With Rory and Snowflake tucked in for the night and a warm fire dancing in the fireplace, she spread the three notes on the coffee table in the living room. Unlike the other letters of the alphabet who presented no remarkable trait, the loop in the capital
P
and the bottom loop of the capital
B
showed the same curly twist just as the pen lifted from the paper. The writer might not have noticed his or her writing signature, but it was consistent in
Parker
,
Playing
, and
Pack
, and in
Be
,
Bad
,
Beware
, and
Brat
.
While Sergeant Reed hadn’t said anything to her, she’d caught the remark he’d made to Cooper when she’d given him the third note.
Teenagers having fun.
Reed’s face had been turned away from her, but the window had clearly shown his reflection. No one but Freddy had figured out the extent of her lip reading ability, and she intended to keep it that way. One of the many secrets that gave her an edge in a world not designed for people like her.
Teenagers had never ventured near the cabin, not even on the night that Gramp died, but arguing with Reed would lead her nowhere. Instead, with the help of her friend Madison, Hannah had set to prove him wrong.
Not that Madison knows what I’m doing with the kids’ letters.
One hundred and twenty-six students were currently registered from grade seven to twelve. Her friend taught all the English classes, interacting with every kid at some point during the week. After Hannah told Madison about a study she was conducting on how teenagers spent their down time in remote communities, her friend had agreed to ask her students to write a short essay titled “Bad Pastimes” for a random chance to win two movie tickets.
Hannah moved the three threatening notes aside and emptied the brown envelope on the middle of the table.
The titles on the essays gave her a large sample of
Ps
and
Bs
.
***
The four notes sent to Hannah Parker were scattered on the top of Avery’s desk at the detachment, challenging him to find their author.
#1- Wednesday night, December 4
th
:
I’m watching you, Parker. You don’t belong here.
Stalking was a crime, even if the culprit didn’t directly threaten her in that note.
#2- Thursday night, January 2
nd
:
Playing alone in the woods is dangerous, Deafy. Be careful. Very careful.
The offensive term suggested the culprit knew she was deaf, though it didn’t mean Hannah knew him or her personally.
#3- Monday night, January 27
th
:
Bad accidents happen in winter. Beware.
That one resonated like a threat.
#4- Friday night, February 21
st
:
I’m coming for you. Pack your Ugly Brat and get out while you can.
In the last note, he perceived a drastic escalation, as if the culprit snapped and had suddenly become eager to get rid of Hannah.
Avery still hadn’t received the report from the lab, but he didn’t hold much hope for prints or DNA traces, not when the other ones hadn’t shown anything. The four notes had been dropped roughly a month apart, like reminders. On each occasion, a snowstorm had blanketed the town during the night, burying any evidence. The dates presented no discernible pattern, but something caught Avery’s eye when he compared the notes to each other. A curl in the loops of the capital
Ps
and
Bs
suggested the same author had written them all.
I need a drink before I go cross-eyed.
He pulled a bottle of beer and a can of tomato juice from a grocery bag. Avery had sneaked the sack into the detachment in the late afternoon while Reed was on the phone in his office and Cooper was gone on patrol.
Three quarters tomato juice, one-quarter beer.
A much weaker concoction than what his late grandpa Stone had taught him. Keeping his wits outbalanced, the necessity to live up to his reputation.
Alone in the office, he enjoyed the invigorating taste while thinking about the intriguing recipient of the notes.
The clock on the wall ticked away. He needed to pay a visit to Hannah Parker—to see the cabin and the surrounding area with his own eyes, but he’d hoped to have a lead, so she wouldn’t think he’d dismissed the notes as…pranks. To realize he cared about not disappointing her disconcerted him.
Bloody hell, Stone. Get a grip.
The woman had no faith in the force, so he felt compelled to prove her wrong
. That’s it! Nothing more, nothing less.
His misplaced pride demanded that he redeem the Mounties’ reputation. It had nothing to do with Hannah Parker’s haunting blue eyes and everything to do with his sense of duty.
