Chapter 29
Emery
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee and four words from finishing my crossword puzzle when Isla saunters into the kitchen, puffy eyed.
“I thought you were sleeping in today.” We didn’t make it home from last night’s practice until after midnight.
She had already harangued Logan into mucking Biscuit’s stall for her, so she didn’t have to get up.
“That was the plan.” She reaches for her mug. “I woke up at six and couldn’t fall back asleep.”
“Your internal clock is set.” I was never one to sleep in late either. Not like Logan. As teenagers, I’d wait hours for him to roll out of his bed.
I say this and yet I know that’s likely not what’s interrupting her sleep.
At least it’s not only that. It’s also thoughts of her best friend and what might have happened to her.
It’s misplaced guilt, and worry, and sadness.
I know because I lived through this once, many years ago.
The stories might be different, but the fallout is the same. In every version, loved ones suffer.
I’ve heard Isla up at night, rifling through the fridge, though there are never any plates or crumbs the next morning, no evidence that she’s eaten. Isla’s always been lean and muscular, but the other day I noticed a shirt that was fitted now seems loose.
“Whatever. I have to do a math assignment and then I have a short shift at the market, and then Dad’s coming to get me to leave for hockey. When are we going to Sullivan’s for our tree?”
It takes me a beat to follow her stream of thought as it skips along like a flat stone over water, only to veer suddenly.
“Do we really need one this year?” It’s not much of an event with my parents gone and it’s so much work, driving out to the tree farm—owned by Logan’s Aunt Rhonda and Uncle Bobby—strapping it onto the roof, bringing it home and decorating it, only to have it sit in a silent house.
Isla stops mid-pour to stare at me in horror.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “How about next weekend? That way it’ll be fresh for Christmas.”
She returns to filling her mug, her momentary panic fading. “Are you working that day?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” I’ve actually booked time off this year. The last few Christmas Days, I’ve covered shifts to give my officers time off with their young kids. Isla always spends the day at Dillon’s with Donna’s overflowing family, before we head next door and join the fray for dinner.
This year, though, with Logan home and Holly still missing …
Terry and Schmidt didn’t get far with Axel Murphy.
CCTV footage from a bank down the street from his place showed his tow truck passing by at around 12:15 a.m., presumably after dropping Hank off at home.
Cameras didn’t pick up the truck passing by again until nine the next morning, and they didn’t see his black Ford either.
It doesn’t mean he couldn’t have left his place again, but he would have had to take a long detour to get back to the Bale House.
As expected, Axel refused to answer questions.
Isla wasn’t much help when I asked, though she did confirm that Holly knew Axel through her friendship with Kyle and that he’d given her a ride a few times. It’s far from a smoking gun, but it does confirm that they weren’t strangers.
“I was thinking I could spend all of Christmas here this year instead of going to Dad’s,” Isla says.
“Oh.” I pause. “Is there a reason?”
She shrugs. “I just feel like staying close to home.”
If I had to guess, it has more to do with not wanting to deal with the onslaught of conversation around Holly’s case that her stepmother’s family will no doubt stir. “It’s totally up to you. You’re old enough to choose.” Selfishly, I’m happy she’s choosing me.
“Dad’s gonna put up a fight, though.”
I reach back to rub an exceptionally sore spot on my neck. “You let me handle your dad.” Fighting with him is what I’m good at. But maybe after I get a massage.
She nods, as if deciding something. “I think it’ll be fun over at the Landrys. Annie said she’s going all out.”
“That’s what you want to do? Spend Christmas over there?”
“Yeah, I think so. They feel like family. Way more than Donna’s people.” She hesitates. “Don’t you want to spend it with Logan?”
That feels like a loaded question. What have those two been talking about during their early-morning muck sessions? Surely not a certain transgression. But does she suspect anything?
After my meltdown in the tack room with Logan that night, our paths have crossed a handful of times for one reason or another, and our exchanges have been superficial but not unpleasant. “Sure.” It’s the safest answer.
Isla wanders over to the kitchen window. It’s a sunny day with a crisp blue sky and not so much as a hint of a breeze. Cold, but beautiful. “Jon’s brother and family are flying over from Calgary. He said we should have enough players for a—” She stops mid-sentence, her jaw hanging.
“What’s wrong?”
“That rat!” Slamming her mug on the counter, Isla bolts for the mudroom, shedding her robe and leaving it sprawled on the floor.
