Chapter 6
Six
T he state’s attorney’s office was uncharacteristically quiet this morning. With the holiday lull, the usual cacophony of ringing phones and bustling assistants had died down, leaving Noah and Alex to focus on their respective caseloads. Papers were neatly stacked across their desks, punctuated by the occasional scratching of pens or the soft tap of a keyboard.
“Peace and quiet,” Alex muttered with a grin, flipping through a file. “Feels almost unnatural, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t jinx it,” Noah replied dryly, his eyes scanning a deposition. “The boss could walk in any minute and ruin everything.”
They worked in companionable silence until lunch arrived, brought in by a cheerful young delivery woman. “Here you go, gentlemen,” she said, handing over the brown paper bags at the security desk.
“Thanks,” Noah said warmly, offering her a generous tip. Alex followed suit, flashing her a charming smile as he handed over a few extra bills.
“You two are way too nice,” she said with a laugh, tucking the money into her pocket. “Happy holidays!”
“Happy holidays,” they both echoed before returning to their desks two floors up.
In the breakroom, as they unwrapped their sandwiches, Alex pulled out his phone. Noah watched as his friend’s expression softened immediately, his voice dropping to that familiar tone he always used when talking to Charlotte.
“No news is good news,” Alex said, his words accompanied by the faint sound of Charlotte’s voice on the other end. “I’m sure Ruth made it home okay.”
There was a pause, and then Alex let out an exasperated sigh. “No, Charlotte, she won’t think you’re overbearing if you call her. But fine, fine. I’ll call her.”
He hung up, shaking his head with a chuckle. “She’s worried,” he explained to Noah, rolling his eyes. “Wants to make sure Ruth’s okay but doesn’t want to ‘smother’ her.”
Noah smirked, leaning back in his chair. “So are you going to call her?”
Alex pointed a finger at him. “You know what? Here’s an idea: why don’t you call her?”
Noah raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, what’s her number?”
Grinning, Alex rattled it off, clearly amused as Noah pulled out his phone and dialed.
Ruth answered on the second ring, her voice soft and slightly husky, carrying a warmth that sent an unexpected jolt through Noah.
“Hi, Ruth, it’s Noah Kandor,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, hi, Noah,” she replied, her tone filled with caution. “Did something happen to my mom? Or Alex?”
“Oh gosh, no. I didn’t mean to rattle you,” he explained, a chuckle escaping as he recounted Charlotte’s insistence and Alex’s exasperation. “So, I figured I’d save everyone some trouble and just call you myself.”
Ruth laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Well, thanks for checking in. I had planned to call her but dozed off when I got in. I’ll do that after I get off with you. I’m fine—safe and sound at home.”
Noah hesitated for a moment before saying, “I just wanted to say I really enjoyed spending Christmas with you and your family. You all made me feel welcome.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Ruth replied, her voice softer. “I’m glad you came, Noah. It was nice having you there.”
They lingered in the conversation for a moment, exchanging small talk about the weather, her drive back to Pierre, and how the snow was piling up outside. Noah found himself smiling more than he had in days, drawn in by her easy laughter and the quiet warmth of her voice.
“Anyway,” he said eventually, “I should let you go. But if you need anything—or if your mom keeps insisting—I’m just a call away.”
“Thanks, Noah,” she said, her tone genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
They ended the call, and Noah set his phone down, still smiling.
Alex raised an eyebrow, his grin teasing. “Good talk?”
Noah shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. She’s fine. She’s going to call Charlotte.” But as he turned back to his work, his mind lingered on Ruth’s voice and the way it made him feel.
Noah leaned back in his chair, his fingers resting on the edges of the file that had been haunting him for weeks. Robert Hilton. The name was scrawled in bold letters across the tab, a stark reminder of the tangled web of deceit, destruction, and death tied to the case. His gut churned as he thought about the dumpsite where the remains were discovered, the gruesome images etched in his mind.
As if on cue, his phone vibrated against the desk. He snatched it up, answering briskly, “Kandor.”
The voice on the other end was clinical and serious. Noah’s posture stiffened, his face draining of color as he listened. “Male, B-negative,” the lab tech confirmed.
Noah pressed his lips into a thin line. “When will you have the final confirmation?”