Yeah…his sense of duty.
The big hand of the clock crept toward twelve as the small hand edged one.
Time to go home.
Avery wiped the empty beer bottle clean before tossing it in the garbage can by the counter. As a seasoned officer, he knew better than to leave incriminating prints or DNA samples behind.
The mug from which he drank his Red Eye was coming home with him for a thorough wash. It was fine for the sergeant and Cooper to suspect he was drinking on the job as long as they couldn’t prove it.
He had no intention of getting fired over a drink.
The front door swung open, and the tall bald man that Avery had glimpsed behind the bar at the strip club during his morning visit, stepped into the lobby.
Wiping his feet on the mat, the visitor fidgeted with his car keys. “There’s been an accident at the club, Officer. You need to come right away.”
Chapter Eight
When nightmares started plaguing Rory after he lost his voice in November, he’d sought refuge in Hannah’s bed. Caught in his imaginary world, he’d kicked and pushed until his small body succumbed from exhaustion.
It’d taken five long weeks before Hannah had been able to coax him back into his own bed. Without Snowflake, she might never have succeeded.
From the day Hannah found her starving and injured near the creek on one of her treks with Rory, the dog had preferred to sleep in a basket in front of the fireplace. In December, it all changed. As if she could sense Rory’s anguish, the female terrier had jumped into his bed and waited, summoning him to join her. The next morning, Rory had woken up with a faint smile on his lips.
Nowadays, he smiled more, but he still hadn’t regained his voice. Maybe Freddy was right and the time had come to meet with a psychologist, but she feared her son might regress if he had to relive whatever caused the trauma in the first place.
What lousy reasoning for a social worker.
She’d so wanted a different life for him, a better life, not a repeat of her miserable childhood.
Reminiscing and dwelling on the past in the middle of the night served no purpose. Hannah returned the students’ answers to the envelope. The insight in their personal activities hadn’t revealed a culprit. No curly
Bs
or
Ps
. Now that she’d crossed off the teenage students she wasn’t sure where to look next.
The shadows of flames were no longer leaping on the walls of the cabin. She left the comfort of the couch and the warmth of her quilt to add another log to the bed of glowing embers. The dry bark combusted instantly. Memories of cracking and popping sounds resonated in her mind, only to fade under the weight of the responsibilities assailing her.
She went to check on Rory like she’d done every hour since she put him to bed. Around eleven, the fever had lessened its clutch. She ran her hand along his cherubic face and heaved a silent sigh of relief. Warm, but not burning. The fever hadn’t returned.
Sweet dreams, Munchkin.
Before heading to bed in the room next to Rory’s, she retraced her steps into the living room. The cabin only had one entry. Every time it opened and closed, cold air chilled the room. She’d locked the door after Snowflake went out around midnight, but she couldn’t recall if she’d lowered the latch.
As she approached the door, a small puddle shone on the dark wooden floor where a nick in the weather strip stopped it from flushing smoothly against the sill.
I need to fix that draft.
She wiped the wet smudge with her fingers and paused. The thick, warm fluid didn’t feel anything like water.
What on earth…
Her first thought was that the hinge had leaked oil on the floor. The fire not providing the best illumination, she turned on the ceiling light.
At the sight of blood coating her fingers and marring the floor, fear and disgust churned in her stomach.
***
Two spotlights, one attached on each side of the back door at The Polar Skin, shone a yellow hue on the disturbing crime scene.
A mixture of dread and disbelief coursed through Avery at the sight of Foxy’s body lying face down in the snow with an icicle poking from her neck. More shards of ice were scattered around her while others still hung from the ledge of the roof.
Avoiding the snow reddened by the blood dribbling from the wound, Avery crouched by her arm and checked her pulse. No heat or beat radiated from her wrist.
Cold and dead all right.
The air crackled, and an icicle grazed his thigh, shattering near his boot. Avery leapt to his feet and moved aside, away from the deadly overhead daggers.
