Chapter 5
Brooklyn Sloane
The stone wall appeared first.
It ran alongside the road to Brook’s left, chest-high in some places, crumbling to knee-height in others, choked with ivy and wild growth.
The kind of barrier a family erected when they intended to stay, but neglect had turned it into something closer to suggestion than boundary.
The gaps were obvious, even from inside the SUV.
“That’s the entrance,” Sylvie murmured from the passenger seat, pointing toward a wide opening in the wall roughly thirty yards ahead. “I can see why someone would want to sell this place.”
Brook eased her foot down on the brake.
The entrance was flanked by two stone pillars that had once supported a gate. The hinges were still visible, rusted into the masonry, but the gate itself was gone.
She turned onto the unpaved drive.
The SUV’s tires settled into deep ruts, and old-growth trees closed overhead, blocking most of the midday light. The air coming through the vents shifted into something cooler and denser, bringing with it the strong scent of damp vegetation.
The main house emerged in the middle of the estate.
A stone mansion, two and a half stories, built from the same gray fieldstone as the perimeter wall.
A formal portico framed the front entrance, supported by heavy stone columns, and a wide set of stone steps led up to a recessed doorway with a weathered oak door.
The stonework of the structure was intact, the windows unbroken, the roof sound.
But ivy had climbed the front wall unchecked, reaching the second-floor windows, and the grounds had long since been surrendered to whatever chose to grow.
A pair of mud-caked boots sat on the top step beside a stack of clay pots, and a wooden chair had been dragged to the far end of the portico, angled toward the property as though someone spent their evenings there with nothing but the land for company.
Neglected, not abandoned.
One thing was for certain. Gwenyth Ellingham had stopped caring what the outside world thought of the place a long time ago. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if a judge ruled in favor of Dale’s request.
Beyond the house, a gravel path led toward the rear of the property, where the tree line thickened and surrounded other structures.
And there, partially obscured by overgrown hedges, was the greenhouse.
Sixty feet long, perhaps more, constructed of glass and iron.
The frame had blackened with oxidation, and the panes were clouded with decades of algae.
Vines had threaded through the ironwork, and crime scene tape cordoned the perimeter.
Bureau vehicles and a county sheriff’s cruiser were parked on the flattened grass beside it.
“That’s a greenhouse?” Sylvie murmured in doubt.
“That is a mausoleum,” Brook corrected as she killed the engine.
In her rearview mirror, Theo was behind the wheel of the second SUV, Bit in the passenger seat.
She unfastened her seatbelt, though it took her a little longer to exit the vehicle.
Her bladder appreciated the shift in posture, while her skin fought the thick humidity.
The heat had hit her the second she opened the driver’s side door.
“I’d like to speak with the lead forensics tech before we get settled,” Brook said to Theo after he’d rolled down his window. “The greenhouse is our priority right now.”
Theo nodded, as if he expected as much. She backed up a step as he exited the SUV, leaving Bit to lean across the center console.
“If you want, I can drive the equipment up to the house.”
“That sounds good, Bit. Ask Peter Voss or Gwenyth Ellingham about the layout and get us oriented. I’d also like to know the purpose of each structure on the property.
” Brook briefly considered getting back behind the wheel to pull the SUV off what was once a gravel drive, but she decided against it.
“Drive around me. Given the state of the property, you won’t be hurting anything. ”
She turned back toward the greenhouse, already mapping the distance from the main house. A hundred and fifty yards, maybe more. Her ankles weren’t going to be happy about the trek.
Brook, Sylvie, and Theo set out together as they studied their surroundings. The air carried an organic undertone. Soil, with the faint chemical trace of preservation agents.
Besides some nausea at the beginning of her pregnancy, she’d been fortunate not to have the typical morning sickness in the first trimester. She hadn’t been as lucky when it came to the swelling. She’d been retaining water for weeks, and the day’s heat was only making it worse.
Needing something else besides the discomfort to concentrate on, she focused on the iron framework of the greenhouse.
It rose nearly twenty feet at its peaked center.
The entrance was a set of double doors, one propped open with a cinderblock.
Even though it was broad daylight, work lamps cast a yellowish glow from within, pressing against the clouded panes like light through murky water.
