Chapter 8
Bobby ‘Bit’ Nowacki
The low thrum of alternative rock drifted through the van, the steady bass line syncing with the rhythm of Bit’s concentration as lines of code streamed across his monitors.
He’d parked in front of the house Heather Moore once owned, though the black Sprinter probably stood out like a bruise in the snow.
In the city, it blended in easily enough.
Just another delivery van lost in traffic.
But here, it was a curiosity on an otherwise quiet street.
Fortunately, Sylvie was still canvassing the neighborhood.
He wasn’t too worried about someone calling it in.
If a deputy did happen to swing by, all Bit had to do was flash his credentials. One look inside would confirm it wasn’t some random tech van—it was a fully equipped surveillance command center used by one of D.C.’s most respected investigative firms.
Every inch of the van’s interior bore his handiwork.
A narrow workbench lined one wall, cluttered with monitors, routers, and the neatly coiled cables he treated like art.
Three twenty-seven-inch screens glowed softly in front of him, casting a faint blue light over matte-black panels and soundproof insulation.
A compact server tower hummed beneath the counter, adding to the heat already competing with the portable space heater near his boots.
For added comfort, he’d made sure a pair of lockable rolling stools fit neatly under the workbench.
The van was even equipped with a minifridge positioned in the back corner.
The opposite wall held a rack of compact surveillance gear, secured for transport—lenses, scanners, GPS receivers—all wired into a mobile signal booster strong enough to stream data from the middle of nowhere.
Still, Bit would’ve preferred being back at the cabin, where he’d spent most of the night putting together a makeshift workstation from folding tables and spare server racks. By the time he was done, there was barely enough space to sidestep between the equipment and the bed.
He’d even managed to link the network array and set up a motion-triggered perimeter alarm before finally catching a few hours of sleep.
The system would ping his phone the instant anyone came within fifty yards of the cabin.
It was unfortunate, but the hardware he’d hauled from D.C.
was worth more than most homes in Harrowick.
The growl of his stomach forced him to make his way back up front. Once he was settled into the driver’s seat, he peered through the tinted window. Sylvie was knocking on the front door three houses down.
She was built for fieldwork.
Easy smile.
Disarming charm.
Bit preferred his world of cables and code, where the truth came in data packets, not half-truths and hesitation.
While she gathered snippets of half-forgotten memories, his application was combing through archived versions of Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts dating back to 2014 and 2015.
Connections, mutual friends, check-ins, photos, it was all being analyzed and cross-referenced for any overlap between the victims.
He reached for the bag of Twizzlers right as Sylvie stepped inside the residence.
As he pulled out a red, braided stick, he studied the immediate area.
A thick layer of snow covered the lawns, and there were still patches of the packed white powder on the streets.
The sun wouldn’t have time to melt them, since another stormfront was due in the next few days.
He fixed his gaze on the blue house as he took a bite of the chewy snack, wondering if Sylvie was having any success getting the neighbors to open up. He could barely remember what he’d been doing eleven years ago, let alone someone else.
As he stuffed the bag into the cup holder, an unfamiliar face suddenly appeared directly outside the passenger window. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he ended up dropping his Twizzler stick.
“What the hell?”
Bit had muttered the question under his breath once he realized the face belonged to an elderly woman.
Her silver hair was in a perfect bob, and she had pale blue eyes that seemed to study him with unnerving intensity.
Before he could fully recover from the shock, she pulled open the passenger door, unleashing a blast of frigid air that swept through the van like an arctic wave.
The woman might be old, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous. He rested his hand on his holstered weapon as she climbed into the passenger seat, albeit very ungracefully. The door closed behind her with a solid thunk.
“You must be with the folks staying in Bernard’s cabins.
I’m Paula Stillman." She wasn’t apologetic in the least as she began to remove a pair of thick, red mittens.
The sudden, overwhelming scent of Bengay ointment immediately made his eyes water.
“Eugene told everyone that you aren’t with the FBI, but… ”
Paula peered over her shoulder to get a better view of the equipment.
