Bones Under the Ice

by Mary Ann Miller

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Jhonni Laurent is the first female sheriff of Field' s Crossing, Indiana— and now she has her first murder case

Two days after a blizzard hits Field' s Crossing, Indiana, Sheriff Jhonni Laurent discovers the frozen body of a high school senior under a fifteen-foot pile of snow and ice. Murder is rare in farm country, and this death marks the beginning of Jhonni' s first homicide case.

Just as the investigation gets underway, Jhonni' s opponent for sheriff from four years ago wages a bitter reelection battle to oust her. Then, Jhonni finds another body, and further complications arise when a century-old feud between two families reaches its breaking point.

Soon, a slew of newspaper articles causes the Indiana State Election Board to doubt her credibility. Jhonni must fight to maintain her reputation, keep the small farming community together, and find the murderer at large— all while demons from her own past threaten to crush her. Can she find the killer and mend her battered spirit before it' s too late?

Perfect for fans of J. A. Jance and C. J. Box

 

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Release date: March 21, 2023

Publisher: Oceanview Publishing

Print pages: 337

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

SHERIFF JHONNI LAURENT half-strode, half-slid down the huge pile of snow, her breath streaming out in a white plume. A February blizzard had blown through northern Indiana the night before. The gusting winds had now died, but the late morning temperature was plummeting. She glared at the pesky reporter perched at the bottom of the hill, pelting questions.

“What’s going on? What’d you find?” Ralph Howard shouted. “When can I take pictures? My deadline’s in two hours.”

“Your deadline is not my concern,” she snapped back. “The internet does not get to inform next-of-kin.”

“The kid who found the body saw a hand sticking up in the pile of snow,” Ralph Howard persisted. “Can you determine the sex or age of the victim? I need to get a few shots. I’ll hold off publication until this afternoon.”

“Absolutely not. I have no idea what’s underneath that mountain of snow or how long it’s going to take to extract the body. Get back and stay back.” Laurent pointed to the parking lot. She waited until he trudged back to his car, slammed the door, and crawled out of Webster Park’s snow-covered parking lot. As far as Laurent was concerned, freedom of the press didn’t start until after next-of-kin notification. And that was part of her job.

Tucking her long braid inside her fleece-lined jacket, Laurent climbed the pile of snow, knelt once again, the ice-crusted snow cracking under her knees. She was glad she had worn the extra layer of snow gear. She’d need the warmth and moisture protection today. Laurent leaned forward and peered at the slender frozen hand—wrist broken, fingertips resting on the icy ground. Squinting against the glare, she noted the hand was blue, not black, which meant the victim had died before severe frostbite set in. She had seen this before. Frozen extremities. Fingers, toes, top of the ears, tip of the nose—all blackened with frostbite. Old man Dawson lost both pinky fingers and the tip of his right ear rescuing a baby calf and its mother in the last blizzard.

Was there an entire body encased in the snow and ice? Laurent brushed away more snow until the frozen limb was exposed to the elbow. The victim wore a white, puffy coat and purple nail polish. Female.

Laurent swallowed and blinked away tears before they froze. In the small farming community of Field’s Crossing, Indiana, there wouldn’t be a lot of women wearing purple nail polish and certainly no one over the age of forty, possibly even thirty. So young. This was going to hurt. The family, the community, herself. And to make matters worse, today was February 2. A day she dreaded. A reminder of her failure. Exactly thirty years ago she’d given up her baby girl for adoption.

Laurent rose to her feet, head pounding. She had a nasty cold. Her head hurt and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. Every time she swallowed, shards of glass stabbed her in the throat. February in Indiana. Everyone had a cold.

She slid her sunglasses down from her forehead, stomped to her SUV, and grabbed the radio, one foot perched on the running board. “Dispatch. Get a hold of Caleb Martin. I don’t care what he’s doing or where he’s at. I want to talk to him. Send Greene and Dak out to Webster Park. Tell them to bring hand trowels, ice picks, buckets, something to kneel on, and the camera. Also, advise Henry Linville we’ll need to use his refrigerator box to thaw a body.”

“Ten-four, Sheriff.”

“Tell Ingram he’s going to have to handle everything else until we can extract the body. Call me immediately if anyone reports a missing person. Contact Starr at the village office and get her started on the welfare safety checks. Make a list of everyone who doesn’t answer. After Ingram deals with the fender benders, have him start knocking on doors. Greene and Dak should be able to give him a hand this afternoon.”

