Chapter 11 #2
Ginny sighs and steps back. “Alright, but keep it short. The nurse will be here soon. He’s not as strong as he used to be.
” We step inside. The walls are lined with sepia-toned family portraits, dusty shelves filled with old books and knick-knacks.
A faint smell of coffee lingers. White curtains block most of the morning light, leaving the place dim and still.
A grand, black shiny piano dominates the living room.
“Dad taught piano lessons after he retired from the Army,” Ginny explains, catching my look. “Kids, teenagers. He was good; everyone wanted to learn from him.” She folds her arms. “I’ll wait here.”
An old man sits in an oversized leather recliner facing the TV.
His daughter walks ahead of us and bends slightly toward him.
“Dad, it’s Jared. He has a few questions about Mila Grey.
” She raises her voice a bit. “I told them you probably didn’t have much more to say, but they insisted.
Do you want to talk to them?” His skin is pale, his hands spotted with age, and he has a white beard resting on his sweater.
His slippers are plaid, the kind older men live in.
Jared glances at me, his shoulders loosening when the old man gives a slow nod.
Mr. Hallow lifts one trembling hand from the chair’s armrest, motioning for us to come closer. We move over to the sofa beside him.
“Thank you for seeing us, sir.” Mr. Hallow gives a weak bow of his head to Jared, then his gaze shifts on me, sharp despite the cloudiness.
“This is Officer Parkson,” Jared explains. “He’s new.”
“Officers,” the old man rasps, his voice brittle, like paper in the wind.
“We’re reviewing a few unresolved cases, kind of like searching for a needle in a haystack, but…
” Jared begins, running a hand on his nape.
“You reported seeing Mila Grey the day she disappeared, walking your dog near a forest trail. You mentioned she was running, in a black dress, with no one behind her, but years later, you changed your statement, saying you weren’t sure. Do you still remember what you saw?”
Patton Hallow lifts a shaky hand. “I…I remember everything.” His voice comes thin, eerie. A chill crawls up my spine. He’s got the look of someone who’s seen death too many times, an army vet, it makes sense.
“She was…running,” he murmurs, “fast. Really fast. A good woman this Mila. Used to water my plants when I was deployed. Heard later, she wanted to leave Lakeside. Acting, I think.’ He pauses.
“Too young to die.” His lips press together.
“That lake takes ’em all, one way or another.
Doesn’t care how young they are.” His eyes rise to meet mine.
“Don’t…go near it,” he warns, fingers twitching on the armrest. “Haunted,” he whispers.
“First Mila Grey…and then…the other one.”
The other one?
My pulse jumps. Could he be talking about the case file with no name?
The one tied to that photo I keep in my jacket, the picture of a dark, soaked piece of fabric?
Suddenly, this conversation takes a new turn.
Not that I don’t care about Mila’s case, but something tells me it’s not the only story buried here. Maybe not even the biggest one.
“Wh-what about it? Th-the other one?” I ask.
Jared’s brow shoots up, but the old man’s gaze lands on me.
He shakes his head slowly. “Let it go, son. Some things are better left buried.” Same words my Captain told me.
What is it with Lakeside and secrets? It’s like everyone’s guarding some ghost, terrified of saying its name.
Like they really believe there’s something under that ice, waiting to take whoever looks too close. Jared takes the lead again.
“Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement, anything else you remember?
” Patton’s fingers rest on the armchair, his gaze drifting off to the window before he slowly shakes his head.
So nothing new. I’ll need to find someone else to talk to if I want a fresh lead, because this trail is cold.
“Thank you, sir, for your time,” Jared says, standing and walking toward the exit, where his daughter is already waiting.
I catch snippets of their small talk drifting to the local festival and plans for the storm. Jared’s back is to me.
This is my shot.
If this man knows the secrets of this town, and I believe he does, then he’ll recognize it.
I slide my hand into my inner pocket and pull the photo out just enough to show it discreetly.
Just enough for him to see. I don’t have to wait long for a reaction.
