Chapter 2
She slapped the snooze button and stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom, taking in the familiar cracks in the plaster that looked like a road map to nowhere.
Eighteen years old and stuck in limbo, too old for high school, too young for the life she wanted, too uncertain about everything in between.
The house creaked around her as it settled into another High Peaks morning. Through her window, she could see the mist rising off the lake, the Adirondack Mountains emerging from shadow like sleeping giants awakening. It was beautiful, she had to admit, but beauty didn't cure restlessness.
Mia padded downstairs in a T-shirt and sleep shorts, following the scent of coffee that meant her father was already awake.
She found her father hunched over the kitchen table, surrounded by manila folders and legal pads covered in his careful handwriting.
A mug of coffee sat beside his elbow, steam long since dissipated.
"Morning, Dad." She moved to the coffee maker, grateful he'd made enough for two. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in, with its butcher-block counters and the herb garden visible through the window above the sink.
"Mmm." Noah didn't look up from whatever he was reading, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Even at the breakfast table, he carried himself with an alert posture. The files spread before him bore labels she recognized. Cases that had consumed months of his life over the past few years.
"The Luther Ashford thing again?" Mia asked, settling across from him with her coffee. She'd grown up hearing fragments of these investigations—coded phone calls, late nights, the way her father's jaw tightened whenever certain names came up.
Noah finally looked up, his dark eyes focusing on her with the same intensity he probably used on suspects. “What?” He rubbed his face with both hands. "Yes. It’s the Ashford case.”
"You know, most people eat breakfast when they're having breakfast," Mia said, noting the untouched piece of toast beside his papers.
"Most people don't have criminal networks operating in their backyard." But he took a bite of toast, a small concession to normalcy. "What about you? Ready for another thrilling day of... what is it you're doing again?"
The question carried just enough edge to remind Mia that Noah wasn't entirely happy with her gap year arrangement. He'd wanted her to spend the year preparing for college, maybe taking community college courses, certainly not working at the local newspaper where her mother had once been employed.
"I'm digitizing newspaper archives at the Daily Enterprise," Mia said carefully. "Natalie thought it would be good experience, you know, to see what Mom actually did day-to-day before I make any decisions about my future."
Noah's expression softened at the mention of Lena, but only slightly. “So you're thinking of following in her footsteps now?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I want to understand what drew her to investigative work." Mia wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, feeling the warmth seep through her palms. "I mean, investigative work is investigative work, right? Whether it's journalism or law enforcement?"
"No." The word came out sharper than Noah probably intended.
His eyes went distant, and Mia recognized the look—he was seeing something from the past, something painful.
"Some investigative work is more dangerous than others.
Your mother..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was chewing words he couldn't quite swallow.
"Dad?"
"She found that out the hard way." Noah gathered his files with quick, precise movements. "Just... be careful, Mia. Not every story is worth the cost of telling it."
He kissed the top of her head as he passed, leaving her alone with her coffee and a dozen new questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers to.
The kitchen felt colder without his presence, and Mia found herself staring at the space where he'd been sitting, wondering what memories lived in that silence.
An hour later, Mia pushed through the glass doors of the Adirondack Daily Enterprise, breathing in the familiar smell of newsprint and coffee that seemed permanently embedded in the building's bones.
The newspaper occupied a converted Victorian house on Main Street, its rooms repurposed into offices and workspaces that maintained the building's original charm while accommodating modern equipment.
"Morning, Mia," called Sarah from the front desk, not looking up from her computer screen where she was probably updating the online edition with breaking news about the town council meeting or the latest lake cleanup initiative.
Mia made her way to the basement, where the archives lived in a subterranean world that felt like stepping back in time.
She'd been working here for three weeks now, and the space still amazed her—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with bound newspapers dating back to the 1970s, filing cabinets stuffed with photographs and documents, and the constant hum of the old computer she used to scan and digitize articles.
The work was tedious, carefully removing newspaper pages from their bindings, placing them on the scanner, adjusting settings for optimal clarity, filing the digital copies in organized folders.
But there was something satisfying about preserving these pieces of history, these snapshots of daily life in High Peaks going back decades.
She'd just settled in at her workstation when she heard footsteps on the wooden stairs, followed by a grunt of effort. Natalie Ashford appeared, wrestling with a cardboard box that looked like it weighed more than she did.
"Jesus," Natalie muttered, setting the box down with a thud that sent dust motes dancing in the fluorescent light.
She straightened, pushing graying hair out of her face, and fixed Mia with a look that was part amusement, part calculation.
"You know, when Maggie called to say you wanted to help out here, I had my reservations. "
Mia looked up from the scanner, surprised by the directness. "Why?"
"Well..." Natalie dumped the contents of the box onto a nearby table full of more bound newspapers from the early 2000s. "I figured you were focusing on law enforcement. Like every other Sutherland."
"I am," Mia said, then caught herself. "I mean, I'm considering it. Among other things. Speaking of which," Mia added, watching Natalie sort through the newspapers, "I've been seeing the old Hale case coming up in conversations again."
Natalie's hands stilled on the newspapers. "The Hale murders? That's going back... what, ten years now?"
“You remember it?"
“Who doesn’t?” Natalie said. "Rebecca and Jacob. Brutal business. Never solved, despite all the promises." She looked at Mia with renewed interest. "Why are you asking?"
"Just curious."
Natalie leaned against the table, studying Mia with eyes that had spent decades reading between the lines. "So what's the real plan here? You planning on following in your mother's footsteps after all?"
The question felt loaded, like Natalie already knew something Mia didn't. "I'm not sure. I'm considering the FBI, actually."
Natalie threw back her head and laughed, a sound that echoed off the concrete walls. For a moment, Mia bristled, wondering if she was being mocked, but Natalie's expression quickly turned knowing rather than condescending.
"The FBI?" Natalie shook her head, still smiling.
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?
Your father told me that your grandfather Hugh wanted Noah to join the County Sheriff's Office, but he went and worked for State instead.
Now you want to follow suit and work for the FBI.
" She tilted her head, appraising. “Are you sure you're not doing it just to piss off your father? "
Mia couldn't help but chuckle. "No. Though he has given me reasons to want to at times."
Natalie leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"As someone who knows what it's like to feel controlled by a parent, let me tell you something, it's not what they say that matters, it's what we let them think they're controlling.
There are always ways to do what you're told without actually doing it, if you get my drift. "
"Like running this place without actually being here to run it?" Mia asked, thinking of how Natalie seemed to manage the paper through a network of calls and brief appearances rather than constant presence.
Natalie's smirk widened. "You are too observant.
Maybe you are your father's child after all.
" She tapped Mia on the shoulder with one finger.
"Just remember, don't get too invested in some cold case.
This is supposed to be your year off, so make sure you take some time to have fun. Can't be all work and no play."
After Natalie's footsteps faded up the stairs, Mia sat in the quiet of the basement, thinking about control and the ways people tried to forge their own path despite other people's expectations.
She got up from her seat and ventured deeper into the archives.
The back of the basement housed the older materials, shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling in narrow aisles that felt like walking through a paper canyon.
The air was thick with dust and the musty smell of aging newsprint, and the single overhead bulb flickered intermittently, casting long shadows that seemed to move independently.
Decades of High Peaks history surrounded her, from the seventies through to the present day, every triumph and tragedy of small-town life preserved in yellowing pages.
Mia found what she was looking for in a section marked 2012-2014: coverage of the Hale murders. She pulled the relevant newspapers and spread them across a table under the flickering light, feeling like an archaeologist uncovering artifacts from a more recent past.