Laurent grabbed her silver Yeti from the cupholder, slammed the SUV door closed, and strode to the group of parents gathered next to an overturned picnic table. She estimated thirty children had been sle

dding in the park while ten adults huddled in a circle sipping coffee and chatting. She would need to be careful with what she said.

She took a sip of hot tea from the Yeti and set it in the snow next to her foot before pulling out her notebook. “Thanks for waiting, everyone. I need to get some information. First, who found the hand?”

“We did.” Two red-cheeked boys stepped out of the crowd, their mothers’ hands on their shoulders.

“I like your Spider-Man skullcap.” Laurent slid a gloved hand into her pocket and rocked back on her heels. “What’s your name?”

“Danny Gibson. My mom got it for me because I got all As and Bs on my report card.”

She lifted a hand for a high five and then nodded at the other boy hopping from foot to foot. “What’s your name? You have Batman snow pants. Awesome.”

“Tyler Hayes. Batman can beat Spider-Man every time.” He punched Danny in the arm.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“We were racing down the hill,” Danny said. “I got flipped over. I thought it was a rock, so we climbed back up to dig it out, except it wasn’t a rock.”

“I beat him down the hill,” Tyler said.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Doesn’t count.”

Laurent picked up her thermos and sipped her hot tea and tried to hide her smile. Boys. Always trying to one-up each other. “When did you get here?”

“We’d have been here earlier, but Mom said we had to wait for Field Street to be plowed all the way to the park,” Danny said.

Danny’s mom’s breath whooshed out in a long stream. “We got here around ten, and even then, none of the side streets were plowed. What’s going on? Do you know who it is?”

“I’ll know more in a few hours. Were you the first ones to arrive?”

Four heads nodded.

“Did you see anyone leaving the park when you got here?”

Four heads shook.

“How long is it going to take to dig it out? Is it just an arm or is there a whole body buried under all that snow?” Danny asked. “Can we watch?”

“Please, Sheriff. This is so sick,” Tyler said.

“I’m sorry, boys, but no one can watch. I’m not sure what we’re going to find.” Laurent raised her voice. “Folks, I want everyone to go home. No sledding at Webster Park until I say so. Build a snow fort in your front yard. Have a snowball fight with the neighbors. If I catch anyone out here, I’ll ask Principal Li to assign detention.”

Laurent finished her hot tea as kids and parents piled their sleds into minivans and pickup trucks, then she walked to the SUV, her feet squeaking on the snow, and slid behind the wheel. Her heart ached and her eyes blurred. She had been a deputy sheriff for fifteen years before being elected sheriff and had never recovered the body of a child. Grabbing a tissue, she blew her nose. Pulling nasal spray out of her pocket, she inhaled. As she waited for the cold medicine to take effect, she popped two sinus headache pills, smeared Vaseline under her sore nose, and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Tomorrow was her day off, and she’d been looking forward to staying in her flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and robe all day, binge-watching her favorite Netflix series, The Great British Baking Show. Not anymore.

Finally able to breathe through her nose, she pulled her headband down over her ears, flipped up the hood of her parka, and switched into snowmobiling gloves. Sliding out of the front seat, she popped open the trunk and grabbed four stakes and a hammer and paced off twenty steps in all directions around the frozen limb, her back to the hand. As she pounded the stakes into the frozen ground, ice chips flying, Laurent wondered how long the body had been encased in the snow and ice and how long it was going to take to dig out. What did the snow and cold do to the body? And what kind of parents didn’t know where their daughter was?

Giving the last stake one more whack, Laurent piled snow around the bottom of it and paused to catch her breath. The entire recovery area had been trampled by sleds and boots and debris. If there were any clues as to why the body was buried here, they’d be hidden under the snow or would have been carried farther down the hill by the sleds.

Hearing the crunch of tires on the snow, Laurent glanced toward the park entrance. Caleb Martin, Public Works Director, was heading toward her in his orange county pickup—plow in front.

“What can I help you with, Sheriff?” Caleb asked as he pulled alongside the SUV and rolled down his window.

“There’s a body frozen under the snow pile. I need to retrieve it and place it in storage and to collect anything that doesn’t belong with snow and ice. Can you bring me a sheet of plywood to slide her onto?”

“Her?” One of Caleb’s eyebrows rose. He left the engine running, climbed out, and slammed the door.

“Purple nail polish and a white coat,” Laurent said. “I don’t suppose you keep track of where all this snow comes from? Maybe you have a wager on who can build the highest pile of snow the fastest so we can tell who built this particular mountain.”

“Wish I would have thought of that. The boys would’ve bet on it. I’ve got all the plows and dump trucks working, and we’re moving snow as fast as we can. But this might help—we’ve only cleared Field Street and Leeson Street, so all the snow will be from those two areas.”

