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STONE

I had my suitcase packed within hours. I wasn’t planning to stay long, just enough to confirm there was a case and leads and bring back enough evidence so the FBI couldn’t possibly turn down re-focusing on the case.

I owed it to the victims.

I couldn’t bring her back, but I could at least try to protect the people of Briarport.

My suitcase was stuffed with records I’d printed from the FBI database, alongside a bit of clothing. I eyed the bottle of scotch sitting on the counter, and, before I could stop myself, I stuck it in with everything else.

I’d been reviewing all the papers I printed and taking notes, neglecting sleep.

A buzzing sound pulled my attention away from rummaging through my belongings to pack. I found my phone sitting on my bed and read the name on the screen.

“Hey, Mom,” I answered. “What’re you doing up in the middle of the night?”

“It’s 5:00 a.m. here,” she answered. “And I know you usually wake early to get a little extra work done before lecturing.”

I looked out the window and found the sun already up. That meant it was already 8:00 a.m., and more time had passed than I originally thought.

How had it already been all night?

It’d been months since I lost chunks of time, and never like this. The hyper-fixation on this case had to be to blame. There was no other reasonable explanation. It was either that, or some form of neuropsychiatric disorder, but I had no other signs pointing to one.

At least none I noticed.

“You’ve been working far too much again,” my mother scolded. ‘Were you up all night? I can hear it in your voice. You got no sleep.”

This was a battle I would never win. It didn’t matter if I had every academic tool at my disposal or a PhD in Forensic Psychology framed on my wall. There was no handbook on how win an argument with your mother.

“I haven’t been working too much,” I tried countering. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

My mother knew the bare minimum of everything that happened. She knew I took leave and that I was back working at the FBI Academy, but I refused to worry her with unnecessary details. It would only result in her jumping on a plane from California to Virginia, and I refused to burden her with that.

“Mhm. I will have to speak with Ash-”

“Grey-” I interrupted.

“Same thing,” my mother scolded. “He’s putting far too much on you.”

He was putting far too little on me. Academy work was time consuming, but it was nothing compared to my time in the field. Long hours and stake outs, pulling all-nighters to build a profile and prepare to brief local law enforcement, being called at any hour to pursue a lead.

“You should come home,” my mother added. “Take a vacation, come spend some time with me and your sister.”

Lyla was only ten, making her eighteen years younger than me. My mother had her with her second husband after my own father passed away.

“Is Lyla up?” I asked.

“She is,” my mother confirmed. “Just like you, I swear.”

“Can you put her on?” I asked.

“Fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m forgetting about all this.”

“I wouldn’t dare think that,” I laughed.

I heard shuffling on the other end of the line and imagined my mother making her way to the small kitchen in our family home. The home I grew up in.

“Hey, Winston,” Lyla’s voice came through the phone.

“Hey, Lyla,” I said gently. “How have you been?”

A twinge of guilt coursed through me. I hadn’t been home to visit in over a year. Sure, there were plenty of phone calls and even the occasional video call, but I knew I’d put off seeing them for too long. Especially Lyla—she deserved more than that. I just couldn’t bring myself to face them yet, not with knowing what I’d caused and become. The months I’d spent at rock bottom were far too much for even myself to face just yet.

“I got an A on that project you helped with,” she said proudly. I could feel the giant grin through the phone.

I had sent her one of my FBI challenger coins, something to do with a presentation on what each student wanted to be when they grew up. No matter how many times I insisted it wasn’t the job she wanted, Lyla’s only dream was to follow in my footsteps.

I never wanted her to experience the pain I went through, but I was still proud of her.

“That’s fantastic. Although, I never for a second doubted you’d get anything less,” I said, smiling.

She was never the sister I expected, but my heart couldn’t help but swell every time I spoke to her.

“Are you working a new case?” she asked, and I noted the hopeful tone.

It’d been awhile since I was away on assignment. Lyla loved hearing about the new places I traveled. I couldn’t help but give her a little of what she hoped for.

“I am,” I lied.

Was it really a lie? Technically, I was working a case…a cold case.

I wasn’t so sure the FBI or Lyla, for that matter, would accept my technicalities if they all knew exactly what I was doing.

“I’ll be heading to Maine soon,” I continued.

“To Augusta?” she asked.

“I’m flying to Portland and staying on the coast, in Briarport,” I answered.

There was a pause of silence.

“Time to go, Lyla,” my mother’s faint voice came from the background.

“I have to go,” Lyla said sadly.

“School this early?” I was an early riser to get work done, but there was no way schools were making children go in as early as 5:00 a.m., were they? It’d be counterproductive to the amount of sleep children needed combined with the average bedtime.

“No, silly,” Lyla laughed. “Mom and I woke early today to get the best bagels from Don’s for the week.”

