Five #2
When Helena arrived back at the police impound lot and garage, Trevor was waiting for her in the small office, his expression grim. Seeing him was a breath of fresh air after the tension of her meal with Uncle Rick. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until now.
“Hey. You been back long?” She glanced at the wall clock. It was nearing four thirty.
“Just now.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, Lark sitting obediently beside him, her white coat with its chocolate spots a stark contrast against the dark, greasy floor. “How’d it go with your uncle?”
“How’d the sting go?” They spoke in unison, the awkward moment stretching into a faint, shared smile.
Helena gestured for him to go first. “You first.”
Trevor sighed, his shoulders sagging as he leaned against the battered metal desk. “Mia wasn’t in the house, and the woman we caught won’t talk. We’re not back at square one, but it feels like it.” His gaze searched her face. “How’d your meal go?”
Helena’s stomach corkscrewed at the memory.
“It was…odd.” She filled him in on the conversation with Rick, the subtle implications about her father.
“The only thing I can think of heroic about my dad was his work as a firefighter. I do remember one story about him rescuing a girl from a burning barn when he was sixteen—the reason he said he wanted to be a firefighter. He ran in, got her out just before the whole thing collapsed.”
Trevor’s eyes brightened for a moment. “I know that story. Everyone does. Bruce Rutherford—town hero at sixteen. Helena, your dad was a good man. And if I’m being honest, he was my hero.
I spent some time with him on cases I worked, and he was amazing.
Loved you so much. Talked about you often.
He was proud of you.” He hesitated, the tips of his ears turning red. “I always wished…”
“What? What did you wish?” she prompted, the sudden vulnerability in his tone surprising her. She hadn’t realized how close he’d been to her father, how much Dad had meant to him. It struck her that she might not have known her father as well as she’d thought.
Trevor’s gaze dropped to his boots, a shadow passing over his face. “I wished he’d been my father. Mine was a drunk, walked out when I was young. I can barely remember him. But your dad…he was charismatic, humble, kind. Generous. Everything a good father, a good man, should be.”
Her heart tightened, a pang of grief cutting through her. She’d never considered that Trevor might be grieving Dad’s loss, too, that he might be struggling with the same sense of absence, the same longing for guidance and stability her father had provided.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I had no idea.” She hesitated, her mind flashing back to Uncle Rick’s cryptic warnings about her father.
“I don’t want to believe anything bad about my dad.
And, honestly, Uncle Rick didn’t want to go into details.
He had his chance to tear my dad’s memory down, but he didn’t take it. I pushed, but he didn’t budge.”
Trevor met her eyes, his expression steady. “I repeat, your dad was a good man, Helena. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
She managed a weak smile, appreciating the reassurance but unable to shake the unsettling thoughts Rick had stirred up.
“I just want to know the truth. About him. About Alicia. About these murdered college girls. What kind of person tortures women like that, stands back and watches as fire consumes them? And then your case—these people kidnapping pregnant girls, doing who knows what with their babies—illegally adopting them out or worse? What is wrong with this world?”
Trevor’s jaw tightened, his hand resting on Lark’s head for a moment as if drawing strength from the loyal dog beside him.
“It’s broken,” he said quietly. “But that’s why we do what we do.
We try to mend it, piece by piece, until it’s all made right.
We hold on to hope when it feels like there is none, and we seek out the truth. ”
Helena swallowed, his words hitting deeper than she expected. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d needed to hear that. She took a deep breath, feeling a small, tentative spark of determination rekindle within her. She would find out the truth—about Alicia, these murdered girls, and her father.
* * *
Trevor slowed the truck as they approached Wiley Construction, the sign out front, a faded green and white, a nod to the pine-dense mountains surrounding the small Colorado town.
The building itself was a two-story structure with rough-hewn timber siding and a gravel parking lot that crackled beneath the tires as he pulled in.
Helena sat beside him, her jaw tight, eyes scanning the lot for any sign of movement. Lark panted quietly in the back seat.
Trevor needed to interview Wiley for himself. He had been there the night Alicia went missing—and died.
As soon as Trevor opened his door, Lark bounded out, snout to the gravel, tail stiff and alert.
She circled the edge of the parking lot, nose twitching as she zeroed in on a cluster of stacked pallets near the side of the building.
Trevor followed her, Helena close behind.
Lark’s nose hit the ground, then lifted to the air, a low whine rumbling in her throat before she veered toward the far corner of the lot.
Trevor’s heart picked up its pace as Lark stopped near a silver Ford Bronco, the dog’s nose hovering over a few empty brake fluid bottles stacked beside the open hood.
The plastic sides were caved in, squeezed dry, and a greasy rag lay discarded beside them, dark with fresh stains.
She sniffed the bottles, then the ground near the tire, before looking up at Trevor with an expectant huff, her tail still held high, the fur along her spine bristling slightly.
Trevor stepped closer, his pulse quickening. Brake fluid had a distinctive, chemical odor that would catch the dog’s attention, but the intensity of her reaction made his gut clench. Lark didn’t alert without reason.