Chapter 10
An icy wind bit into Julie’s face as she made her way across the resort’s construction site on Finley Point.
Morning sun glinted off Flathead Lake in the distance, turning the water brilliant blue against the surrounding mountains.
Three days had passed since Cole’s visit to her cottage, and she’d spent that time reviewing old police reports, studying environmental impact assessments, and relearning how to piece together a story from fragments.
Deputy Marcus Webb walked beside her, his khaki uniform crisp despite the early hour. He’d agreed to meet her here after she’d called the sheriff’s department, using Cole’s name as a reference.
“I appreciate you making time for this,” Julie said.
Marcus shrugged, his hand resting casually on his duty belt. “Sheriff Thompson said to give you whatever cooperation we can. Though I’ll be honest, Ms. Harrison, we’re not going to solve this case by walking around the site one more time.”
“Maybe not.” Julie stopped where yellow caution tape marked off the damaged excavator. “But it never hurts to look with fresh eyes.”
“I suppose.” Marcus pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “The sheriff wanted me to mention something, though. Off the record.”
Julie waited.
“We’ve seen this kind of thing before. Not here, but over in Whitefish and up near Glacier.
Environmental groups are getting carried away, thinking they’re protecting the wilderness by destroying equipment.
” He met her gaze directly. “I’m not saying that’s what’s happening here.
But you should know that people do stupid things when they feel strongly about land use. ”
“Has any group claimed responsibility for what’s been happening?” Julie asked.
“Not yet, but give it time.” Marcus gestured at the equipment. “This wasn’t random vandalism. Whoever did this knew how to cause the maximum damage with minimum effort.”
Julie moved closer to the excavator, studying the cut hydraulic lines and the fuel tank where sugar had been poured. Marcus was right about the precision. This wasn’t teenage mischief or drunken destruction. Someone had targeted specific systems with deliberate intent.
She crouched down, examining the ground beneath the machine.
The spring mud showed boot prints, though weather and construction traffic had muddled most of them.
She pointed to a pattern pressed into the softer earth near the tree line.
“Did anyone photograph the tire tracks over there?” Julie asked.
Marcus checked his notebook. “They were photographed a few hours after the call came in.”
Julie continued searching outside the cordoned-off area. Apart from a few cigarette butts and an empty soda can, nothing felt wrong for a construction area.
A voice called out from across the site. Julie looked up and saw a man in his early sixties approach them. He wore a bright orange safety vest over a flannel shirt, with a radio clipped to his belt.
“Morning, Deputy,” the man called. Then, to Julie, “You’re the journalist Cole mentioned?”
“That’s right. I’m Julie Harrison.”
“Ryan Kowalski.” He extended his hand. “I’m one of the surveyors. I’ve been working on this site for the last few months.”
Julie frowned. The man’s name was familiar. “Are you any relation to Beth Kowalski?”
“Beth’s my sister,” Ryan told her. “She mentioned that you’re in a cooking class together.”
Small-town connections, Julie thought. Everyone was related to or connected with everyone else. It made investigating Cole’s case even more complicated.
“I was hoping to talk with the staff who’ve been working here,” Julie said. “If you have the time, I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”
Ryan glanced at the deputy, who nodded. “Go ahead. I need to check in with the sheriff anyway.” The deputy walked toward his cruiser, already pulling out his radio.
When he was out of earshot, Julie turned back to Ryan. “Tell me about the night of the sabotage. Were you here that day?”
“I got here at about eleven o’clock that morning, and left around six.” Ryan adjusted his safety vest. “We were working on the foundation markers for the main building. I didn’t see anything unusual. The site was secure when I locked up.”
Julie knew the police report had said the same thing. “Who else has keys to the security gates?”
“Cole, obviously. Noah, his project manager. The security company that looks after the BioTech buildings farther around the point. They have them in case they see anything odd. And Graham Tully, the general contractor.”
Julie wrote their names in her notebook. “Have there been any disagreements on site? Arguments with workers, or problems with local suppliers?”
Ryan hesitated, and Julie recognized the look. He wanted to be helpful but didn’t want to speak out of turn.
“It’s all right,” she said gently. “I just need to understand what’s been happening here.”