Laurent tipped her sunglasses down and stared at him, her five-foot, ten-inch frame dwarfed by Caleb’s over six-foot one. “That’s two miles of snow. Who’s driving right now? Can you walk me through the process?”

“The quad-county area has twenty-four snowplow drivers or dump truck drivers. Most of them are in Field’s Crossing, but there’s at least one plow and one truck in every county. I can’t be in four places the morning after a heavy snowfall,” Caleb said.

“I’ll have to talk to all of the drivers assigned to Field’s Crossing.”

The sheriff and the road commissioner stopped outside the staked-out area, the yellow tape fluttering in the slight wind, the arm and broken wrist exposed.

“How many years have the dump trucks been dumping the excess snow in the park so kids can sled down the hill?” Laurent said.

“We used to toboggan here. Who’d have thought that someday I’d be building this pile.”

Wind blew Laurent’s hood off, exposing her wind-burned cheeks to the cold air. She was glad her teary eyes were hidden under her sunglasses. The snow swirled at her feet as she stood shoulder to shoulder with Caleb in quiet silence, the enormity of the task in front of her temporarily robbing her of speech. She shivered. The high temp today was going to be thirty degrees, and with the wind feel lower. The cold rarely bothered her, but being outside for the next several hours was going to take all of her strength. Mentally and physically.

Caleb cleared his throat. “Do you want me to help dig her out? I’ve got shovels in the back of my truck.”

“Thanks for the offer, but Greene and Dak are on their way. I’d like to use the back of your truck to transport her to Henry Linville’s. He’s agreed to store the body until it thaws.”

“That old hearse shouldn’t be on the roads. Let me empty out the back.” Caleb walked to his truck. “Before I go, I’ll plow out the parking lot, the entrance, and one lane on Webster Street. Back in an hour.”

“I know today’s going to be a busy one for you. When you get a minute, would you email

 that list to me?”

“Do you recognize her?” Laurent asked.

Deputies Mike Greene and Dak Aikens joined Laurent and the three officers knelt on both sides of the body, sifting snow handful by handful. After Caleb Martin left, she’d given herself a mental shake and banished all thoughts of what lay ahead. Right now, she needed to focus on retrieving the body without further damage and making sure she and her deputies collected any potential evidence. She was assuming this was an accident, but if it wasn’t … She shook her head. Thinking negative thoughts got her nowhere. There was nothing to indicate this wasn’t an accident—some kind of terrible, awful accident.o 

“No. I don’t know who she is.” Dak rose to his feet, snapped more pictures, and then ducked outside the yellow tape, aiming for a wider angle. “If we did, it would be easier to figure out why she’s here. There are no

other vehicles in the parking lot. Did she walk or was she dropped off?”

“I’m betting she’s a townie,” Greene said.

Laurent shifted six inches to the right. “You’re probably right. God, this ground is cold. Knee pads would be nice.”

Deputy Mike Greene was a few years older than Laurent and had been with the sheriff’s office for thirty years. She barely beat him four years ago in the election for sheriff, and he made no attempt to hide his bitterness. Now he was running against her again. The election was a month away, and the stress brought on by the thought of another campaign battle tightened her shoulder blades and threatened a back spasm. She sat back on her heels and rolled her shoulders, face tilted to the weak morning sun.

“Do you think we can get a print off the hand?” Dak asked.

“If we try to move the fingers, they’ll snap like pretzel sticks. We’ll have to wait until she thaws.” Laurent brushed more snow off the victim’s face. “How long has she been here, do you think? She’s frozen solid and partially attached to the ice on the ground. This didn’t happen this morning. I think she’s been here for at least a day, maybe two. I wonder if Caleb did any plowing on Wednesday night before the blizzard. Was she scooped up by one of the snowplows and dumped in the park? Truckload after truckload of snow piling on top of her? Or was she already here, walking through the park, and somehow got buried under a snow drift?”

“I don’t know her, but teenagers are dumb enough to go out in a blizzard.” Deputy Mike Greene stood and kicked a pile of snow, throwing up a cloud of white. His corn-colored hair stuck straight out from under his headband. “Why in the hell can’t people die when it’s warm and sunny? Winter in Indiana sucks.”

“Farm kids are smarter than that and their parents would’ve had them home and battening down the hatches, but I’m with you. I think she’s from town.” Dak stood outside the yellow tape. “Done with that round of pictures. Now what?”

