Chapter 36
The Morrison house squatted in Evergreen Estates like a glass-and-steel tumor—all sharp angles and pretentious minimalism. These Silicon Valley types seemed to think floor-to-ceiling windows equaled sophistication, but to Izzy, it just looked cold.
Fresh snow blanketed the circular driveway, only one set of tire tracks marring the white. Janet's car, probably. Izzy recalled seeing the woman on the church livestream.
"Someone's watching," Cory murmured as they approached the front door.
Izzy had caught it too—curtains twitching in an upstairs window. By the time Tom Morrison answered the door, whoever had been watching was gone.
"Chief Fraser? Ms. Reyes?" Tom looked like he'd aged five years since she'd last seen him. His weekend uniform—pressed khakis, blue button-down—couldn't hide the haggard lines around his eyes. "What brings you here on a Sunday?"
"Sorry to intrude, Tom." Cory's tone was carefully calibrated—concerned colleague, not interrogating cop. "Mind if we come in? We’ve got a few questions about the Mountain Angel situation."
"Of course, of course." Tom stepped back, and Izzy's gaze immediately went to his shirt pocket.
Mechanical pencil. Clear barrel, dark lead visible inside.
She caught Cory's slight nod. He'd seen it too.
The living room looked like a furniture showroom—beige and gray, everything arranged at ninety degree angles. No family photos, no personal touches. Just expensive furniture that had never been truly lived in.
"Please, sit." Tom gestured to a leather sectional that probably cost more than Izzy's monthly mortgage. "Janet. We have company."
Janet Morrison appeared from the kitchen, wearing what Izzy privately called "rich lady casual"—designer jeans, cashmere sweater, subtle jewelry that screamed expensive. Her smile never quite reached her eyes.
"Chief Fraser, Ms. Reyes. Can I offer you coffee? Tea?"
"We're fine, thanks." Cory settled into the interrogation with the ease of long practice. "Tom, I need to ask about your whereabouts Friday afternoon."
Tom's hand went to his collar, adjusting it needlessly. "Friday? I was here. Home sick, actually."
"Sick?"
"Food poisoning." Tom grimaced. "That new taco truck downtown. Never trust a food truck that's too clean, my father used to say."
"You do love those food trucks," Janet added, perching on the arm of Tom's chair. "Against my better judgment."
"What time frame are we talking about?" Tom asked.
"Afternoon." Cory kept his tone conversational. "There was an incident near Tonopah. Shooting at the Desert Sky Aviation airstrip."
Tom's brow furrowed. "Shooting? Off all things. Anyone hurt?"
"Reed Osgood took a bullet. He'll live." Cory watched them both carefully. "The shooter fled the scene, but they left evidence behind."
"Evidence?" Janet's voice stayed steady, but her fingers tightened on Tom's shoulder.
"Among other things, a broken mechanical pencil. Clear barrel, 2B lead." Cory's tone remained conversational, but Izzy saw the trap being set. "Funny thing about pencils—they're excellent for fingerprints. All those ridges on the barrel, the clip, the mechanism."
Janet's eyes flicked to Tom's shirt pocket, then away. A moment too late, she caught herself and forced her gaze back to Cory.
"Our lab’ll have results soon," Cory lied. "Amazing what forensics can pull these days. Partial prints, DNA from skin cells. Even if someone wore gloves, there's usually trace evidence from earlier handling."
Which there would be, if the pencil hadn’t been ground to practically dust.
The color drained from Janet's face. Her eyes darted to the pencil in Tom's pocket again, lingered, then found Izzy watching her. The brittle smile cracked at the edges.
"That's... that's fascinating," Janet managed. "The advances in forensic science."
"Tom, you said you were home sick?" Cory pressed gently.
"Yes, I was definitely here. In bed, mostly. Miserable." Tom looked to his wife. "You can confirm that, can't you, dear?"
Janet's hand now gripped his shoulder hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. "Tom was very ill when I left for my volunteer shift. I almost canceled, but he insisted I go."
"Volunteer shift?" Izzy prompted.
"The Art Museum gift shop. Every Friday, ten to four." Janet's eyes kept returning to that pencil like a compass finding north. "It's my little contribution to the community."