“There was some tension a few weeks back,” Ryan admitted. “One of the equipment operators got fired. He’d been showing up late, and Noah caught him drunk on the job. The guy made some threats when he left. He said Cole would regret treating local workers like disposable labor.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Doug something. Waterson, maybe? I can check the records if you need me to.”
“That would be helpful,” Julie told him. “Did you tell the police about the disagreement?”
Ryan shook his head. “I was away when the police interviewed everyone. Sheriff Thompson said she’d call me to arrange another time to talk, but no one’s called.”
Julie made another note on her phone. She was slipping back into her old habits without meaning to. She was asking questions that built on each other, watching for inconsistencies, and noting what people said and what they carefully didn’t say.
“What do you think about the resort?” she asked Ryan. “I won’t repeat what you say.”
Ryan considered the question. “I think it will be good for the area. Cole’s not like some developers I’ve worked for.
The resort design incorporates a lot of community feedback.
” Ryan paused. “But I also understand why some folks are worried. Change is hard, especially when you’ve lived here your whole life. ”
“Are you from Sapphire Bay?”
“Born and raised. Fourth generation.” Pride colored Ryan’s voice. “My great-grandfather homesteaded land about ten miles from here. So I understand both sides. We need jobs and economic growth. But we also don’t want to lose what makes this place special.”
Julie understood that tension more than she wanted to admit.
She’d seen communities transformed by development, but there was a fine line between retaining the character of an area and making it look like every other development.
She’d also seen towns slowly die when economic opportunities dried up and young people moved away.
“Thanks for your time.” Julie pulled a business card out of her pocket. “If you think of anything else, here’s my email address and phone number.”
Ryan took the card. “You might want to speak to the people who own property around Finley Point. Some have been more upset than others about the development.”
Julie frowned as Ryan returned to his work. She didn’t recall seeing any interviews with the resort’s neighbors, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been any.
She spent another thirty minutes walking around the site, taking photos, and making notes about access points and sightlines. The more she looked, the more questions she had.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Cole: Any progress?
Some leads to follow, she typed back. I’ll see you this evening.
Julie had the rest of the day to put together what she’d found. She was sure most of it would be useful, even the information the police had dismissed as circumstantial.
But more importantly, she’d proven to herself that she could still investigate a story. Still make a difference in people’s lives.
Deputy Webb was waiting by her car when she returned. “Did you find what you needed?”
“I’m getting there.” Julie unlocked her door. “Thanks again for your help, Marcus.”
“Just be careful, Ms. Harrison.” Marcus’ voice deepened. “Whoever did this, they’re not going to appreciate someone poking around. Small towns can be funny about outsiders asking questions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As she drove back toward town, Julie was already sorting through what she’d learned.
The fired equipment operator was an obvious lead and was worth tracking down.
But there were other threads too. The environmental groups Marcus had mentioned, local opposition to the development, and competing business interests.
Plenty to investigate. Plenty to fill her days with purpose.
The realization hit her as she turned onto the highway. She felt alive. Energized in a way she hadn’t since before the layoff. Her brain was working, solving puzzles, connecting dots. She had questions to answer and people to interview and a story to uncover.
And it absolutely terrified her.
Because what happened when this investigation ended?
When Cole’s mystery was solved and she had nothing left to dig into?
Would she slip back into that hollow existence of rejection emails and empty afternoons, baking bread she didn’t really want to eat, and walking along a lake that felt more like a beautiful prison than a peaceful refuge?
Julie gripped the steering wheel tighter.
She’d spent months telling herself that her journalism career was over, that she needed to accept retirement gracefully and find new purpose.
But the last few days had shown her the truth.
She didn’t know how to be anything else.
Didn’t know who Julie Harrison was without questions to ask and stories to tell.
Her driveway appeared around a curve. The cottage she was renting was small and temporary against the vast Montana landscape. Just like everything else in her life right now.
She parked and sat in the silence, staring at the structure that wasn’t home and might never be. Then she grabbed her notebook and went inside, already planning the next pages of Cole’s report.
Because whether it terrified her or not, she was good at this. And maybe, for now, that was enough.