“A patron has gone to fetch Dr. Fred.” The same bouncer Avery had met earlier knelt on one knee by Foxy’s head. “He should be on his way.”
“Good.” While it was too late for the doctor to intervene, Avery welcomed the coroner’s assistance. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Foxy went outside for a smoke break…it was around midnight. When she didn’t show up for her one o’clock performance, I went to check outside and found her lying in the snow. Dead. I called the operator right away and sent Baldy to the detachment to relay the message faster.”
Faster indeed.
The government was in the process of implementing a province-wide 911 service, but it hadn’t reached this neck of the woods yet. “Did you touch her?”
“No…yes…I checked for pulse…” His voice faltered, and fissures appeared in Brutus’ tough composure. “I didn’t let anyone come within three feet of her.”
Avery noted the timeline in his notebook along with a description of what she wore—and forgot to wear—in freezing temperatures.
“Let me get that straight. She went outside with nothing more than a bathrobe and a pair of high-heeled sandals, and you didn’t worry about her disappearance until an hour later?”
Brutus diverted his gaze toward the side of the building where a red sign banned smoking within three meters of the door. “She’s not supposed to smoke near the building, so sometimes she goes in the parking lot at the back and smokes with a patron…in his truck.”
And that patron undoubtedly pays a fortune for the cigarettes she offers him.
“Was she meeting a patron tonight for a smoke by any chance?”
“Not to my knowledge.” The bouncer looked Avery in the eyes. “Foxy was a sweet girl, Officer. All the guys liked her. To imply that someone might have done this to her is crazy.”
“I’m not implying anything.” That Foxy died the same night she’d talked to him didn’t sit well with Avery, but it could easily be a coincidence. “I’m just doing my job.”
And his job required that he ruled out every scenario before concluding that this was an accident.
Chapter Nine
Snowflake unrelentingly scratched at the door. The constant movement visible in the corner of her eye distracted Hannah from her work. This evaluation report was due in a few days. She needed to finish it.
“Do you need to go out or is there someone outside?” From the window, she couldn’t see if someone stood in front of the door any more than she could tell if a vehicle was parked on the other side of the shed.
When Gramp Pike built the cabin, he didn’t put much thought into the location of the window.
Considering Snowflake had already ventured outside twice this morning, Hannah suspected the presence of a visitor—an unwelcome visitor. She traded her laptop for the loaded rifle above the door, slid the latch, and unlocked the bolt.
Taking a few steps back, she aimed at the door and flicked the safety pin off. “Come in. Slowly.”
The door opened, and Snowflake jumped on the visitor.
“Easy, little…” The constable’s brown eyes widened as he looked in her direction and the words died on his lips.
To Hannah’s bewilderment, Snowflake ran back across the room, picked up her octopus fetch toy, and dropped it at Stone’s feet. In the best of time, the little female barely tolerated strangers. That she’d instantly taken a liking in the officer baffled Hannah.
Stone straightened up, and though exhaustion marred his face, he looked ready to pounce or draw his own gun.
It took a few seconds for Hannah to realize his lips had started moving again. “What did you say?”
“I asked that you put the rifle down.” Stone articulated clearly, and she imagined his voice carrying through the cabin, deep and rich. “I got shot once. If it’s the same to you, I’d rather not repeat the experience.”
Something in his demeanor caught her off-guard. Maybe it was the lack of arrogance. Whatever it was, it prompted her to lower the rifle. “Come in, please, and close the door. It’s cold out.”
Once he stepped away from the entrance, she returned the rifle to the ledge. When she looked at him again, he’d crouched down to play tug-a-war with Snowflake, the dog pulling on a purple tentacle while Stone held on to the head of the octopus.
“My son is sleeping. I would appreciate if you kept Snowflake from barking.”
“Snowflake? That’s a cute name. Does it carry a special meaning?”
As soon as his lips began moving, he’d tilted his head up. He’d probably been made aware of her disability, but she still appreciated the effort.