Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
The truck door slams and Sarah begins the slow trek up the path, the paper bag with Mrs. Powell’s order in her arms.
“Here, let’s swap.” I hand the shovel to Carson and take the bucket.
“Why isn’t the boy at school?” Mrs. Powell asks, monitoring me as I salt the area around her door.
“Good question. Carson, why aren’t you at school?”
“Because I threw a snowball at someone and got suspended,” he admits, haphazardly pushing the shovel around—part clearing, part playing with the snow.
At least he’s honest.
“Mrs. Powell! How are you?” Sarah greets with a smile, her nose and cheeks red from the cold despite coming from the toasty truck. “Thank you,” Sarah whispers, patting my shoulder before continuing to the steps. “You really should find someone to help you stay on top of this. They’re calling for a snowy season.”
“My son’ll be up soon enough.” Mrs. Powell unlocks the storm door and opens it just enough to receive the bag, her demeanor shifting to a kindlier one. “I don’t go out much, so I can wait.”
“Yes, but if Logan hadn’t offered to help me, I might not have been able to make this delivery. He’s been shoveling paths all morning.”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes dart to me again and, after a delay, she offers a small nod of acknowledgement. Nothing more.
A clatter sounds behind us as Carson loses his grip of the shovel’s handle and it drops to the cleared path. He presses the scoop with his boot, testing his weight to make the handle rise off the ground.
I’m ready to get home. “I put a lot of salt down, so it should be safe enough for you to walk on.” Until it snows again.
“I’m sure my son will be here soon, but … thank you,” she offers after a delay. “When will you have your Christmas baking in?” she asks Sarah. “I look forward to those mincemeat tarts every year.”
Sarah smiles. “Within the next week. We’re just finalizing—”
A loud crunch sounds, followed by a thunk and then a howl of pain.
Chapter 29
Emery
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee and four words from finishing my crossword puzzle when Isla saunters into the kitchen, puffy eyed. “I thought you were sleeping in today.” We didn’t make it home from last night’s practice until after midnight. She had already harangued Logan into mucking Biscuit’s stall for her, so she didn’t have to get up.
“That was the plan.” She reaches for her mug. “I woke up at six and couldn’t fall back asleep.”
“Your internal clock is set.” I was never one to sleep in late either. Not like Logan. As teenagers, I’d wait hours for him to roll out of his bed.
I say this and yet I know that’s likely not what’s interrupting her sleep. At least it’s not only that. It’s also thoughts of her best friend and what might have happened to her. It’s misplaced guilt, and worry, and sadness. I know because I lived through this once, many years ago. The stories might be different, but the fallout is the same. In every version, loved ones suffer.
I’ve heard Isla up at night, rifling through the fridge, though there are never any plates or crumbs the next morning, no evidence that she’s eaten. Isla’s always been lean and muscular, but the other day I noticed a shirt that was fitted now seems loose.
“Whatever. I have to do a math assignment and then I have a short shift at the market, and then Dad’s coming to get me to leave for hockey. When are we going to Sullivan’s for our tree?”
It takes me a beat to follow her stream of thought as it skips along like a flat stone over water, only to veer suddenly. “Do we really need one this year?” It’s not much of an event with my parents gone and it’s so much work, driving out to the tree farm—owned by Logan’s Aunt Rhonda and Uncle Bobby—strapping it onto the roof, bringing it home and decorating it, only to have it sit in a silent house.
Isla stops mid-pour to stare at me in horror.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “How about next weekend? That way it’ll be fresh for Christmas.”
She returns to filling her mug, her momentary panic fading. “Are you working that day?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” I’ve actually booked time off this year. The last few Christmas Days, I’ve covered shifts to give my officers time off with their young kids. Isla always spends the day at Dillon’s with Donna’s overflowing family, before we head next door and join the fray for dinner.
This year, though, with Logan home and Holly still missing …
Terry and Schmidt didn’t get far with Axel Murphy. CCTV footage from a bank down the street from his place showed his tow truck passing by at around 12:15 a.m., presumably after dropping Hank off at home. Cameras didn’t pick up the truck passing by again until nine the next morning, and they didn’t see his black Ford either. It doesn’t mean he couldn’t have left his place again, but he would have had to take a long detour to get back to the Bale House.