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Sheila's throat tightened. She wanted badly to know what her father had to say—especially about whether or not Hank had been involved in her mother's murder—but as important as that was, this just wasn't the time.
"I know, Dad," she said quickly, "but Finn and I are at a suspect's house right now. I can't talk."
"Frank Whitmore's place?"
"No, we already searched—" She stopped, puzzled. She and Finn had discovered the killer's identity after her father left to speak with Hank, not before. "How'd you know about that?"
"That's not all I know," Gabriel continued. "Listen, while I was talking with Hank, we started getting into the investigation—the mines, the killings, all of it."
Sheila put the phone on speaker so Finn could hear. "Go on," she said to her father.
"When I shared everything we knew about the killer's profile," he continued, "it jogged Hank's memory. He was the lead investigator back when Frank Whitman disappeared."
"Okay," Sheila said slowly, not sure where this was going. Finn was frowning at the phone in concentration.
"According to Hank," Gabriel continued, "when Frank disappeared, they found some interesting writings in the midst of all the quasi-religious crap."
"What kind of writings?" Sheila asked.
"Blueprints. For some kind of reinforced trapdoor system."
"Like a bunker entrance?" Finn asked.
"More elaborate. Custom-built, with multiple failsafes. Frank was paranoid about security—he'd been a military engineer before becoming a miner." Another pause. "The blueprints showed connections to the mine system, but they never found the actual entrance."
"We searched Frank's property, too," Sheila said. "There was nothing there."
"That's just it," Gabriel said. "Hank always suspected the entrance wasn't on Frank's property, but somewhere else."
Sheila recalled what Finn had read about this cabin belonging to Theresa's family. It made sense that if they had an entrance to the mines on their property, Frank would be very interested in it.
She studied the photos on the wall again. It occurred to her that the perspective wasn't wrong—the buildings were. The workshop in the photos wasn't the same one standing outside. At some point, someone had torn down the original and rebuilt it, keeping the weathered exterior to maintain the illusion of age.
Why would someone tear down the old workshop just to rebuild it in the same place?
"Dad," she said, "we've got to go."
"Be careful, Sheila, okay? I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just sit tight."
"Of course," Sheila said, not really meaning it. "See you then." She hung up the phone and found Finn watching her.
"Guess I'm the one lying now," she said.
Finn chuckled softly. "Your father ought to know you well enough to realize you're not just gonna sit on your hands, not when a woman's life is in danger." He frowned at the photos. "What was it you noticed? Something about the buildings?"
"The workshop—look out the window."
Finn did so.
"It's new," he murmured. "Newer than the one in the picture, anyway."
"Peter let these other outbuildings rot, but not that one. Why?"
Finn gave her a long look. "I think we'd better go find out."
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as Sheila and Finn approached the workshop. From the outside, it looked as weathered as the other buildings—gray wood darkened by decades of rain and snow, rusted hinges, clouded windows. But now that Sheila knew what to look for, she saw the careful artifice of it all: newer nails deliberately rusted, fresh wood stained to match the old, recent construction hidden beneath a veneer of age.