. I promise I’ll stick by both of you through this, whatever it takes. For now, go inside with Curtis. I’ll be there soon.”

As Louis walks back to the station with me, I glance back at Miles. He’s taking off his glasses to wipe away tears. For the first time, I respect and see him for who he truly is.

July 28, 2023

Chapter 52

The phone rings as I flip marinated chicken pieces on the hot grill, each generously coated with a flavorful blend of herbs and spices. Sam is coming to stay the night, so I’m preparing grilled chicken and veggies for dinner. Closing the lid of the stainless-steel grill, I carry the phone inside.

“Congratulations,” Natasha’s voice, softer than I remember, greets me. It’s the first time I’ve heard from her since she left a week ago, and the conversation feels oddly distant.

“Thank you,” I reply awkwardly, heading to the living room.

“What are your plans for today? A party?” she asks, her tone tinged with something sweet.

 “Not really,” I say as I flop onto the sofa. “We had a team meeting and a press briefing today. It was a long day. I’m getting ready for bed,” I lie.

“This early?” she pauses, and I glance at the vintage clock on the white living room wall. It’s only half past five. The sun outside is still blazing, showing no signs of setting soon. She probably senses I’m lying. The air grows heavy, punctuated by her soft, rapid breaths. “Listen,” she finally says, gathering her courage. “I’ve been thinking about us lately and realize I haven’t been the most understanding partner.”

“I’m listening,” I prompt as she takes another long pause.

“I’ve realized I was somewhat controlling,” she says, her voice faltering. “And I regret it now,” she mumbles.

I shake my head in disbelief. “I was a jerk, too. You spent the whole day cleaning, and I messed it up within an hour of coming home. I was inconsiderate,” I admit.

“I guess I had too much time on my hands and ended up focusing on your flaws instead of understanding the pressure you’re under,” she says. “I should’ve been more considerate of your job and not added to your stress. It doesn’t matter if you’re not meticulous about cleaning or if you forget small things.”

“You know, I remember every detail of my job, but I draw a blank when it comes to you. I should’ve tried to remember your birthday or our anniversary,” I say.

“I guess I was a bit greedy too. Instead of expecting you to remember, I should’ve dropped a hint or two,” she admits. “It’s silly to get upset over something like that.”

It feels like a competition now, taking turns to own up to our mistakes. It’s my turn. “I should’ve appreciated your hard work more,” I say.

“I should’ve been nicer,” she whispers. “You might’ve had a rough day at work.”

“But not every single day,” I counter.

“Anyway, listen…,” she pauses.

“Hmm?” I prompt.

“I’m being considered for a clerical position in Dr. Prasad’s office,” she says. “It’s part-time at first, but it might help me refocus my attention and energy.”

“Redirect your focus from what?” I ask, pretending not to understand.

“From your… from your…,” she hesitates, searching for the right words. “Your habits.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!” I exclaim. “You need to get a job and make the most of your time.” She doesn’t reply. An awkward silence settles over us, suggesting my words might have stung. I wish I had phrased it better. I lean back and massage my temples nervously.

She clears her throat tentatively and asks, “Do you believe I deserve a second chance?”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I sit up excitedly. “I believe we both deserve a second chance. Welcome back,” I say quickly, eager to avoid any reconsideration on her part.

“Thank you for welcoming me back. I missed you, babe,” she replies warmly.

“Thanks for taking the initiative. I missed you too,” I respond. “When are you coming? Today?”

“Not today. Tomorrow. I still need to pack everything.”

“Tomorrow it is. I’ll see you then. Good night.”

“Good night,” she says before ending the call.

I toss the phone onto the table and reflect on our conversation. Natasha wanted to be treated like a princess, as her father treated her. All she sought was my time and attention, which I hesitated to give. I also failed in my responsibilities, making things worse. She might have handled my flaws differently if I had given her enough attention. It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized how important she was to me.

Suddenly, my phone rings, snapping me from my thoughts. It’s Trudy.

“I was thinking of calling you,” I say.

“Really? What’s up?” she asks.

“Sam and I have a tradition of celebrating privately when we crack a case. This time, we’d like to invite you for our celebration lunch tomorrow,” I propose.

“It’s an honour,” she responds. “I’m thinking of throwing a party for my team at my place. They all worked hard on this case and deserve a treat. I’ll call you once I have the details.”

“It was a pleasure working with you,” I say.

“Same here. I’ve never seen an investigation wrap up so fast,” she says. “You did an amazing job solving such a tricky case.”