So Janet couldn't actually confirm Tom's whereabouts during the shooting.
"I was still in bed when she got home," Tom added. "Wasn't I, darling?"
"Barely moved all day, poor thing." Janet stood abruptly, smoothing her sweater. "I'll just... I'll make coffee anyway. I need some myself."
As she passed Tom's chair, her hand brushed his pocket—definitely checking the pencil. Her eyes met Izzy's for a fraction of a second, and Izzy saw naked fear there.
"Actually," Izzy said, "could I use your restroom?"
"Of course. Down the hall, second door on the right." Janet's relief was palpable—she wanted Izzy gone while she dealt with... whatever she needed to deal with.
Izzy took her time in the hallway, ears straining. Heard Janet's footsteps heading not to the kitchen but to the study off the living room. Through the partially open door, she watched Janet go straight to Tom's desk, yanking open drawers.
Mechanical pencils. Dozens of them, scattered in the drawer like accusations. Janet grabbed them by the handful, shoving them into her sweater pockets. Some fell, clattering across the hardwood floor—clear barrels, dark leads visible.
2B leads. Just like Cory had described.
"What are you doing?"
Janet spun, pencils falling from her overstuffed pockets. She dropped to her knees, scrambling to collect them, tears already streaming.
"Please," Janet whispered, gathering pencils like evidence of murder. Which they might be. "I don't know what you think he's done..."
"What are you afraid he's done?" Izzy kept her voice level, crouching to Janet's level.
"He's a good man." The words came out fierce through the tears. "He's just been so confused lately."
"Confused how?"
"Since the Mountain Angel incidents started. He keeps saying he should have caught something. Blames himself." Janet clutched the pencils to her chest. "He's not sleeping. Sometimes I find him just staring at his reports, like he's looking for something that isn't there."
"Janet—"
"He's not capable of violence." The words tumbled out desperately. "Whatever you think happened, Tom couldn't... he wouldn't... Those pencils, they're everywhere. He must go through fifty a week. Anyone could have—"
Footsteps from the living room. Cory's voice carrying: "Everything alright?"
"Fine." Janet called back, voice artificially bright. She grabbed Izzy's wrist with surprising strength. "Please. He's all I have."
The raw desperation in her eyes made Izzy's chest tight. This wasn't guilt—this was a wife trying to protect a husband she feared was falling apart.
They returned to find Cory and Tom in awkward silence. Tom seemed oblivious to his wife's red-rimmed eyes, still maintaining his food poisoning story with dogged determination.
"I never left the house Friday," he insisted when Cory pressed about the airfield. "Why would I go to Tonopah? In my condition?"
Janet set down a coffee tray with shaking hands, hovering near Tom like she could shield him with her presence. Her pockets bulged with hidden pencils.
"Well, thank you for your time," Cory said finally, rising. "Sorry to intrude on your Sunday."
"Of course." Tom stood too, hand extended. The mechanical pencil in his pocket caught the light. "Anything to help clear this up."
Outside, snow had started falling again, heavy flakes that would cover their tracks within the hour. They sat in Cory's SUV for a moment, processing.
"Janet was destroying evidence," Izzy said quietly. "The moment you mentioned the pencil at the scene, she panicked. Grabbed every mechanical pencil she could find."
"She knows something." Cory started the engine. "Or suspects something."
"She's terrified." Izzy thought about Janet's desperate eyes, the way she'd clutched those pencils. "Like she thinks Tom might have done something but can't bear to believe it."
"Or knows he did something but loves him too much to let him burn for it."
They drove in thoughtful silence, snow falling heavier now. The Morrison house disappeared behind them, but Izzy couldn't shake the image of Janet on her knees, gathering pencils like she could gather up the pieces of her breaking world.
"Tom's showing signs of dissociation," she said finally. "The confusion, the memory gaps. I've seen it in operators after trauma."
"You think he's being framed?"
"I think..." Izzy watched the snow blur past. "Whether he’s our shooter or not, I think someone's using a broken man as a weapon."
The question was: who was pulling Tom Morrison's strings?
And how far would Janet go to protect him?