Chapter 27
The Sinclair Property — Cullowhee, North Carolina
By the time they reached Preston Sinclair’s neighborhood, the snow had turned to a warm, steady rain, chewing away at the drifts and soaking everything fast.
Sinclair’s house sat behind a low brick wall, lights glowing through tall windows. A white-columned Williamsburg replica. Symmetrical.
“Done all right for an English professor,” Scout muttered.
“Book deals and tenure,” Burke said. “His mama’s people owned half this valley.”
The front door opened before they could knock. Margot Holt stood in soft jeans and a sweatshirt, thick socks on her feet.
“Sheriff Scott. Agent Quinn. Deputy Wilson. Preston’s out back in the studio. Come in out of the rain.”
She gave them a small, polite smile. “He’s been working all day—trying to get an ending right.”
The house was immaculate—citrus oil and coffee in the air.
Margot moved quietly behind them, straightening a stack of mail, aligning a framed photograph by a fraction of an inch.
They stepped through the kitchen. A flagstone path curved past a darkened pool to a brick studio with a wall of glass, smoke lifting faintly from the chimney. Through the rain-streaked panes, they could see Sinclair seated at a desk, lamplight warm against the gray afternoon.
The Poolhouse
Scout paused just inside the door. Sinclair moved easily, pouring mugs like he ran a café instead of a writing studio.
Every detail reflected him:
Fly rods aligned in perfect parallel.
“Hell of a storm,” Sinclair said, handing Burke a mug. “Welcome to the Blue Ridge.”
Tessa noticed the way his finger tapped lightly against the mug. Precise. Repetitive.
Scout felt it underfoot—a faint vibration, steady and low. He shifted his weight once, then let it go.
Tessa stepped closer to the desk, angling for a better look at the journals.
Scout shifted with her—automatic.
He adjusted his stance, placing himself between her and the door.
“Keller says you and Lauren Pierce were close,” Burke said.
Sinclair nodded slowly. “We all were—in different ways. She kept three fragile egos from collapsing a department. Smart woman.”
Questions came. Sinclair answered easily, measured and unruffled.
Scout noticed Tessa hadn’t looked at him once since they stepped inside.
Margot moved quietly between them, collecting the empty cups before anyone had fully set them down.
“Any word on that poor deputy?” she asked gently. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. The girls on campus are nervous.”
“We’re following up on several leads,” Burke said evenly. “That’s all we can share right now.”
“Of course,” she said softly. “I hope you find her.”
“Y’all be careful driving back. Roads are slick.”
“Appreciate it,” Burke said.
She closed the door gently behind them.
Back in the Cruiser
Scout took the wheel.
Tessa pulled the door shut beside him, notebook already open. Burke climbed into the back, water dripping from his coat.
“He’s polished,” Burke said.
“It’s controlled,” Scout replied, easing the SUV onto the road.
“Polished isn’t clean,” Tessa said evenly.
Scout didn’t look at her. “Didn’t say it was.”
Rain filled the silence.
Tessa closed her notebook and rested it on her thigh. “He never answers the question you actually ask,” she said.
“You noticed that.”
“I notice everything.”
He didn’t look at her this time. “I’m aware.”
Rain filled the silence.
Burke shifted in the backseat. “What about the girlfriend?”
Tessa glanced down at her notes. “Margot Holt. Master’s in Art History from UNC. Started doctoral work. Didn’t finish. Published a small-press memoir after her mother died of ovarian cancer. She volunteers at the regional cancer center—runs donor events and fundraising drives.”
“Soft-spoken,” Burke said. “Devoted.”
“Ten years with him,” Tessa added. “Engaged once. Never married.”
“Sinclair was,” Burke said. “Briefly. Early thirties. Didn’t last.”
Scout resettled against the door.
Ten years.
Who waits that long for a ring?
“That tells you something,” he said instead.
“Yes,” Tessa replied.
The wipers beat a steady rhythm.
Silence stretched between them.
“Let’s stick to facts,” he said.
Tessa watched his profile for a second too long before looking back down at her notes.
Burke sat in the back seat, watching Scout’s shoulders — the tight line between his neck and jaw, the way his hands stayed locked at ten and two.
He knew that look.
Scout was a private man.
He’d worked with him long enough to recognize the edge — and long enough to know better than to press it.
At a stop sign, Scout reached across without looking and flipped the defrost toward her side of the windshield. The glass had started to fog where her breath hit it.
His arm brushed her sleeve.
Tessa noticed.
She didn’t say thank you.