A man in a khaki uniform emerged from behind the sheriff’s cruiser. Late-fifties, heavyset, with a broad face that carried the permanent flush of someone who spent too much time in the sun and not enough time managing his blood pressure.
His badge read GENTRY.
“Sheriff Len Gentry,” he exclaimed, extending a hand. His grip was firm, though slightly damp. “You must be Ms. Sloane.”
“Brook is fine.” She released his hand, ignoring how his gaze lowered to her stomach. “My colleagues, Theo Neville and Sylvie Deering.”
“Pleasure, though not under these circumstances.” Gentry’s demeanor shifted from practiced authority to something closer to relief.
“I’ll be completely honest with you. I’m glad you’re here.
In all my years as sheriff, and even back as a young deputy, this county has never seen the likes of this.
My men and I will help in any way we can. ”
“That’s much appreciated, Sheriff.”
“Dr. Kessler is inside,” Gentry shared as they crossed the threshold. “She’s been running the excavation since the team arrived two days ago.”
The temperature shifted as they entered the greenhouse. Warmer than outside, the glass structure trapped heat and moisture like a terrarium. The air now carried a complex layering of scents. Damp earth. Green, living things. The acrid bite of chemical markers. And probably mold.
Overgrown plants climbed toward the ceiling from every surface.
Raised garden beds ran the length of the structure on both sides, filled with tangled vegetation that had been maturing unchecked for years.
The floor was packed earth and cracked flagstone, slick in places with moisture and moss.
Work lights on portable stands cast harsh pools of illumination across the excavation sites, and a grid of strings and stakes marked the boundaries of individual dig areas.
Small evidence flags dotted the soil.
Yellow, red, and blue.
A woman in a white Tyvek suit straightened from a crouched position near one of the raised beds and pulled her respirator down to her chin.
A layer of sweat covered her skin. She was in her forties, with dark hair pulled back tightly and a direct, assessing gaze that Brook recognized immediately.
A woman who had built her career around the dead and was unapologetic about preferring their company.
“Dr. Nora Kessler,” she greeted, stripping a latex glove to shake Brook’s hand. “I’m with the Bureau’s forensic anthropology team. I’ve been told you’re leading the investigative side.”
“Brooklyn Sloane, S&E Investigations. My colleagues, Theo Neville and Sylvie Deering.”
Kessler gave each of them a brief nod, then turned her attention back to Brook.
“How much have you been briefed?”
“Enough to know I need more.”
Kessler nodded before gesturing for them to follow her. She moved through the greenhouse methodically, pausing at each marked excavation site. Her voice was steady, clinical, and devoid of speculation. She drew clean lines between fact and speculation.
“Ground-penetrating radar identified eight distinct burial sites,” Kessler began, stopping at a raised bed near the center of the greenhouse where the soil had been carefully excavated in layers.
“Granted, one of the sites was disturbed by the cleanup crew. Most are distributed throughout the raised beds and planting areas, as you can see. Two are beneath the root systems of mature plants that have been growing over the remains for decades, so we’ll save those for last.”
She indicated different areas of the greenhouse as she spoke, and Brook followed each movement, mapping the locations in her mind.
“The distribution is not random,” Kessler continued, as if reading her thoughts. “The burials are spaced deliberately, integrated into the greenhouse layout as though whoever placed them understood the growing environment.”
Someone who understood soil. Someone who had knowledge of which beds were active and which could be used without interfering with the growing plants. Not a visitor, per se, and not someone who had stumbled in and panicked.
“How far along are you?” Theo asked.
“Three sets of remains have been fully excavated and documented. The others are partially exposed.” Kessler gestured toward the far end of the greenhouse, where tarps covered two active dig sites.
“Each burial requires layer-by-layer excavation. Separating bone from root without damaging either takes time.”
“How much time?” Sylvie asked.
“Another five to seven days before all eight sites are fully processed.”
Kessler led them to one of the flower beds.
The bones were stained a deep amber from prolonged contact with the mineral-rich earth, and no soft tissue remained.
No visible clothing, either, though Kessler mentioned that fabric fragments had been recovered from the surrounding soil samples and sent to the lab.