His breath hitches, his whole body stiffens.
Fingers curling into the armrest so hard his knuckles turn white.
His gaze changes as if he had just seen a ghost walk by the living room.
I follow his stare and end up on the large piano at the opposite side.
“Sir?” I whisper. “Do-do you know anything about this ph-photo?”
He doesn’t speak. Just shakes his head once, mouth drawn tight. He's seen it before. I’d bet my badge on it. He knows exactly what this is. I slide the photo back into my pocket just as Jared turns to look for me.
“Let…it…go…son,” Patton rasps before sinking deeper into his chair, like the effort has taken everything from him.
“I think you should go,” his daughter says, stepping in beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “He’s very tired.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, bowing my head politely before following Jared out the front door. He’s already halfway to the car, jaw tight. Once we’re both inside, he doesn’t start the engine right away, instead he turns to me.
“Don’t ever do that again.” Jared snaps, his tone angry, disappointed. I don’t deny it. There's no point in lying. “Can I see it?” he asks. I hand him the picture.
“I-I-I think I’ve found the s-seventh case, but Fletcher told me to leave it bu-buried.”
“Then why are you still working on it?”
“In-instincts.”
“Instincts?” he repeats, skeptical.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead, blood boiling with nerves. “Feels like the county’s hiding something. And maybe there’s a f-f-family out there that needs closure. I-I thought-”
“You thought you’d go behind my back.” He says, almost defeated.
“I…” I curse under my breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Just…drop me off at the st-station. I’ll pack my s-s-stuff and—”
“Hell no.” He says it like a gunshot, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. I blink.
“We’ve all got our shit, Jack. Even in a town that looks picture-perfect, people got baggage.
You’ve got yours, I’ve got mine. But…we’re partners.
Even if it’s just a year. I’m not letting you bail.
Alright? But no more playing Sherlock without me.
From now on, you keep me in the loop.” I nod, heart pounding, relief crawling up my throat.
He leans back, sighs, then points at the photo.
“If Fletcher said to bury it, why keep going?”
“All the c-cases we were assigned have complete files. Reports, testimony, autopsy records, photos. They’re old, but solid. This one-” I tap the image. “This one’s recent. Photo was taken with a digital cam, l-look, not film. I think, I think it's fabric. And-and my s-s-second guess-”
“Jack,” he drops, stopping me, “I know what this is about,” he mutters. “I know why it’s been buried.”
“Alright, sh-shoot.” Excitement builds in me, but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate, shaking his head with a warning gaze.
“I haven’t made many promises in my life. But this one…this one I’ll keep ‘til the day I die.”
“Wha-what are you…you t-t-talking about?”
“If I talk, I lose my job.” He winces. “Is your thirst for truth bigger than that? Bigger than me losing everything?” He’s not just talking about a job.
His dad depends on his healthcare. The chemo, the meds, it’s all riding on Jared’s insurance.
No. This isn’t worth it. Not if it means putting him in that position.
Not when, for the first time, I might’ve found a real partner.
“Then d-d-don’t speak.” He sighs and we exchange an understanding look, the kind brothers share on a battlefield after committing unspeakable acts.
The radio vibrates and Jared turns the engine on, “Alright, how bout’ a pop classic?” Playing an early 2000s throwback, the speakers hum to life, and Jared starts singing along like nothing ever happened. I won’t dig deeper, not if it’ll cost him. But that doesn’t mean I’ll forget about it.
Heroes help people.
Even if it costs them everything.
Alaska
“One Earl Grey for you, sweetie, and one macchiato,” Sherry says while humming a song, placing hot beverages on our table.
She’s about my mom’s age, her short blonde hair tied back with a white bandana.
Black eyeliner frames her eyes and she’s wearing a mid-length blue skirt scattered with small black dots.
There’s something unmistakably retro about her, like a pinup stepped out of a World War II poster and right into the present.
“It’s adorable, thank you so much,” Bella says, admiring the little creamy heart Sherry managed to paint on her coffee.