Chapter 25
Sylvie Deering
Sylvie stood in the middle of Henry Quinn's workshop, her gaze sweeping over a space that defied her expectations.
The converted garage radiated warmth despite the January chill.
Unlike the chaotic jumble of tools she'd anticipated, each workstation formed its own pile of organization.
Disassembled electronics lined shelves in various stages of resurrection, each component tagged with handwritten labels that suggested both precision and patience.
The workshop told its own story about a man who had created order from circumstances beyond his control.
Theo shifted beside her, his gaze on the door that connected the garage to the house. Henry had initially greeted them before requesting they wait a moment while he took care of something. That something had obviously been his older brother.
Sylvie and Theo had been waiting for nearly five minutes, listening in on the muffled sounds of an argument. Their frustration with one another drifted through the parted door. The voices rose and fell in a familiar pattern of sibling discord, though only fragments reached them.
“—had no right to agree—” Tyler's voice, sharp with frustration, crossed through the opening.
“—my decision, not yours,” Henry responded, lower but equally firm. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Ty. You used to…”
Family dynamics were rarely simple, but the Quinn brothers seemed to exist in a constant state of protective collision.
Sylvie removed her leather gloves and tucked them into her jacket pocket.
This particular interview could be pivotal to their investigation, especially after what Principal Watkins had revealed about Henry's relationship with Loretta Whitlow.
The connecting door suddenly swung open with enough force to bounce against the interior wall. Henry Quinn appeared at the top of the short ramp, which he navigated down with practiced ease. He didn’t even bother to close the door behind him.
His upper body spoke of years of compensation. He had broad shoulders and thick forearms. He had a more athletic build than his brother, easily propelling himself forward while meeting her gaze.
His beard was neatly trimmed, framing a face that bore the same strong jawline as his brother's, though his features seemed somehow sharper, more deliberately arranged. His hair was shorter than Tyler's, almost militaristic in its precision.
“I’m sorry about that,” Henry said as he came to a stop maybe six feet from where she stood. “My brother has a strong opinion about my decision to speak with you.”
“It wasn’t our intention to cause problems.”
“I'd offer you seats, but as you can see, I don't entertain much.” He gestured around the workshop with a self-deprecating laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes.
“Most customers drop off their broken gadgets and come back when they're fixed. No need for me to spend the additional money on furniture that won’t be used.”
“We're fine standing,” Theo assured him, taking a position where he could monitor both Henry and the door to what appeared to be the kitchen.
Sylvie had done the same, though she also had a view of the other exits that led to the south side of the house.
“To be honest, Mr. Quinn, we were surprised to receive a call from your brother's lawyer saying you wanted to speak with us.”
Henry's hands rested easily on the wheels of his chair, but Sylvie noticed how his right thumb traced small circles on the metal rim. She couldn’t ascertain whether the response was a nervous habit or just a subconscious motion.
“Tyler means well,” Henry said after a moment. “He's spent most of his life trying to protect me. Unfortunately, his protective instincts don't extend to his own decision-making. Hence, his current legal troubles.”
“We assured your brother’s attorney that we wouldn’t speak about the hit-and-run,” Sylvie explained, wanting to steer away from that topic. “We do have several questions about Loretta Whitlow, though.”
The mention of the teacher's name caused a subtle shift in Henry's demeanor. There was a slight softening around his eyes, and the corner of his lip turned up in what seemed to be a tender smile. Whatever his connection to Loretta Whitlow had been, it clearly ran deep.
“I don’t know what I would have done if Ms. Whitlow hadn’t helped me back then.
And not just with schoolwork,” Henry amended, switching his attention between Sylvie and Theo, as if to ensure they understood just how deep their relationship went.
“Ms. Whitlow was the only bright spot during a very dark time. Six months in the hospital, learning how to live in this chair, and she showed up three times a week with assignments and books. Once those instructions were out of the way, she would sit with me for another hour, talking about anything and everything that didn’t involve my life sentence to this chair. ”
Henry’s fingers stilled on the wheelchair rim, and his gaze drifted momentarily to a framed certificate hanging on the far wall. It was his high school diploma. Beside that frame was another one from a tech school, where he’d learned the ins and outs of electronics.
“Would you say that you knew Ms. Whitlow well?”
“I was seventeen years old,” Henry replied wryly. “I didn’t even know myself.”
“Principal Watkins gave us a yearbook of Heather Moore’s senior year,” Theo revealed. “You were in several of those photographs, despite not being in her graduating class. Several pictures, in fact, with Ms. Whitlow.”
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but you have eyes.
One, at least,” Henry said, though his tone didn’t seem biting in the least. It was as if his own disability gave him a free ticket to comment on others.
“You really think that I would be capable of killing Heather? Or are you implying that Ms. Whitlow didn’t die of cancer? ”
“Ms. Whitlow did succumb to cancer. As for Heather Moore, you and I both know those two wheels are an inconvenience, not a barrier.” Theo was being bluntly honest, just as Henry had been with him.
The two seemed to take it as a sign of respect for one another.