There was a pause, the sound of machines audible through the receiver. “At least a week,” the tech replied. “We’ve got twenty-three fragments total. Each one is being tested, but so far, the profile matches.”
Noah puffed out a sharp breath, his hand tightening on the phone. “Got it,” he said, his tone clipped. “Thanks. Happy New Year.”
The tech offered a somber acknowledgment before the call ended.
Noah dropped the phone onto his desk and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he looked up, Alex was watching him, his expression shadowed with concern. “It looks like the body is Hilton’s,” Noah said grimly. “The lab tested a few of the fragments. They’re all consistent—male, B-negative. But they’re running tests on every one of the twenty-three pieces to be sure.”
Alex’s jaw tightened as he turned to stare out the window, his silhouette sharp against the gray sky. “Twenty-three pieces,” he muttered. “Damn it, Noah.”
“I know,” Noah replied, his voice low but firm. “We have to nail the SOB for this.”
The name loomed in the room like a dark cloud. Maxim Fairchild. The owner of Verdant Horizons had been under investigation this time for months, his empire hopefully unraveling under environmental violations, corruption, and now murder.
Fairchild had been careful, insulating himself with layers of plausible deniability. But this? This was personal. Hilton was their informant, their key to exposing the depths of Fairchild’s operations. And now Hilton was gone, reduced to a collection of dismembered remains dumped like trash.
“We’re not getting him today,” Alex said finally, his tone heavy with resignation.
Noah nodded, his fists clenched on the desk. “But we will get him.”
Alex turned back to face him, a grim look in his eyes. “For Hilton,” he said simply.
“For Hilton,” Noah echoed.
The tension in the room was palpable as both men began to shut down their computers. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, the silent storm a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside them.
“We better get out of here before we’re trapped.” Alex grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “Eat some real food and get some sleep.”
“I’ll try.” Noah followed suit, shrugging into his jacket and grabbing his keys. They locked up the office, stepping out into the cold air with the case pressing on them.
As they drove away, the glow of the streetlights reflected off the fresh snow, a stark reminder that, while the world outside appeared peaceful, the battle for justice was far from over.
* * *
Maxim Fairchild stood at the window of his palatial estate, his eyes fixed on the snow blanketing the expansive grounds outside. The winter storm raged on, the howling wind a fitting soundtrack to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Hilton was gone—a problem he had taken care of with ruthless efficiency. Yet, his victory was incomplete. Hilton had talked.
The very idea sent a surge of fury through him, his jaw tightening as he gripped the edge of his ornate mahogany desk. Hilton, the man he’d trusted to keep his secrets, had betrayed him. And now, someone out there had the pieces of a puzzle Fairchild had worked tirelessly to keep hidden.
A knock on the heavy oak door broke his reverie.
“Enter,” he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
The door creaked open, and one of his men stepped inside. The enforcer was a burly figure, dressed in black, snow clinging to his boots and jacket. He removed his knit cap, revealing a shaven head and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow.
“We got a name, Boss,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly. “Noah Kandor. Twelve-year veteran of the state’s attorney’s office. Lawyer. He’s working with another guy, Alex Marcel. But Kandor’s the one hooked on the investigation.”
Fairchild turned slowly, his sharp eyes locking onto his subordinate. “Kandor,” he repeated, tasting the name. “Tell me more.”
The man shifted, pulling a notepad from his pocket. “Kandor’s got a solid rep. Known for sticking with cases others might drop when things get too messy. Doesn’t scare easy. He’s partnered with Marcel, but all signs point to Kandor being the lead on this. He’s the one pushing the investigation forward.”
Fairchild’s lips curled into a sneer. “And where is this intrepid crusader?”
The enforcer cleared his throat. “We’ve tracked down his home, his car, even some of his family connections. But the storm’s shut everything down. Roads are impassable; communications are spotty. It’s slowed us down.”
Fairchild exhaled slowly, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. He despised delays. “So, what you’re telling me,” he said, dangerously calm, “is that a storm is doing more to protect this man than any law enforcement officer ever could.”
The enforcer didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.
Fairchild moved back to his desk, his fingers trailing along the surface as he considered his options. He had always prided himself on being several steps ahead of his enemies. Kandor, however, was proving to be a complication—a loose end that needed tying up before it unraveled everything.