“Team effort, huh? Credit goes to everyone,” I say.

“Of course, but without your contributions, it wouldn’t have been this easy. One thing I still don’t understand is how those idiots planned to kill her on the same day without realizing someone else had the same idea,” she remarks.

“Yeah, they wanted to make sure Louis wasn’t around when they went for it. Even Louis was scheming to kill her when he was away,” I remark dryly.

“And when the timing was right, they all jumped in,” she adds.

“Exactly. It’s wild that only Jesse in that family was against getting her out of the picture while everyone else was on board.”

 “I was talking to Jesse earlier. He was genuinely grateful for how quickly and efficiently we solved this case.”

“Oh, really? Did you call him, or did he reach out to you?” I blurt out, immediately regretting my nosiness.

“I called him. I was concerned about him. After everything that happened, he felt so lonely.”

“Good job, Trudy. You have a compassionate heart.”

“It’s a bit of a motherly instinct we women have,” she laughs lightly. “He promised to take on some work and stay committed. He’s decided to relocate to the city.”

“I don’t blame him. Everyone knows everyone in Dark Hill, and with his mother’s secrets out, it must be tough to stay there. I can imagine how embarrassing it would be for him to face the locals.”

“That’s not the main reason he’s moving. He wants to be independent and take responsibility for his own life.” She pauses before continuing. “I disagree with your perspective, though. His mother’s actions were hers alone. No one should bear responsibility for them but her. I’ve heard some say her behaviour was due to a traumatic childhood, but I don’t see it that way. Adults can choose between right and wrong. If you make bad choices, you should take responsibility, not shift the blame.”

“That applies to Jesse, too,” I remind her. “He should stop blaming his parents for his choices and lifestyle. He’s twenty now.”

“Exactly. I told him the same thing. Yes, he had a rough childhood, but he can’t keep blaming his parents for his irresponsibility. At twenty, it’s time to focus on his goals. He has the choice to live differently and be a better role model. Right now, he has the chance to prove it - he can take care of his brother, who really needs some love and help.”

“It’s unfortunate Austin and Louis have to deal with all this without much support,” I say.

“Totally. And Wylie and Theo’s situation isn’t great either. This is what happens when you take the law into your own hands. When Wylie found out about Stephanie’s affair, he could’ve just walked away, but instead, he went for revenge and dragged his son into it. If Delores hadn’t killed Stephanie, they might’ve gone after Austin and framed her instead. They both need to face consequences, just like Delores. Austin and Louis should’ve figured things out differently instead of planning an overdose. I hope the justice system doesn’t let us down.”

“They’ll definitely face consequences for their roles in this mess,” I tell her. “For Louis and Austin, it might be lighter since they’re younger and their motives are different.”

“They should. Otherwise, how will they learn? Still… I feel bad. They’re so young for all this,” Trudy says.

“We can’t really do anything, can we?” I add.

“I’m not worried about Louis,” Trudy replies. “Miles is on it. But Austin… poor kid, he’s got no one to lean on.”

“I’m sure Miles will check on him too, like he said,” I reassure her.

She pauses for a moment and then says, “Sorry for unloading all this on you.”

“It’s nice to see that side of you, Trudy,” I say.

“Okay then. See you at lunch tomorrow,” she says before hanging up.

******

My phone buzzes as Sam’s Lexus pulls into my driveway. I watch him climb the stairs. As the doorbell rings, I open the door and welcome him home.

He steps inside and glances around. The place is immaculate compared to his last visit. A warm smile crosses his face as he asks, “How much time did you spend cleaning up all those messes?”

“Almost three hours. I still have to tackle the laundry and clean upstairs,” I reply. He gives me a wary look. “Don’t worry, I’ve pushed that off until tomorrow,” I add.

“Thank goodness,” he exhales, visibly relieved. “I’m off the hook. Housekeeping isn’t exactly my thing,” he says, stashing his wallet on the upper shelf of the closet. “Good,” he claps, grinning. “You’ve relocated your mini-pantry from your closet,” he teases. I head to the kitchen, ignoring his jab, and he follows.

“Miles is thrilled we cracked this case so quickly. He didn’t see it coming,” Sam says.

“We got lucky, especially with Trudy and her team,” I reply.

“I agree,” Sam nods. “Miles mentioned we’re in for some surprises. What do you think it could be?”

“No clue, but he seemed genuinely pleased. Hopefully, it’s something good for us. A raise would be nice,” I suggest.