The three officers had chipped around the buried victim until a large chunk of snow and ice with the entire body embedded broke loose. The young girl lay with her knees tucked under her chin, right hand propped up, the broken wrist stiff. Tiny ice crystals had formed in the corners of her eyes, and her eyelashes were frozen to her cheeks. The long bangs were brittle. A pink skullcap was perched on the back of her head—part of it frozen into the ice. A scarf was wrapped around her neck, a few strands of hair caught in the teeth of the coat zipper, and her ripped blue jeans were tucked into ankle-high Rockport boots, the laces loosened.

“She looks like she’s sleeping,” Laurent said. “Like she had no idea what was happening.”

“How can you fall asleep outside when there’s a blizzard raging?” Greene snorted.

“Sleeping pills.”

“Suicide?” Dak’s large gloved hands balled up.

“Please, dear God, no.” Laurent scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a snowball, and hurled it. “We’re not jumping to any conclusions. First, we need to find out who she is. I’m going to search for

 a cell phone. It may be somewhere in the snow, but let’s hope it’s in her pocket.”

Laurent slid her hand into the pocket of the white coat. No phone. She patted the pant leg of the torn jeans. No phone. She brushed a strand of the victim’s hair, the brittle pink breaking into several pieces. She held up a hand. “I’m waiting. I don’t want to break any bones or snap off any more hair searching for a cell phone that may or may not be on her person. We’ve done everything we can for now.” She pushed to her feet, the warmth of her breath creating a cloud of white in the frigid air.

“I hate to state the obvious, but she’s got no signs of frostbite,” Dak said. “Even through the camera lens, I didn’t see any. But, look at this.” He handed the camera to Laurent.

She thumbed through several shots, raised both eyebrows at the observant deputy, and crossed over to the girl’s head. Bending over, she peered closely at the side of the head. “Shit. I see what you mean.” She handed the camera back to Dak. “The autopsy will determine the cause of death. For now, we’re going to treat this as an unfortunate accident. We’re not going to speculate and rile up the community with talk of suicide or murder. That round indentation in the side of her head could be anything.”

“You think she was killed?” Greene said. “That’s crazy. She’s a stupid high school girl who got caught where she shouldn’t be and paid the price. For all we know, that’s a birth defect.” The belligerent deputy stamped his feet and muttered under his breath.

Laurent glared at her deputy. “Let Dr. Creighton do his job. Keep your opinion to yourself until he can perform the autopsy.”

“How are we going to move the body?” Dak asked.

“Caleb Martin’s bringing a sheet of plywood. We’ll slide her on and he’ll drive her to Henry Linville’s to thaw.” A horn sounded from the park entrance, and Laurent waved the road commissioner over. “Here he is now.”

Caleb rolled down the window. “Where do you want the plywood?”

“By her feet. If we lift the slab an inch or so, we can slide her onto the plywood. We shouldn’t break anything.” She massaged her knees.

“Have you been kneeling in the snow since I left?” Caleb asked. “That was two hours ago.”

“Getting old is a bitch. My knees are screaming at me. And I stopped feeling my toes an hour ago.” She slid her hands under the frozen body. “Greene and Caleb, take the bottom. Dak, you and I are going to lift the top.”

Caleb knelt next to Laurent. “No. No. No. I can’t do this.”

“Don’t look at her.” Laurent glanced at him.

Under his wind-burned cheeks, Caleb’s face was white, his breathing rapid.

“You don’t understand. I know her. It’s Stephanie Gattison. My brother’s girlfriend.” He scrambled backward like a crab.

“Easy, Caleb.” Laurent crouched next to him, handing him a tissue, putting a gloved hand on his back.

“Take your time.”

Caleb blew his nose and wiped both eyes. Stuffing the used Kleenex in his pocket, he shoved to his feet and stumbled.

Dak caught him. “ E

asy, big guy. Hold on to me. Let’s go sit in the sheriff’s car.”

“Let me crank up the heat.” Laurent slid behind the wheel of her police SUV, started it, and clicked the heat on high.

Caleb walked unsteadily to the SUV and slid onto the back seat. “When I was here before,” he began, “all I saw was a hand. I didn’t know it was Stephanie.”

Laurent handed him a bottle of water.

“I think Stephanie really liked Dylan.”

“You’re positive it’s her?” Laurent asked. “Do you know her parents? Where they live?”

“Yes, it’s her. Owen and Theresa. Out on Bees Creek.”

Laurent stood next to the open rear passenger door. “Caleb, please don’t talk to anyone until after I inform next-of-kin. I don’t want Owen and Theresa Gattison to find out their daughter is dead through social media. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who should I call to drive your truck?”

