Chapter 10 Louise
LOUISE
By the next morning, I was driving through a snowstorm on less than an hour of sleep, headed to a private investigation firm I’d only learned about because two cowboys were discussing it over flapjacks at the diner.
After breakfast, I told Miles and the others I had a few things to follow up on, and we went our separate ways.
The weatherman hadn’t lied—Winter Storm Barron had arrived with a vengeance. The sleet had returned after midnight, followed by ice, then two inches of snow, with more expected over the next twenty-four hours. It wasn’t just bad weather—it was the kind that made everything feel quiet and dangerous.
My time at the Towering Pines Motel was up.
I’d only reserved three nights, and unlike Miles, Austin, and Margie, I hadn’t thought to extend my stay.
After an hour of calling every hotel within a fifty-mile radius, I finally booked the last available room—a suite at a five-star resort just outside town.
Way out of my budget. I’d figure out how to pay for it later.
Wipers shrieked across the windshield, metal scraping ice. I squinted through the snow, creeping along at twenty miles an hour, gripping the wheel with damp palms. I’d never driven in a blizzard before, but I assumed this counted.
The map on my phone said I was still on track, though I was beginning to question the decision.
I’d expected the PI firm to be tucked somewhere in town—maybe nestled next to a dry cleaner or a nail salon.
But according to the address, it was buried deep in the woods, in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
That should’ve been my first red flag.
Ansel, my ever-loyal beater of a car, handled the roads decently until we hit the true backroads—narrow, winding stretches of dirt that hadn’t seen a plow or another vehicle all morning. The snow was piling fast, and so was the dread curling in my stomach.
This was either a brilliant move... or the beginning of a very bad one.
According to the maps app on my phone, I had five more minutes until my destination.
I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel and chugged the rest of the hot chocolate I’d gotten at a gas station/feed store an hour earlier.
The foam and sprinkles had melted into a thick, cold whip that stuck to my upper lip.
I licked it off, then checked the map again.
“Make the next right in point two miles,” the woman with an Australian accent told me.
I squinted as I turned onto the dirt road, thinking there was no way this was the right direction. How would an Australian know these back roads anyway?
“Destination is five hundred feet on your left . . .”
A large structure came into view, an inky blackness against swirling snow. It was a long steel building resembling a large workshop, nestled in a thicket of trees. Hard to see, unless you were looking for it. No windows, no landscaping, no sign out front. Private, indeed.
Huh.
I braked, considering my options. Deciding I didn’t have any, I pressed on.
I parked next to a blacked-out Chevy with no tags.
Next to it was a black Ford Superduty with massive tires.
Next to that, a black SUV that reminded me of a presidential detail.
And nestled under a massive oak tree was a charcoal-gray Maserati that I was sure wouldn’t make it past the last mountain I’d climbed.
Double-huh.
I checked the address one more time—yep, right place. So I tossed my keys into my backpack, yanked up my hood, and stepped out.
A gust of wind blew past me, spinning snow around my face.
I dipped my head and darted across the gravel parking lot, slipping on a rock and catching myself against the trunk of a tree.
After a quick breath, I walked to the front door, barely noticeable if not for the silver handle.
A buzzing sound had me looking up where a camera was slowly spinning toward me.
I tried the knob. Locked.
Looked for a doorbell. None.
I took a step back, squinting at the door that in tiny letters across the middle that read:
Astor Stone, Inc.
This was definitely the place. I looked over my shoulder at the vehicles and noted that two were clear of snow, meaning someone had to be there.
I pounded on the door. Nothing.
I pounded again, this time harder. Still nothing.
As I raised my fist to knock again, the door flung open. Behind it was the biggest man I’d ever seen in my life.
I stumbled back a step.
He wore one of those obnoxious bare-chest T-shirts—the kind designed to look like you weren’t wearing a shirt at all.
His featured an American flag bikini top stretched over an aggressively large pair of cartoonish breasts.
The ridiculous shirt clashed with the rest of him: sun-weathered skin, a sharp jaw dusted with scruff, and a pair of narrowed eyes that made it clear he was questioning my right to be standing on his front stoop.
He tilted his head, working the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “You got somethin’ on your lip,” he drawled, the Southern accent thick and unbothered.
I licked my lip. Chocolate sprinkles. Damn them.
He caught me looking at the boobs on his shirt.
“It’s funny-shirt day at work,” he clarified.
I glanced over his shoulder. “This is Astor Stone, Inc., right? The private investigation firm?”
He paused a moment, sweeping me with a look of both curiosity and amusement.
“Yep,” he said finally. “You found us.”
“Great.” I exhaled. “Can I come in?”
He continued to stare at me like he was trying to figure me out. Or eat me, I wasn’t sure which. He studied my red puffer jacket, my faded and baggy boyfriend jeans, and boots repaired with duct tape.
I shifted my weight.
“You got an appointment?”
The camera above me spun again, and I got the idea I was a laughingstock to whoever was watching me from the other side.
“No. I tried to call this morning—and I emailed—but I never got a response.”
His brow arched in a way that asked, Then why are you here?
“Listen. Sir. My name is Louise Sloane. My friend Kara Meyers was found dead not ten miles from here. I get the vibe the cops have dropped the case, and I’m not willing to accept that. So, here I am. I want to hire a private investigator because my friend deserves justice.”
He spun the toothpick between his lips, studying me for a beat before stepping aside and pulling the door open. “Bad weather comin’.”
I stepped into a blast of warm air that smelled faintly of burned wires and plastic. “Pretty sure it’s already here.”
“No, ma’am. Forecast says more ice. Then a foot of snow on top.”
The door shut behind me with a heavy thud—followed by the mechanical click of multiple locks engaging. Unease coiled low in my gut.
I followed him across a small, slate-gray waiting room with a few plastic chairs and absolutely no decor. He keyed in what had to be a twenty-digit code before unlocking another door that opened into a long, dim hallway.
Ahead, a door slammed open—and three sharp cracks split the air.
I stopped in my tracks. “Were those gunshots?”
He didn’t even glance back. “Target training.”
Target training? What kind of PI firm was this?
I glanced up. A nest of multicolored wires crawled across the ceiling between exposed beams and metallic insulation that shimmered slightly in the low light.
Toothpick Guy gestured me into a small room off the hall. It looked like an interrogation room—blinding white walls, a single table, two metal chairs, and a rectangular window looking out into the corridor. Not a single picture. Not a smudge.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Be right back.”
The door shut. And locked.
I stood alone in the center of the sterile room, arms crossed tightly around myself. A soft tick, tock, tick, tock echoed from somewhere I couldn’t place. No clock in sight.
A low buzz sounded overhead. I looked up just as a small security camera slowly rotated to aim straight at me.
The hair on my arms lifted.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.