She nodded to herself, as if she now had inside information.
“Um, we’re not—”
“Save it,” Paula exclaimed bluntly while Bit glanced desperately out the windshield for any sign of Sylvie. Unfortunately, the front door of the house that she’d gone into remained firmly closed. “What’s your name, sonny?”
“Bit.” He immediately regretted giving her his name when her eyebrows arched toward her red knit pom hat. “I mean, Bobby Nowacki. People just call me Bit.”
“Bit,” Paula repeated flatly, the name clearly failing to impress her. “And what is it you do, Bit, besides sit in expensive vans watching people's houses?”
“I’m a tech specialist.” Bit wiped his hands against his jeans, wondering how much he should share. “I analyze digital information.”
This wasn’t how interviews were supposed to go, and Bit once again gave a sideways glance down the street. There was still no sign of Sylvie. Maybe he should text her an SOS.
“Ms. Stillman, I—”
“Mrs.,” Paula corrected sharply. “I've been a widow for twelve years. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I’m single.
Anyway, I live across the street. Have done for forty-seven years.
Nothing changes around here without me knowing about it.
So, tell me, Bit, what exactly do you want to know about that poor girl? ”
Paula Stillman's expectant stare bore into Bit like a drill press. He'd worked with some mean Russian racketeers before, but this eighty-something-year-old woman with her perfect silver bob made his palms sweat.
“Um, well, we’re hoping that someone remembers something from back then.
Anything that could help us,” Bit said, somehow finding his investigative footing despite the bizarre circumstances.
“Did you ever notice anyone or anything unusual? A vehicle that seemed out of place? Someone walking the neighborhood who didn’t belong? ”
Paula didn’t immediately answer his questions.
Instead, her gaze traveled over his beanie, his faded Last of Us t-shirt, before landing back on his face.
The judgment in her expression was unmistakable.
She peered over her shoulder again at the equipment behind them, taking in the multiple monitors and blinking lights.
“Come to think of it, those look expensive. More advanced than what the FBI could probably afford.” Paula nodded to herself once again, though Bit had no idea what opinion she’d just formed.
She settled more comfortably into the passenger seat as if preparing for a long conversation.
“Let’s get to it, then. Heather was a creature of habit.
Left for the elementary school at exactly seven fifteen every morning.
Home by four thirty. Lights out by ten. You could set your watch by that girl. ”
The Bengay scent seemed to intensify with each passing minute. The strong odor made it difficult for him to recall the interview techniques that Brook had taught him over the years.
“Did she have many visitors?”
“A couple of friends who were born and raised here,” Paula replied as she adjusted her knit scarf.
It was the red and black polka dot winter jacket that had his eyes crossing over every now and then.
He did his best to keep his focus on her face.
“Lindsay Sharpe and Steph Maddox. Always together, those two.
They'd bring wine. Not that I'm one to judge, but they certainly weren't shy about having a second bottle.”
Now that they were having a somewhat normal conversation, some of the awkwardness faded. Bit shifted so that he could use the driver’s side door to rest against.
“Heather’s parents would also stop in from time to time, too. Her father would check things around the house. Change lightbulbs, that sort of thing.” Paula’s gaze drifted to the half-empty bag of Twizzlers resting in the center console. “I'll take one.”
It wasn't a request.
Bit awkwardly offered the bag, and she extracted a single red strand with deliberate precision. She examined it briefly, as if assessing its quality, before taking a substantial bite. The sound of her teeth chomping through the candy seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space.
Bit retrieved a Twizzler for himself, grateful for the momentary distraction.
He chewed mechanically, still scanning the street for Sylvie.
“As to your previous question, nothing out of the ordinary. No unusual vehicles, no one lurking outside. On the other hand, Heather would leave her house every Thursday night,” Paula said between bites. “Around seven o'clock. She'd be gone for about ninety minutes, give or take.”
Bit stopped chewing, suddenly alert. Regular, predictable absences hadn't been mentioned in the case files. At least, not that he could recall.
“Every Thursday?”
Paula nodded, taking another bite of her Twizzler.