“John Cook.”

“Give me the keys to your pickup.” Laurent slid the truck keys into her pant leg pocket, sealing the Velcro. “After John drives the body over to Linville’s Funeral Home, I’ll drop you off at your office. Don’t call your brother until I’ve talked to him.”

***

After John Cook inched out of Webster Park with the frozen body strapped to a sheet of plywood in the bed of the orange county pickup, Laurent dismissed Dak and Greene, climbed into the SUV, and directed the heating vents onto her knees. Pulling off her headband and gloves, she wiped her nose with a tissue.

“How long have you known Stephanie?” She twisted in the front seat to face Caleb.

“Stephanie and Dylan have been dating for a year now. Every month she changed that streak of color in her hair. This month it was pink. And her nail polish. She liked bright colors.” Caleb’s eyes were closed, his hands bunched into fists.

Laurent put the SUV in gear and eased onto Webster Street. “I’m going to drop you off at your office. I’ll radio your secretary when I leave the Gattisons. Until then, please don’t say anything. You know how gossip spreads in this town.”

“I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Can you plow out Bees Creek Road as far as the Gattison driveway?” Laurent glanced in her rearview mirror. “I’m sorry. I know this has been a shock for you. Why don’t you go home? I’ll have someone else plow out Bees Creek.”

“Call John Cook. He’s the closest plow.” Caleb leaned his head against the back of the seat. “It’s going to be hell at home.”

A few minutes later, Laurent watched as Caleb climbed out of the SUV and stumbled up the stairs to the township office. She popped a Tums, swung behind the county offices, and headed toward Bees Creek Road, her right hand on the bottom of the steering wheel, the knuckles on her left hand knocking on the driver’s-side window, following the slow-moving plow.

Twice in her career, she’d had to inform next-of-kin. Both of the deceased had been elderly and the death somewhat of a relief, mixed with sorrow. Today was different. A young woman had died. Laurent’s throat swelled as she cranked the heat up higher. Between being outside in the bitter weather for the last few hours, finding a deceased young female, and the fact it was thirty years ago today she lost her daughter to adoption, Laurent was chilled to the bone, inside and out. She knew a lot of the farmers in the quad-county area but didn’t know Owen or Theresa Gattison. Was Stephanie an only child? The emptiness of losing a child. The snow-covered road blurred in front of her, and she dabbed at her eyes. She had a job to do.

CHAPTER TWO

“SHERIFF, COME IN. Get out of that miserable cold.” Theresa Gattison held the mudroom door open, one aged-spotted hand holding a dish towel, the other hand fighting the outside wind. “You wouldn’t know where Stephanie is? We’ve been trying to contact her all morning. You know how bad cell phone coverage is after a snowstorm. It’s nonexistent. Let me get Owen. Hang your coat in the mudroom. Would you like some coffee?”

Laurent pulled off her gloves, palms sweaty, heart thudding against her police vest, mouth dry. “No coffee, thank you. May I sit down?”

The farmhouse kitchen was quiet, except for the scrape of chairs on the linoleum floor and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

Laurent waited until Owen sat down and stirred cream into his coffee. Gray stubble covered both of his cheeks and his chin, and deep forehead wrinkles stretched from the top of his bushy eyebrows to his receding hairline.

“When did you last hear from your daughter?”

“Wednesday. Have you seen her?” Theresa stood behind her husband’s chair.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but I found your daughter this morning in Webster Park. She was buried under a pile of snow, frozen to death.”

Theresa clutched the back of the kitchen chair, one hand covering her mouth, tears forming. “How do you know it’s her?” she managed.

“Caleb Martin identified her.”

Theresa grabbed the chair next to Owen and slumped into it. “Nooooo!” Her breath came out in a half-scream as her husband turned and grasped her hands.

“Stephanie’s dead?” Owen asked. “You’re saying Stephanie is dead?”

Laurent nodded. “It took us over two hours to chip away the ice and snow. That’s when Caleb identified her.”

Theresa leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. “Where’s my baby girl?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Where’s Stephanie? What happened?”

“Henry Linville’s.”

Tears streamed down Theresa’s splotchy face, the end of her nose turning a dull red. Her lips pressed together, a visible shudder running through her thin body.

Owen sat next to his shaking wife as his gaze made contact with Laurent. Tears ran down his face as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders, tucked her head under his chin, and grasped her left hand, intertwining their fingers.

