Chapter 18
Brooklyn Sloane
The engine of the SUV hummed softly as Brook studied Brett Sorsdal's rural property through a windshield framed by delicate frost patterns. She adjusted the heat settings, though the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in her bones during the drive through town. She should have given the vehicle more time to heat up before leaving the camping site, but she hadn’t wanted to hear from Bit one more time that he didn’t need a babysitter.
The patrol car she’d requested from Sheriff Donovan had arrived at approximately eight o’clock, which was when Bit realized she’d arranged for someone else to be on-site while he remained behind to pull together the information his applications were gathering on certain individuals involved in the investigation.
Her gaze swept over the half-finished porch that wrapped unevenly around the front of the house, the construction materials still scattered across the yard like abandoned toys.
Brett had been less than forthcoming during their previous visit, but this time she had come for Zeke.
She’d known on Wednesday that there was something more to his demeanor, and Sylvie’s text this morning proved it.
Brook glanced at the clock radio, noting that the deputy who was supposed to meet her at the Sorsdal residence was already several minutes late. She reached for her phone in the cup holder to check her messages.
Nothing from Graham, either.
She hadn’t spoken to him since Tuesday night, and while his silence wasn't unexpected given his warnings about communication blackouts, she still experienced a twinge of disappointment. There was something she wanted to discuss with him.
She scrolled through her other messages—updates from Sylvie and Theo about their upcoming interviews with Lindsay Sharpe and Figg Whitlow, as well as Bit confirming that his search into the reentry program had yielded a few more names to investigate.
She also noted several automated notifications from Bit's tracking algorithms. Everyone was doing their part, pushing the investigation forward as much as possible.
Brook silenced her phone and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket.
The SUV rocked slightly as a gust of wind cut through the property.
The second half of the cold front moving through was supposed to either arrive Sunday night or Monday morning.
She was still holding out hope that any additional precipitation would shift to the north.
Her rearview mirror suddenly caught the reflection of approaching headlights, the beams slicing through the morning gloom like searchlights. She killed the engine and stepped out into the frigid air. The cold attacked instantly, slipping beneath the scarf she’d secured around her neck.
“Ms. Sloane?” The deputy slammed his door shut before taking the time to hook the key ring to his utility belt. He was young, maybe in his late twenties. His nose and cheeks had quickly turned red with the steps he’d taken toward her. “I’m Deputy Lucas Benz.”
“I appreciate you meeting me out here,” Brook replied, adjusting her scarf to better shield her face from the biting wind.
Lucas was wearing thick gloves, while she had already shoved her hands into her pockets.
“We had a visitor at the cabins where we’re staying, and I thought it best that my team work in pairs.
I’m here to speak with Brett Sorsdal’s brother.
He may have information relevant to our investigation. ”
“I'm familiar with Mr. Sorsdal,” Lucas replied as they both minded their steps. Given that Brett’s truck had a snowplow attached to the front, she assumed that he had been the one to clear the immediate area yesterday.
“He keeps to himself. We’ve never been called out here, but I’ve heard that people come from all different places to try and commission some of his furniture. ”
“And Zeke?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him at all, ma’am.”
Their boots crunched through the packed snow, leaving little impression.
She noticed some boot impressions near the porch, in a region that probably had grass beneath.
There was no noticeable gouge out of the soles.
They reached the uneven steps of the half-finished porch.
The replaced wooden planks were sturdy, and Brook noted the construction was solid.
The finished product would be a sight to behold.
Before they could knock, the door swung open. Brett stood in the threshold, his posture rigid with undisguised irritation. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the deputy, and his beard couldn't hide the way his jaw clenched.
“I’ve already answered your questions,” Brett exclaimed, his voice low and controlled despite the tension evident in his frame. “I have nothing more to say.”
“Mr. Sorsdal,” Brook began, reaching out and placing her hand on the door to prevent him from closing it in their faces. “I'd like to speak with your brother.”
“No.” Brett didn’t mince words. “Get off my property.”