“Focus on Kandor,” Fairchild said finally, his voice cold and decisive. “The storm will pass, and when it does, I want him vulnerable. Find out who he cares about and how we can get to him. And if you can’t reach him directly... make him come to us.”
The enforcer nodded, tucking the notepad back into his jacket. “Understood, Boss.”
As the man turned to leave, Fairchild called after him, “And remember—this is a loose end we can’t afford. No mistakes. I want leverage over him.”
The door closed softly behind the enforcer, leaving Fairchild alone once more. He turned back to the window, watching as the snow continued to fall. Kandor might be untouchable for now, but Fairchild had built his empire on patience and precision. He knew every man had a weakness, and he would find Kandor’s.
With a slow, satisfied smile, he reached for the crystal decanter on his desk, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. As the amber liquid swirled in the glass, Fairchild raised it to his lips, toasting the storm. “It won’t save you, Mr. Kandor,” he murmured. “Not for long.”
* * *
Noah’s truck crawled up the snow-covered road to Eagle Hill, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the relentless onslaught of snow. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and his tires crunched over the freshly fallen powder as he approached his house.
Pulling into his driveway, he frowned at the towering drifts that had accumulated. He parked at the bottom, knowing there was no point in trying to make it up to the garage until the storm subsided. Tomorrow, he’d have to dig himself out with the snowblower and shovel—a task he didn’t look forward to.
Grabbing his briefcase and coat, he stepped out of the truck, the wind cutting through him like a knife. Snow clung to his boots as he trudged up the unshoveled path, his breaths forming visible puffs in the icy air.
Finally, he reached the front door of his modest but welcoming home. It was a sturdy two-story house, painted a deep slate blue with white trim, nestled among the pines that lined the quiet cul-de-sac. Once inside, he kicked the snow from his boots onto the mat, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.
He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the peg by the door, and set his briefcase down. The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the burner. Noah moved to the liquor cabinet, his fingers deftly pulling out a bottle of single malt scotch. He poured himself a glass, the amber liquid catching the soft glow of the kitchen light, and took a long sip.
With his scotch in hand, Noah headed to the kitchen. The care package Charlotte Everhart insisted he take home was sitting on the first shelf in his refrigerator. Opening the neatly packed container, he found slices of her turkey, mashed potatoes, and green beans. A small smile tugged at his lips—Charlotte’s cooking was a rare treat, and tonight, it was the perfect comfort food.
He reheated the meal in the microwave, the familiar aromas filling the room. Once the timer beeped, he plated the food and carried it into the living room.
The space was simple and uncluttered, with a large leather couch and matching recliner facing the fireplace and a TV mounted above the mantel. Photos of his siblings, his parents and his new niece dotted the shelves, alongside a few books and mementos from his years in law enforcement. A thick knit blanket draped over the arm of the couch added a touch of coziness.
Noah flipped on the evening news, balancing the plate on his lap as he settled into his favorite chair. The anchor’s voice filled the room, recapping the day’s events—weather updates, a local crime story, and some feel-good holiday fluff about a community shelter.
As he ate, Noah’s thoughts began to wander. The turkey was tender, the mashed potatoes creamy, but he barely tasted them. His mind drifted to what it might feel like to have someone waiting for him at home—maybe a wife, or even kids. A family to share the warmth of the house and quiet moments like these.
He imagined walking into laughter echoing through the halls, the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven, a little chaos to break up the solitude. Someone to talk to about his day, to share the burdens and joys that came with it.
But as the news droned on in the background, Noah pushed the thought aside. His life wasn’t built for that kind of connection—not yet, anyway. His job was demanding, dangerous, and it didn’t leave much room for romance or domestic bliss.
He finished his meal, setting the empty plate on the coffee table and taking another sip of scotch. The snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in silence, and again he let himself imagine what it might feel like to let someone in. Someone like Ruth Everhart.
The thought surprised him, but he didn’t push it away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of the scotch and the flickering light from the fireplace ease the tension in his shoulders.
Tomorrow, the storm would end, and the fight would continue. But tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of his home, Noah allowed himself a moment to simply be.