Laurent stared at her feet and picked a nonexistent strand of hair off her pants. There was nothing she could say to ease the pain and raw emotion. Nothing. So, she waited and listened to the sounds of someone else’s grief. To tell a mother and father their child was dead …

She twisted her small pearl earring. She retied her boots. Finally, after the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour and then the half hour, Laurent rose. “Take all the time you need. I have a few questions, but I can come back.”

“Wait.” Owen cleared his throat and wiped both eyes with the heels of his hands. “I told her to come straight home. She knew there was a blizzard on the way. Why’d she go to the park?”

“All I can tell you so far is that a couple of kids sledding at Webster Park found her under a pile of snow this morning around eleven. It took my deputies and myself a few hours to completely clear the snow off. Do you think you can answer a few questions?” Laurent asked.

Both Gattisons nodded. Theresa wiped her face on her sleeve, grabbed a bottle of all-purpose cleaner from under the kitchen sink, and squirted a clean cooktop, tears dripping and mingling with the disinfectant.

“What can you tell me about Stephanie? What kind of vehicle did she drive?”

“An old pickup. Looking at it, you’d feel like you needed a tetanus shot.” As Theresa scrubbed furiously, Owen settled in to talk, a box of Kleenex on the table in front of him, his weathered hands clasped together.

“Where’s the pickup now?”

“It’s not at the park?”

Laurent shook her head. And sneezed.

“It could be at the water tower. Stephanie and Dylan often met there after school.”

“I’ll drive out and check. What’s the license plate?” Laurent jotted down the number. “Is there any other place the truck might be?”

“You can check the township office where Caleb works,” Owen said. “Sometimes she met Dylan there after work.”

“You might check Caleb’s house, too,” Theresa said. “And the high school.” She finished cleaning the already spotless cooktop and removed another bottle. Stainless-steel cleaner. She squirted the refrigerator, both hands shaking.

“What time did she usually get home?” Laurent wiped her nose with a tissue.

“Six. She was always in time to help with dinner.”

“When she didn’t come home on Wednesday after school, what did you think?”

“We assumed she was riding out the storm in town with either Claire Cahill or with Dylan at Caleb’s office or house,” Theresa said.

“Who’s Claire?”

“Stephanie’s best friend.”

“You didn’t call?”

“We lost cell phone coverage and the landline went out when the wind hit,” Owen said. “Around four on Wednesday afternoon. The weather hits us out here on the west fifteen minutes earlier than the rest of town. By the time we realized we’d lost coverage, we couldn’t reach her.”

“So, your last contact with her was Wednesday morning. Did she say anything about her after-school plans?”

“She was supposed to work at the village offices that afternoon,” Theresa said. “I called Starr Walters and asked her to send Stephanie home early, and she said she would. She was closing the village office at four due to the weather.”

“What were her hours there?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons three until five,” Owen said. “Scanning some old files. She said it was the most boring job in the world. No wonder they gave it to a teenager. A first grader could have done it.” His voice cracked, and he laid his head on his arms.

Theresa stepped behind her husband and rubbed his shaking shoulders. “Stephanie worked hard at everything. She was up at five feeding the chickens, collecting eggs, and grabbing breakfast before she drove to school

. She worked at Beaumon’s as a cashier all day Saturday and Sunday. She didn’t spend a lot of time with her friends.”

“Social media has changed relationships. Being in the actual presence of friends isn’t necessary these days. I’m not a fan.” Laurent picked up her gloves and headband and cleared her throat. “The first thing I’m going to do is locate her vehicle. I’m so sorry. Stephanie is with Henry Linville now, and he’ll be taking care of her for a few days. He’s a good man to talk to.”

Quietly closing the mudroom door behind her and stepping into the cold evening, Laurent caught the burst of another sob from the farmhouse kitchen and glanced back through a window. Theresa sat on her husband’s lap, the couple’s arms wrapped tightly around each other, both crying, rocking back and forth. Her throat tightened as she bent into the wind and trudged to her SUV.

As she crept out of the Gattison farm yard, Laurent drove with her elbows, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. Parking the SUV at the end of the Gattison driveway, she took another round of cold medicine while waiting for the defroster to clear the windshield. Theresa and Owen wouldn’t sleep well tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever. In her mind’s eye, Stephanie’s pale hand waved at her. Sleeping was going to be difficult for her, too, and might be even harder after she interviewed Dylan Martin. 

CHAPTER THREE

“I DIDN’T KILL her,” Dylan Martin said.

“Why don’t we all take a minute and calm down. No one is accusing you of doing anything wrong.” Laurent’s throat was on fire, and she popped a cold lozenge before pulling out a kitchen chair.