“Is that a police officer, Brett?”
“Eat your breakfast, Zeke,” Brett called out in return, his voice softening just a touch. He then focused on Brook. “My brother can barely remember what he had for breakfast yesterday. I won’t have you upset him.”
“That’s not my intention,” Brook replied truthfully, lowering her arm when her fingers started to become numb.
Brett's gaze darted between them, calculation evident in his eyes.
“Unless you're here to make an arrest, you can—”
“Brett?” The childlike quality of Zeke's voice was close, and it wasn’t long before he was peering over his brother’s shoulders. “You’re the police lady.”
“I am,” Brook responded with a tender smile. “I was hoping to talk to you about Heather. Do you remember her?”
“I already told you that—”
“Brett, you shouldn't be angry,” Zeke interrupted, his voice carrying a note of gentle admonishment that contrasted sharply with his brother's tension. “The police are good. They want to help Miss Heather.”
Brett's eyes closed briefly, a fleeting gesture of defeat. When they opened again, the previous determination to have them leave the property had been replaced by resignation.
“Fine,” Brett muttered, stepping back from the doorway. “You can come in and talk to him. But I'll be present for every question, and if he gets upset, this ends immediately. Understood?”
Brook nodded, sensing the shift in power dynamics.
They had gotten their foot in the door—literally and figuratively.
As she stepped across the threshold, the warmth of the house enveloped her, carrying the unmistakable scent of frying bacon.
The closer they got to the kitchen, the richer the aroma.
Brett immediately positioned himself against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest, his posture making it clear that hospitality was not on offer.
Brook took in the modest space, from the worn linoleum flooring scrubbed clean to the dated appliances meticulously maintained.
The cabinets bore chipped paint, touched up with a slightly mismatched color.
The room spoke of care within limitation.
Zeke had walked straight to the table and sat in what was obviously his usual chair.
A plate containing the remnants of his breakfast and a half-glass of orange juice waited for him.
His large frame seemed almost comically oversized for the wooden chair, which creaked slightly with each of his movements.
She noticed the wall calendar beside the refrigerator almost immediately. Each square was meticulously filled with handwritten notations. She easily spotted the week blocked out for Zeke’s visit.
“I don't know what you expect from Zeke, but he’s been in a care home most of his life. He was there when…well, when everything happened.”
“Not continuously,” Brook countered, though she kept her tone conversational. “According to the care facility's records, you started checking Zeke out for a week every other month after Heather's murder.”
Brett's eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening further. He understood the insinuation. The kitchen was immediately charged with unspoken tension, though Zeke seemed oblivious to it all. He was methodically lining up two pieces of bacon.
“Who gave you that information?” Brett's voice carried a dangerous edge. “I thought all that was covered under HIPAA.”
“I'm curious about the timing, is all.” Brook wasn’t sure if Brett would allow her to sit at the table next to Zeke, so she didn’t ask for permission.
She also didn’t volunteer how she’d obtained such personal information.
Instead, she unzipped her jacket, mindful to keep her weapon covered. “What changed back then, Mr. Sorsdal?”
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft hum of Zeke's pleasure at finally taking a bite of his bacon.
“Not that it's any of your business,” Brett finally said, his voice lower, “but I found faith. And my faith made me realize that nothing is more important than family.”
The words hung in the air between them. Brook studied his expression for any sign of deception, but found only a guarded sincerity. On the refrigerator, she noticed a magnetic cross and several church bulletins pinned beneath it. The physical evidence supported his claim.
“You took Zeke to church before Heather’s death.”
“Yes, I did.” Brett’s gaze briefly shifted to his brother. “Life-changing events tend to make people reevaluate their priorities, though. Heather's death affected everyone in Harrowick. It made me stop and think about what really matters.”
Religious conversion following trauma wasn't uncommon. People often sought meaning and structure in the aftermath of violence or loss. Yet something in Brett's explanation felt incomplete, like a story with pages missing.
Zeke finished the bacon and then stared at her with childlike enthusiasm.