Chapter 14 #2
As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she shifted to the right so that Sylvie could enter, as well.
The interior was a craftsman's haven—tools hung in precise arrangements on pegboards, each implement polished and maintained with obvious care.
Sawdust covered the floor in a fine layer, except for clear pathways that had been swept between workstations.
Pieces of furniture in various stages of completion occupied the space.
She spotted a rocking chair missing its seat, the skeleton of what might become a bookcase, and a dining set with three completed chairs and one still in progress.
The air inside held the rich, complex aroma of different woods—oak, cherry, pine—mingling with the sharper notes of varnish and wood stain. A small wood-burning stove in the corner explained the smoke she’d spotted from the roof, its heat creating a pocket of welcoming warmth.
“What can I do for you, folks?”
Brett Sorsdal stood at a workbench near the far wall, his hands moving with practiced precision as he guided a carving tool along the back of an unfinished chair.
He hadn’t bothered to shift his gaze as they entered, his focus seemingly absorbed by the intricate pattern emerging under his careful attention.
Brook noticed that his hair was longer than what his DMV picture displayed, and he’d allowed a beard to grow since his renewal.
“Mr. Sorsdal, I'm Brooklyn Sloane, and this is my colleague, Sylvie Deering.” Brook didn’t like having her back so close to the front entrance, so she advanced around the left side of the shed, mindful of a small stack of wooden planks next to the wall.
“I’m sure you’ve already heard, but we’re looking into Heather Moore's murder.”
“You mean you’re looking for the Photograph Killer here in Harrowick,” Brett amended, the carving tool pausing for just a heartbeat before resuming its methodical path along the wood. “I wish I could help you, but I already told everything to the police eleven years ago.”
“We were hoping for some fresh insights.” Brook had moved close enough to the workbench to notice the slight tension building in his broad shoulders. “Heather's parents mentioned that you and she were close.”
A sound that might have been a laugh escaped him, though it carried no humor.
“Brian and Jillian always did have active imaginations when it came to their daughter's social life.” Brett leaned slightly forward and blew sawdust from the carving.
“We weren't close like that. Just friends, and not even the kind who met up for a beer. We went to high school together, acknowledged each other at church, and sometimes ran into each other at the diner.”
“Did you notice anyone unusual around town in the weeks before Heather was killed?” Despite the question, Brook kept her tone conversational. By this time, Sylvie had moved closer to the wood-burning stove. “Or maybe hear about anyone who had taken an interest in her?”
Brett’s focus finally switched from his project to her. She was startled by the color of his eyes. Blue, but with a crystal tint that made them appear as if they were tiny pieces of broken glass.
“You have someone in mind?”
“Figg Whitlow.”
Brett frowned, as if that was the last name he expected to hear from her.
He slowly shook his head at the thought.
“Let’s just say Heather wasn’t Figg’s type.”
Sylvie had filled Brook in on her conversation with Lindsay and Stephanie, and the two women had claimed the same. Whatever Figg and Heather were arguing about in the school’s parking lot hadn’t been personal.
“Look, I've got orders to fill and daylight's burning. I don't know anything that could help you solve her murder, so you're wasting your time here. Heather taught art. She went to church. She died. That's all I know.”
Brett had described a life reduced to its barest outline, devoid of the details that might lead to uncomfortable revelations.
She had encountered this strategy countless times during interviews, the instinctive human response to protect what mattered by saying as little as possible.
He had cared for her, even if it was only from a distance.
“Were you aware that Heather taught Thursday night art classes at a reentry program for former felons?”
“No, but then again, that doesn’t surprise me.
Heather used to save every stray that strolled through this town.
” Brett began focusing on his project, silently conveying that the conversation was coming to an end.
“She probably didn’t want her parents to know about it, though I’m sure if you ask Lindsay or Steph, they can fill you in on any details. ”
Brook kept to herself that not even Heather’s best friends had been aware of her decision to volunteer for such a program. Apparently, she had believed they wouldn’t approve of her being surrounded by former felons, either.
A soft creaking sound drew Brook's attention to the workshop doorway.
A young man stood there, his frame silhouetted against the gray afternoon light.
He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, though something in his posture and expression suggested a disconnection from his physical age.
His gaze was intensely fixed on Sylvie with undisguised curiosity, his head tilted slightly as if trying to place her in some internal catalog of familiar faces.
“Zeke,” Brett's voice sharpened, the single word carrying both warning and command. “Go back inside the house.”
The young man didn't move, his attention still riveted on Sylvie. His hands fidgeted with the zipper of his too-large coat, pulling it up and down in a repetitive pattern that spoke of nervous energy or habit.
“Hello, Zeke,” Brook greeted softly, drawing his focus to her. “We’re here to discuss—”
“Zeke, I said go back to the house. Now.”
The man blinked, his hesitation evident.
He glanced back at Brook with an expression that might have held curiosity or recognition; she couldn't be certain which, before turning and shuffling back outside into the cold.
His departure left behind a tension that seemed to thicken the air in the workshop.
“My brother doesn't need to be involved in this,” Brett exclaimed, setting the carving tool down with deliberate care. “He wouldn’t understand what you're asking or why you're here, anyway.”
“It wasn’t my intention to upset him.” Brook wouldn’t have been opposed to hearing whatever Zeke had to say about Heather, though. “It was my understanding that your brother lived in a care facility.”
“I bring Zeke home for a week every so many months,” Brett replied, his posture softening marginally now that his brother had returned to the house.
“Zeke nearly drowned when he was four. He was underwater for almost eleven minutes before my father got him out.
He functions at about a ten-year-old's level on his good days.”
“I know how difficult being a caretaker can be,” Sylvie said, referring to when she took care of her father in the last few months of his life. “I also know those with Zeke’s condition tend to observe more than most. Is it possible that—”
“I understand you're just doing your job, but Zeke gets upset easily. Confused. He doesn't need strangers coming around asking questions about a woman who's been dead for eleven years.” Brett smoothed out his beard before gesturing toward the door. “I think it’s time you both left.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sorsdal,” Brook said, inclining her head toward Sylvie. “We’d better get back before the roads turn slick.”
Brett’s silence made it clear the interview was over. His posture had stiffened, his polite nod as much a dismissal as a gesture of gratitude. Brook didn’t press him. Some doors were best left unopened.
The air outside was heavier somehow, thick with the smell of damp wood and exhaust. Snow drifted down in broad, wet flakes, muffling the world into eerie stillness.
Their boots sank into the accumulating layer with soft crunches.
The gusts had died, yet the bare tree branches beyond the clearing seemed to whisper with movement.
Brook drew her coat tighter, her breath pluming in the air. The SUV’s windshield was now completely covered with a thick layer of snow. As she reached for the door handle, movement flickered in her periphery.
Zeke stood at the door’s window, framed by the dim glow from within.
His pale face was ghostly behind the glass, his expression unreadable.
When their eyes met, he lifted his hand and pressed it flat to the windowpane.
The gesture struck Brook as deliberately communicative rather than merely coincidental.
The faintest sheen of condensation formed beneath his palm before the curtain twitched, then fell back into place, sealing him from view. Somewhere between Brett’s measured calm and Zeke’s wordless stare lay something misaligned.
Something that hadn’t yet surfaced.