Chapter 10 #3
“Of course I'm taking her,” Nick replied, staring up at the barn's rafters where a sparrow had built its nest. They had no idea how lucky they were not to deal with shared custody of those eggs.
“I already promised Emma we'd go trick-or-treating in Pine Ridge. The houses are closer together there, which means a better candy haul.”
“And the festival?”
“Yes, I’m taking Emma to the festival,” Nick replied, his decision not up for discussion. After all, it was his weekend. “I won’t deprive her of the Ferris wheel and cotton candy, Karen. But I give you my word that I will not let our daughter out of my sight.”
“Fine. I can meet you halfway for the transfer."
Karen’s phrasing made their daughter sound like a package being handed off rather than a child navigating between homes.
The terminology twisted something inside of him, but it was a familiar ache he'd learned to live with a few years ago, not that he ever quite got used to it.
Their eight-year-old daughter wasn't cargo to be exchanged at county lines, yet three years post-divorce, that's exactly how these conversations framed her.
“Same place as usual?” Nick asked, keeping his voice level despite the internal friction. Hadley's presence made him acutely aware of his reactions, adding another layer of self-control to an already draining conversation.
“Yes. Four o'clock. Don't be late, either. I have plans that evening.”
Nick bit back the retort that formed automatically.
“I'll be there. Goodbye, Karen.”
He ended the call, taking a few seconds to compose himself before rejoining Hadley. She hadn't moved far, still circling the beam and taking pictures.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Nick gestured toward the initials. “Nothing you take can be used in a court of law.”
“You sound like a commercial,” Hadley muttered, though there didn’t seem to be any judgment in her tone.
“Don’t worry, Turner. There will not be a record of these photographs in any report.
If we need something in a professional capacity, I’ll either ask Old Man Gleason’s permission or get a warrant. ”
Nick didn’t have to tell her that the first choice wasn’t an option. He’d spoken to the man last year, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d voluntarily give law enforcement access to his property.
Hadley once again tucked her phone in the pocket of her blazer before making her way to the back of the barn. He followed her through the gap, this time angling his body to avoid the nail that had already claimed part of his shirt.
Outside, the afternoon light seemed almost harsh after the barn's filtered dimness. They walked silently to where their vehicles were parked, the air between them charged with unspoken questions.
“I should get back to the station,” Nick replied as he pulled the keys to the cruiser from his pocket. “But before you go, I’d like to know why you think Missy Claymont is part of a long string of abductions. And on that topic, are you suggesting we have a human-trafficking network in my county?”
Hadley came to a stop beside her SUV.
“No, I don’t think you’re dealing with a human-trafficking network.
” Hadley shaded her eyes with her hand. “But I do believe someone has been abducting young women from this area for forty to fifty years, possibly longer. They specifically target creative, ambitious girls who express desires to leave Whistlerun behind. The abductions cluster around harvest season, and the perpetrator uses the Threshing Man folklore as cover.”
Nick couldn't prevent the short laugh that escaped him, though it died quickly when he realized she was entirely serious.
“Hadley, you're suggesting we have a serial abductor who's been active for half a century. That would make our suspect—”
“Late sixties, early seventies now, yes,” Hadley finished for him. “I’m aware of how that sounds, but he would still fully be capable of continuing to abduct girls at that age.”
“Serial offenders typically escalate over time, not maintain the same pattern for decades.”
“The pattern exists. I’ve narrowed it down to eight young women with striking similarities in their backgrounds. All connected to this town, all vanishing during harvest season.”
Nick studied Hadley’s face, searching for signs that this theory was more about personal vindication than professional assessment.
If she were right, it would mean her brother had been wrongfully imprisoned for twenty years.
He might need to revise his earlier opinion of her professional motives being genuine.
“I'll keep an open mind,” Nick conceded for now. He pulled a business card from the front pocket of his shirt. He’d already jotted down his cell phone number on the back. “Do me a favor, though? Call me with updates. And if you need any backup or assistance, reach out to me.”
Hadley lowered her hand and took the card. She then opened her car door but paused before getting in, turning back to face him.
“By the way, how did you know I'd be here at Gleason's place?”
“I had the same training as you,” Nick replied, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Remember?”
Nick nodded in her direction before walking toward his cruiser. He kept to himself that his deputy had been in the convenience store when he overheard Hadley asking Rena whether Gleason would be attending Emanuel Telfort's funeral.
Small towns had their advantages. One of which was how information traveled faster than official channels. If Hadley was going to uncover a decades-old pattern of disappearances in Whistlerun, she'd need to remember that very few secrets stayed buried in Cane County.