“Don’t lie to me.” Emmit Martin chewed his tobacco furiously, leaned over the kitchen sink, and spat, the yellowish-brown spittle disappearing down the drain.

Dylan sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, tears leaking out of his red eyes while Caleb hovered in the doorway with their mother, Jane.

The Martin farmhouse kitchen was warm, the door to the mudroom shut, keeping out the cold night air. Light spilled in from the hallway and family room, where Laurent saw an old German shepherd curled up in the corner of the couch, brown eyes watchful.

“Let’s review your last encounter with Stephanie. When was your last contact with her?”

“She texted me during lunch on Wednesday.” Dylan shifted his chair to sit across the table from Laurent. He picked at a scab on the back of his hand.

“May I read it?” Laurent jotted Dylan’s cell phone number and Stephanie’s number into her notebook. “Meet me at the water tower right after school,” the text read.

“When cell phone coverage is restored, will you forward that text to me?”

Dylan nodded. His white face had lost its streakiness, and his breathing was steadier, but his shoulders were hunched, his chin trembling.

“You both knew there was a blizzard in the forecast,” Laurent said. “What was so important it couldn’t wait until after the storm?”

“She was accepted to Indiana University and got a scholarship.”

“That’s good news, but let me warn you—omitting information is the same as lying in the eyes of the police.”

Dylan’s gaze dropped to the kitchen floor.

Emmit leaned against the kitchen sink, arms folded across his chest.

“She was pregnant,” Dylan said.

“I assume you’re the father,” Laurent said.

“As far as I know.”

“Stephanie had another boyfriend?” Laurent asked.

“No.”

“Was she cheating on you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you think that she may have been sleeping with someone else?” Laurent asked.

“She accused me of sleeping with Brittany; and so I accused her of hooking up with her old boyfriend.”

“Did you sleep with Brittany?”

“Yes,” Dylan whispered. A tear trickled down the side of his nose, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. “But I didn’t kill Steph.”

“Brittany’s last name and phone number?”

“Hansen.” Laurent waited as Dylan scrolled through his phone.

“317-123-4567.”

Laurent flipped to a new page in her notebook. “Before we make a timeline for Wednesday, let me make note of who’s here. Emmit and Jane Martin, Caleb Martin, Dylan Martin, and myself. Now, Dylan, start with your route to the water tower.”

“Eighth period ends at two thirty-five,” Dylan said. “I went to my locker, got my backpack, and left. I turned out of the school parking lot, right on Field Street, and left on the gravel road. There’s only one road to the water tower.”

“You didn’t stop anyw

here for food? Something to drink?”

“I went through the McDonald’s drive-thru,” he said. “Big Mac, large fries, large Coke.”

“Go on,” Laurent prodded.

“I ate in the car. I got there and parked and waited.”

“You were the first one to arrive? What time did you get there?”

“Three. I was a little surprised she wasn’t there,” he said. “She’s got a lead foot, and she was driving on a ticket.”

“Was there anyone else at the water tower?”

Dylan shook his head.

“Did you pass anyone on the gravel road?”

“No.”

“What time did Stephanie arrive?” Laurent leaned back in the kitchen chair. With Emmit scowling at his son, there would be no lying from Dylan. She didn’t know what would happen after she left.

“I don’t know. Long enough for me to finish eating. Little after three. I saw her turn onto the gravel road, snow flying behind her. She didn’t know how to go slow.” Dylan’s hands dangled off the end of the armrests, his gaze on the floor.

“Then what happened?”

“We got out of our trucks.”

“She didn’t get in your truck? You didn’t get in her truck?”

“I know the weather sucked,” he said, “but her truck was old and smelly and didn’t have any heat, and she hated McDonald’s. Called them the artery-clogging corporation. She thought there was a conspiracy between McDonald’s and the AMA. Get people to eat the crappiest food and twenty years from now there’ll be a rash of heart disease and diabetes and God knows what else.”

“A conspiracy between the AMA and McDonald’s—interesting theory,” Laurent said. “So, the two of you are standing in the snow and cold and wind. Then what?”

“She told me she was pregnant.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I swore. I threw a few snowballs. Kicked the tires on my Jeep. Pounded the hood.”

“Did you hit her?”

“No. No. No. I’d never hit a girl. I accused her of trying to trap me into marriage. She said she didn’t need an asshole for a husband.” Dylan raised his head, his sad eyes looking at Laurent. “I’m not an asshole.”

“But you were angry with her.”

“She said she screwed up and forgot to take her pill and missed a day.”

“Then what happened?”

