Chapter 4
The Sutherland house settled into evening quiet as Mia pushed through the front door at nearly eight o'clock, her mind still buzzing with the afternoon's excitement.
Meeting Landry had felt like stepping through a doorway into the adult world she'd been yearning to join—real investigation, real consequences, real purpose beyond the endless scanning of newspaper archives.
She found Noah in his study, exactly where she'd expected him to be. The room smelled of leather and dust, with the underlying smell of black coffee that had been reheated too many times. He sat hunched over his desk, surrounded by thick folders.
Noah had a ritual with his records, a private order that she'd observed but never understood.
He would spread case files across the desk in careful patterns, cross-referencing timelines and connections and building a case one piece of evidence at a time.
Tonight, he seemed particularly absorbed, his pen moving across yellow legal paper in the quick strokes that meant he was onto something.
"Dad?"
He looked up. The transition from investigator to father was visible, a conscious shifting of mental gears that reminded Mia how much of his life existed in spaces she couldn't access.
"You're late," he said, though his tone carried concern rather than reproach. "Everything okay?"
Mia settled into the leather chair across from his desk, the same spot where she'd sat on many a night when he'd helped her with homework or listened to her recount the day's adventures. But tonight felt different, charged with the potential for conflict she could sense building between them.
"Yeah. I had an interesting day," she said carefully. "Did some research on that old case we talked about. The Hale murders."
Noah's pen stopped moving. "Mia." Her name came out as a warning.
"There's a podcaster in town. Pierce Landry. He's investigating the case, and I thought—"
"No."
The word came out sharp enough to cut, and Mia felt her own defensive instincts engage. "You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I know enough." Noah set down his pen with deliberate care and turned to face her fully. "I know that Pierce is exactly the kind of outsider who comes into places like this, stirs up old wounds for entertainment, and leaves chaos behind when the cameras stop rolling."
"It's not entertainment, Dad. It's a real investigation. He’s seeking justice for people who never got it."
"It's exploitation." Noah said. "These people show up with their microphones and their theories, convince locals to share information they shouldn't, placing themselves in danger, and then disappear back to Los Angeles when things get complicated. Then we are left to clean up the mess."
Mia felt her temper rising, the familiar frustration of being treated like a child when she was trying to step into adult responsibilities. "I'm eighteen, Dad. I can make my own decisions about who I talk to and what cases I'm interested in."
"Not when those decisions could get you hurt." Noah stood up, moving around the desk with the kind of controlled energy that suggested he was fighting to keep his voice level. “And not when you don't understand what you're dealing with."
"Then explain it to me!" The words came out louder than she'd intended, carrying months of accumulated frustration at being kept on the periphery of the world that consumed her father's life. "Stop treating me like I'm still eight years old and can't handle the truth about anything."
"The truth?" Noah's laugh held no humor. "The truth is that some cases attract attention for all the wrong reasons. The truth is that people who ask the wrong questions about the wrong people sometimes end up dead. The truth is that your mother—"
He stopped himself, but not before Mia caught the reference that explained everything about his protective instincts and nothing about the specific dangers he feared.
"My mother what?" Mia pressed. "She died investigating a story. That's what you're worried about. You think the same is going to happen to me."
Noah rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly looking older than his years.
"Your mother believed that every story was worth telling, that every injustice deserved exposure.
She thought her press credentials would protect her from the consequences of digging into things that powerful people wanted left alone. "
"And you think I'm too naive to understand the risks?"
"I think you're too young to die for someone else's crusade.
" The words came out with the weight of grief and terror that Mia had never heard in her father's voice before.
"I think Pierce doesn't give a damn about you or this community or the people who'll have to live with the consequences of whatever he digs up.
I think he cares about his download numbers and his media deals and his own career, and if you get hurt in the process, that's just collateral damage. "
Mia stood up, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor.
"So what? I'm supposed to spend my gap year digitizing old newspapers and pretending I don't have any interest in the work that's consumed our family for generations?
I'm supposed to go to college and study something safe and boring and never ask questions about anything that matters? "
"I'm supposed to keep you alive long enough to have a life worth living," Noah said quietly. "That's what fathers do."
"Yeah, and what mothers do is investigate stories that matter, even when it's dangerous." Mia knew she was hitting below the belt, but the words came out anyway, driven by frustration and the need to make him understand that she wasn't going to be satisfied with a life of careful safety.
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to break the floorboards. Noah's face went through a series of expressions—pain, anger, resignation—before settling into something that looked like defeat.
"Don’t invoke your mother's memory to justify reckless behavior," he said finally. "She died because she underestimated the people she was investigating. I won't let the same thing happen to you."
"You can't stop me from talking to Pierce. You can't stop me from being interested in the Hale case. And you can't keep me wrapped in bubble wrap for the rest of my life just because you're afraid of losing someone else."
Mia headed for the door, but Noah's voice stopped her before she could leave.
"If you do this—if you get involved with these people—you're on your own. I can’t protect you from the consequences."
She turned back to look at him, this man who'd shaped her understanding of justice and truth and the importance of standing up for people who couldn't protect themselves. "I never asked you to protect me, Dad. I asked you to trust me."
The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the hallway walls, and Mia felt the satisfaction of making her point even as she recognized the futility of the gesture.
Her father wasn't the kind of man who changed his mind because of raised voices or slammed doors.
But she wasn't the kind of person who backed down from something important just because it made other people uncomfortable.
Twenty minutes later, Mia was driving through the darkness toward Hugh's house, her anger slowly giving way to something that felt more like determination. If her father wouldn't support her decision to get involved with Pierce's investigation, maybe her grandfather would understand.
Hugh Sutherland's house sat on a bluff overlooking High Peaks Lake, its windows glowing warmly against the night sky like a lighthouse welcoming travelers home from dangerous waters. It had once been Mia’s home until her father found out that the property was one of the many homes Luther Ashford rented.
It was ostentatious, traditional without being stuffy, the kind of place where important conversations happened over good whiskey and better judgment.
Mia pulled into the circular driveway and sat for a moment in her car, watching her grandfather move around inside the house through windows that hadn't yet been curtained against the night.
Even in his early seventies, Hugh carried himself with the bearing of a man accustomed to authority, though the early signs of Alzheimer's had softened the edges of what had once been an intimidating presence.
The front door opened before she could knock, and Hugh stood silhouetted against the warm light, his gray hair neatly combed.
"Mia, sweetheart," he said with a genuine pleasure at seeing her. "Come in, come in. I was just about to pour myself some tea."
The interior of Hugh's house felt like stepping back into a more gracious era. He had changed it since they’d lived there.
Leather furniture worn soft by decades of use, bookshelves lined with law enforcement journals and local history volumes, the walls covered with photographs that chronicled his career and the changing face of Adirondack County.
Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, and the lighting had been carefully arranged to hide sharp edges and create an atmosphere of comfortable conspiracy.
“It’s dad.”
“Ah, yes, I was about to say you look like someone who's had a difficult conversation," Hugh said, leading her into the kitchen where a kettle was already whistling on the stove. "Your father can be... rigid in his thinking sometimes."
Mia accepted the cup of tea he offered, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic and breathing in chamomile and honey.
"It’s frustrating. He doesn't trust me to make my own decisions. I’m eighteen for goodness’ sakes.
Old enough to be classed an adult. Heck, many people my age have moved out and started their life. "
"Ah." Hugh settled into the chair across from her, his movements careful but graceful. "And what decisions are we talking about?"