Duke struggles to heave his arthritic body off the grate to follow her.
“What are you doing?” I listen to zippers unfurling and cupboards slapping, while getting no answer. By the time I climb out of my seat, Isla has jammed her boots on and is running out the door with her coat in one hand and her skates in the other.
“It’s minus fifteen out there!” I holler, moving to the window she abandoned.
Isla charges across the field to the Landrys’ side, to where Thomas skates laps around the rink Jon and Logan built together.
Jon’s been out flooding and checking the surface of that thing every day in his usual obsessive manner, waiting for ideal ice so they can have their annual ceremonial ribbon-cutting ceremony.
With such a nice morning, I guess Thomas didn’t want to wait anymore.
I head for my coat and boots.
Four tall male figures lean against the boards, watching the kids skate. It’s the one on the far right—dressed in a heavy army-green parka and knit cap—that makes me take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
“I’ll bet this brings back memories,” I say by way of greeting, sidling up at the end of the row. For years, Jay and Logan would build an ice pad in this exact spot. We’d spend hours on it after school and on weekends.
Logan turns to regard me, and flutters stir in my stomach.
The thick stubble has morphed into a tidy beard and, while I would never choose to cover up that beautiful angular jaw of his, this new rugged version suits him well.
Because that’s what I needed in my life—a more attractive version of Logan that I can’t have.
“This?” He points at the super rink. “This does not bring back memories.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. It’s a bit more elaborate.” All we used way back when was a tarp and some two by fours, and our ice pad was a third the size.
Isla put her skates on in record time today and is racing Thomas.
“Hey!” I hold out her hat, scarf, and a better pair of gloves for her to grab on her way past.
“Jon doesn’t know how to do basic.” Holt shakes his head, but I know he secretly loves the effort. The first year Jon sprayed a giant North Country Bison logo at center ice, I must have caught Holt staring at the thing every morning for a month.
Jon looks up from his iPad, a hint of a toque peeking out from the rim of his cowboy hat. The others have forgone theirs for knit hats to ward off the cold, but not Jon. It’s a whole aesthetic for him. “Hey, stranger. It’s been a few weeks.”
“You know how it goes.” I nod at Jack. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I’ve been around, digging up stumps. You’re the one who seems to be avoiding me.” He flashes that grin. The Barrow boys have never held back on flirting with me since the moment they were teenagers. I guess Logan standing here isn’t going to change that.
“How’s Olivia?”
“She’s good. She’s inside, putting on warmer clothes before she comes out to skate.”
“Oh, that’s great!” And a surprise that Jack’s ex-wife would allow it. She’s so anxiety-riddled, she won’t even let the poor kid toboggan. I doubt she has any idea about this.
Isla speeds past Thomas again, this time cutting in front of him.
“You don’t have any equipment on!” I holler in warning.
And her coat is hanging open. But the wide, genuine smile, a rarity these days, is distracting enough that I’m not too worried about anything else.
For a moment, Isla is ten years old again and marveling at having her own personal—enormous—rink next door.
The weight of the world is gone from her shoulders.
“I’m fine! Hey, Logan, you getting your skates on or what!” She throws her hands up in challenge.
“Maybe later.” Adding quietly, “When I can embarrass myself in private.”
“Where are the twins, anyway?” They’d normally be out here too—one of the few times I see them excited to do anything that doesn’t involve a video game.
“Brooks is dragging his ass with his morning chores and Carson’s milking his injuries for as much screen time as possible,” Jon murmurs, distracted by whatever he’s searching for in the camera feed.
“Injuries?”
Logan shifts closer, and I instantly feel the pull toward him. “You know those old cartoons where the coyote steps on a rake and gets hit in the face?”
“Yeah …”
“Except with Carson, it was a snow shovel, and he stomped on it as hard as he could. The metal handle flew up and broke his nose. Also got him here.” He gestures between his eyes. “Three stitches. He looks like he’s been in a brawl.”
I wince. “Hopefully he learned a lesson?”
“Unlikely. But at least I’ll be able to tell them apart now.” His eyes search my face. “How are you doing?”
I shrug. “Busy. Work and Christmas and all that.” I’ve barely given the holiday season any thought.
He checks over his shoulder and then drops his voice. “Before you take off, can we talk? I’ve gotta run something by you. I wanna see what you think about—”