“I suggested she go to a clinic and get it taken care of, and then she threw a snowball at me and screamed what kind of bastard am I. I’m not a b

astard. I’m eighteen, and I don’t want to get married and have a kid and be a farmer.” Tears flowed down both sides of Dylan’s face as he laid his head in his arms on the kitchen table and cried.

In her peripheral vision, Laurent saw the frown on Emmit’s forehead deepen and his hands clench.

Does Dylan realize he just stabbed his father in the heart? “Who left first?”

“I did.”

“Was she in her pickup when you left?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t wait for Stephanie to leave, even though you knew the weather was getting bad?”

“I was pissed. You have no idea how much I wish I’d waited. She might still be alive and I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

“Selfishness always comes back to bite you,” Emmit snapped.

“Where’d you go after you left the water tower?” Laurent asked.

“My brother’s office,” Dylan said. “I knew he’d hole up there, and I didn’t want to get stuck at the farm with no TV or cell phone. The power always comes on faster in town.”

“What route did you take to Caleb’s office?”

“Same, except I turned right on Field Street. That’s when I passed Theo. He clipped my side mirror. It should be in the middle of the intersection.” Dylan sat up straight, his eyes wide. “Ask him. He’ll know it was me.”

“Theo who?”

“Theo Tillman. He works at Beaumon’s Hardware and plows snow for Caleb. Him and his old man live in that run-down piece of shit house over on East Road.”

“What time did you arrive at Caleb’s office?”

“Around four thirty.”

“Who was there?” Laurent asked.

“Caleb. Maggie, his secretary, was getting ready to leave.”

“What did you and your brother talk about?”

“His obsession with the Weather Channel. My obsession with ESPN. School.” Dylan rolled his eyes. “The stuff brothers talk about.”

“Did you tell him about your conversation with Stephanie?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Am I sure I’m the father. Call Mom. Tell her you’re staying with me. Dad’s going to kill you. All that.”

“I notice you’re still alive. Then what?”

“I put in a couple of frozen pizzas. We drank a few beers. Watched TV. Caleb talked to Uncle Vern. Twice. We lost power. Waited for the generator to kick in. Went to bed.”

“What did your uncle want?” Laurent tugged at the collar of her turtleneck. She

 was sweating. Am I getting a fever?

“Said he saw lights at the water tower. Must have been Theo’s headlights.”

“Why do you think that?”

“That’s where he smokes his weed. He’s a pothead.”

“Both Theo and Stephanie worked at Beaumon’s. Did they get along?”

“Theo was pissed at Stephanie because she caught him stealing money at Beaumon’s and reported it.” Dylan’s eyebrows raised. “I bet he killed Steph.”

Emmit pushed away from the sink. “If that pothead is responsible for this …” His fists clenched and unclenched.

Jane gasped. “Emmit, don’t get started on that old feud.”

“I’m going to fire his ass,” Caleb snapped.

Laurent held up a hand. “You think Theo killed your girlfriend because she caught him stealing money from the hardware store?”

Dylan shoved to his feet. “I don’t know. I’m just saying he’s an idiot. Maybe something snapped in that little pea brain of his. Maybe he’s lost too many brain cells.”

“You’ve never smoked?” Laurent asked.

“Caleb’s got asthma and allergies; smoke of any kind sets him off. Sometimes he has to go to the ER for a breathing treatment. I’ve seen him struggle to breathe. I wouldn’t do that to him. No one in the family would.” Dylan gripped the back of a kitchen chair. “Stephanie was alive when I left. I swear. Ask Theo if he can swear she was alive when he left.”

Laurent closed her notebook. Darkness had blanketed the countryside before she arrived at the Martin farm, and it was now after eleven at night. She was exhausted. It was clear to her the entire Martin family was in a state of shock and anger and denial. She pushed her chair back and rose, every bone in her fifty-two-year-old body aching.

“What happens next?” Emmit asked. “Are you going to arrest Dylan?”

“I’m not going to arrest Dylan.” She smiled wearily as she glanced at the teenage boy.

Dylan slid into a chair as Jane and Caleb sagged against the hallway doorframe.

Emmit cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I have to verify Dylan’s story so I may have more questions for you later, but we’re done for now.” She shrugged into her jacket and slipped her notebook and pen into a pocket.

“How are Owen and Theresa?” The dish towel in Jane’s hands was twisted into a knot and her thin shoulders were bowed.

Emmit cleared his 

throat. “Me and Owen been best friends since kindergarten. I hate to think what he’s going through.”

“You know them better than I do, but I doubt they’ll sleep much tonight. If you can get through, I think a phone call would be appreciated.”