“We’re not here to accuse you of murder, though.
As my colleague has already mentioned, we’re here to gather information about Loretta Whitlow. ”
“Why?”
“We believe Loretta Whitlow may be central to the killer's motive,” Sylvie said truthfully, monitoring Henry's reaction closely.
She and Theo had decided that since they were going to use the town hall meeting to their advantage tomorrow night, there was no reason to hold back with Henry.
“Sometimes when investigating cold cases, we look for emotional triggers that might have preceded the first murder.
Loretta's death could have been that trigger.”
“That makes no sense at all. Lots of people die. It doesn't turn their friends or family members into murderers.” Henry brought his last word up short, as if he figured out the motive for their questions. “Is this about Figg?”
“We didn’t say that, either,” Theo cautioned, though he didn’t technically answer Henry’s question. “Were there any students who took a particular interest in Loretta Whitlow? Anyone you can recall who seemed infatuated with her?”
“Not in that way,” Henry replied cautiously.
“Everyone loved Ms. Whitlow. I can’t recall a single student who didn’t sing the woman’s praises.
Look, Harrowick is a really small town. We moved out of there so Ty could be closer to work and I could be in an area with more customers.
But Harrowick is still home to us. We would have known if Ms. Whitlow was having trouble with someone. ”
“It's more specific than that.” Sylvie shared a glance with Theo, who nodded his agreement with what she was about to reveal. “Loretta Whitlow wore distinctive scarves, didn't she? Silk ones?”
Henry scoffed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as if relieved by the seemingly innocuous question.
“A lot of women wore scarves back then.”
“Not everyone wore silk ones,” Sylvie countered, her voice level despite the significance of what she was about to reveal.
“And not everyone favored yellow ones, as the killer did. The women who were murdered were all strangled with yellow silk scarves. Some of the pictures in the yearbook were black and white, so it was difficult to determine the colors Loretta Whitlow preferred to wear. The colored pictures showed her in burgundy, navy, pink, and red. Can you recall her wearing a yellow scarf?”
Henry's momentary hesitation spoke volumes. His eyes widened slightly before he controlled his expression, but the flash of recognition had been unmistakable.
His gaze slid toward a workbench where several antique radios sat in various states of repair.
His hands moved to the wheels of his chair once again, rotating them slightly as if he needed to physically shift away from the conversation.
The gesture seemed unconscious, more of a physical manifestation of mental withdrawal.
“Maybe once or twice,” Henry replied vaguely, as if he were attempting to piece together a long-forgotten memory. “Why would the killer be focused on a scarf, though?”
“We believe the unsub was fixated on Loretta Whitlow,” Theo corrected softly. “The scarf became a symbol of that fixation. Maybe she was wearing it during a significant moment in the unsub’s life.”
“And you think that I—”
“No, Mr. Quinn,” Sylvie replied, matching his directness.
“No one in a wheelchair could have maneuvered those crime scenes without being noticed. The logistics alone would have made it impossible. As we stated to your brother’s attorney yesterday, we were hoping you could recall something that stood out during your time with her. ”
Henry's expression remained guarded, but something in his shoulders relaxed marginally.
“You were close to Loretta in a way few others were. She spent more time with you than she did with any other student. Did you observe other students paying excessive attention to her? Maybe someone whose interest went beyond normal admiration.”
“She helped a lot of troubled kids,” Henry said, his tone defensive. “It was what made her special. She saw potential in students that everyone else had written off. That didn't—doesn’t—make them killers.”
“And once again, we're not suggesting it did,” Sylvie assured him. “We're simply trying to identify anyone who might have had an unhealthy attachment to her. Someone who might have been devastated by her death in a way that could have triggered violence.”
Henry's gaze drifted toward the connecting door. His expression became contemplative, weighted with unspoken thoughts.
“Henry, you claim that those living in Harrowick would know if someone capable of strangling four women was living among them. Did you ever imagine your brother would flee an accident scene to avoid a DUI?” Theo asked quietly, the question landing just as he’d intended.
The workshop fell silent except for the soft hum of the heating vents.
“It’s a sad fact that we only know what those intend for us to know. ”
After a tense moment, Henry shifted his attention back to Sylvie, his expression hardening with resolve. He rolled himself over to one of the benches and retrieved a pen and a notepad. He then positioned the pad of paper against his thigh.
“I can give you about fifteen names of people who thought the sun and moon set on Loretta Whitlow,” Henry said, not looking up as he wrote. “Students who lingered after class with transparent excuses. Even colleagues.”
Sylvie and Theo exchanged curious glances at Henry’s vague implication. Henry seemed to sense their interest, but he continued to write. When he was finished with the list, he tore the paper from its spiral holder and held it out for her to take.
“There used to be some rumors about a teacher whose marriage was somewhat rocky back then. He would always drop in the library when Ms. Whitlow would be tutoring students, and he even accompanied her to the hospital a few times after my accident.” Henry nodded toward the paper in Sylvie’s hand.
“You might want to start with him…Principal Watkins.”