“Definitely,” he agrees, pausing before adding, “Curtis, I want you to know how thankful I am for the chance to work with you. It’s been a learning curve, and I’ve got immense respect for you, man.”

“Respect!” I snort. “Didn’t see much of that the other day.”

“When?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“The last time you were here, you pretty much forced me down to get the killer”s name,” I say.

“Really?” he frowns.

“Oh, someone’s having memory issues,” I scoff.

With mock seriousness, he says, “All I did was strangle you and threaten to kill you if you didn’t give up the name. Is that considered disrespectful?”

“Not at all,” I shrug, my tone serious. “I would’ve taken the secret to my grave if I hadn’t spilled that name that day.”

“Why did you hold back? You knew Delores was the killer, but you kept it under wraps. Why, Curtis? Why?”

“I was just messing with you, trying to provoke you,” I say, winking.

“In that case, you deserved that treat,” he grins.

I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and two martini glasses from the cabinet, setting them on the island. “Natasha’s coming back tomorrow,” I inform him, opening the fridge for a lime.

“For good?” he asks.

“For good,” I confirm, tossing the lime to him.

He catches it, twirling it between his palms. “So, the tiff between you two is resolved?”

“I guess so,” I reply.

“I’m happy for you,” he says, smiling. “Though I already knew. I was chatting with Natasha a few minutes ago.”

“Did you tell her you’re coming here?” I ask, a bit worried. “I told her I was going to bed.”

“No, I didn’t. I figured you hadn’t mentioned my stayover.”

“Thanks, man. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for,” I say, gently tapping his shoulder. After a moment, I admit, “I’m relieved she’s coming back.”

“What about Trudy?” he teases with a wink. “I thought you were smitten with her.”

“Just like you were with Stephanie,” I counter.

An awkward silence hangs between us. “Don’t blame me. I mean, come on, anyone with eyes would appreciate Stephanie’s beauty,” he defends.

“Yeah, for sure,” I retort with a playful eye roll. “That’s why you ended up having a one-night stand with her.”

“You knew about that?” he gasps, his face flushing.

“I know everything about Stephanie,” I smile, adding playfully, “And you.”

“Then why didn’t you grill me about it?”

“I figured you weren’t the type to have a killer instinct,” I say sincerely. “But feel free to share anything about that one-night stand; no pressure, only if you’re comfortable.”

“It happened in February before I met Ava,” Sam admits. “I met Stephanie at a bar and had no clue she was married with four kids or pregnant with another. One thing led to another, and it was done before I realized she was married. If only I hadn’t met her in the first place,” he says, regret tinging his voice.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I console him. “She tried to trick me too, but I was with Natasha then. I had a showdown with Theodore at the lavender farm in her presence, and she later asked me out for coffee to apologize. I declined,” I explain.

“No wonder she tried to lure us both, given what we know about her now,” he remarks. After a short pause, he adds, sounding slightly let down, “It seems like you did some digging on me.”

“Nah, I didn’t,” I say with a straight face. “Just curious…what were your daily chats with Natasha like last week? Were you gossiping about me?” I flash him a cheeky grin.

“You tracked my phone!” he gasps.

“I’m sorry. I had to,” I admit. “I might’ve snuck a peek at your password last time you were here and checked your phone after you passed out from a few drinks. You might want to change your password,” I suggest.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, clearly disappointed.

“I didn’t go through any messages between you and Ava,” I clarify. “Once I saw you had no recent contact with Stephanie, I stopped there.”

After a moment, he responds. “As long as it helped with the investigation, it’s fine. I should’ve told you everything, but I was too embarrassed.” He pauses briefly before steering the conversation away, “But that’s not what we were talking about. Let’s focus on Trudy and you.”

“I might have considered Trudy seriously,” I count on my fingers, “if she wasn’t happily married, wasn’t almost double my age, or didn’t have that motherly vibe.”

“Really fond of her, huh?” he asks.

“She’s joining us for lunch tomorrow. It’s our first time having a third person at our celebration. Doesn’t that sound special? Yeah, I like her. She was phenomenal in this case.”

“Slice the lime,” I instruct while mixing the drink with soda. He complies, fixing the lime on the rim. I slide a glass toward him and grab the other. Raising my glass, I propose a toast, “To the last day of freedom.” Sam rolls his eyes, sits across from me on the island, and raises his glass. As the glasses clink, my phone chirps from the countertop, displaying Natasha’s name.