Don’s Bakery, the staple of our small California town. I checked the calendar on my wall beside me, realizing it was Tuesday. That one day of the week, the bakery had half price bagels and a giant selection of flavors.

I envied them.

“Send me one,” I joked.

“Pretty sure it will get stale in the mail,” Lyla laughed.

“You’re right. I’ll just have to get my own soon.”

A promise I planned to keep the moment I finished this case. I missed my family, but I had to work through everything haunting me before I could see them, for their sake and my own sanity.

Briarport had to have the answers I sought, to put to rest the feeling I couldn’t shake of failing more people.

“I have to go, but Winston, listen to me,” my mother said, taking the phone back. “You deserve a break from so much work. You’re so young. Don’t let life slip you by.”

It was always something similar. She meant well, but I couldn’t help but feel this was it for me. I ruined my one chance in the field, and now all I was left with was my knowledge. It was the sentence I deserved. I could never escape the burdening awareness of the mistake I made. All I could do was make sure no one else made the same ones. It was why I was so hard on the trainees I took on.

“I love you, Mom,” I said, avoiding her plea.

“I love you too,” she said before hanging up.

I checked the clock and realized I had only two hours to make it to the airport before boarding. Sleep would have to wait.

* * *

I pushed back my sleeves as my plane descended into Portland.

“Does that mean something?” the curious woman beside me asked.

I’d managed to avoid her prying questions most of the flight, finally getting in a nap, but at boarding and now descending, I wasn’t as lucky.

She was staring straight at the sage worked into my sleeve of tattoos wrapping up my right arm.

“Wisdom,” I answered.

I’d carefully selected every single detail of the tattoos.

She tilted her head, studying the rest, and I pushed down my sleeves, growing self-conscious. There were some I preferred she didn’t ask about.

“It’s kind of feminine, isn’t it?” she prodded.

The woman didn’t know when enough was enough. My distant gaze out the window wasn’t enough to stop her intrusive comments.

“I don’t think so at all,” I commented. “In fact, multiple cultures considered sage to be a symbol of wisdom and wellness. The ancient Greeks referred to their philosophers as sages. In Medieval European cultures, sage was linked to longevity and wisdom-”

The woman pulled out earbuds and stuck them in her ears, cutting me off. I sighed. At least I’d earned my peace back.

The flight attendant made her final round, collecting trash, and I passed across an empty plastic cup I’d acquired early in the flight. The woman beside me ignored the voice that came over the speaker asking everyone to put their trays and seats up. I tried tapping her shoulder, and she rolled her eyes before turning to me.

Oh, now I’m the nuisance.

“That needs to go up,” I tried to say politely.

“Why?” she scoffed.

“Because they just made the announcement,” I answered.

I already knew where things were heading. It was a matter of if it was worth my time to pursue the argument. I sighed and gave in.

“I don’t see the point,” she went on. “I’m still using it. Where am I going to put all of this?”

She waved to all the clutter she’d managed to compile on the flight. I saw one of two routes: let the flight attendant deal with it or save her the hassle and explain myself.

“An emergency is most likely to occur during take-off or landing,” I started.

The woman’s brows shot up. Her mouth started to open, but I continued.

“If your tray remains down, it obstructs your path to make an emergency evacuation. Time could be crucial if we were to make an emergency water landing. Do you truly want to be stuck on this plane with me because we couldn’t get by your tray?” I asked.

She started to answer but closed her lips, pulling them tight.

She brushed all her belongings off the tray and locked it up in place.

I tried to hide the growing smirk on my face. I couldn’t help myself. Her face had turned a shade paler at the mentioning of an ocean landing, and I failed to mention the statistics of it happening were likely far from ever being a concern for her.

Maybe it will save the flight attendant the hassle on her next flight.

I watched out the window, spotting the Atlantic Ocean beneath us.

The waves lapped against the shore, and the boats looked like small bugs floating on water, yet it felt like any moment, the plane would connect with the ground. Even my own logic couldn’t comprehend the feeling.

Within five minutes, we landed in Portland, and I found myself pushed back against the seat as the plane braked. I held tight to the arm rests and watched the woman beside me squeeze the neck pillow she held in her lap, wide eyed.

The plane slowed, and the pilot came over the loudspeaker to announce our welcome to Maine. I couldn’t see much beyond the airport outside the plane window, but I was eager to catch a glimpse at the New England coast. I’d seen Boston and even other smaller portions of the area, but this was the first my time at the FBI had brought me to Maine.

The largest producer of lobster, a popular vacation spot in the summer, and a perfect winter resort for skiers. The facts raced through my mind from the research I’d conducted on my taxi ride to the airport.

I sat close to the front of the plane, and the moment the seatbelt sign turned off, I unbuckled myself and grabbed the leather satchel beneath the seat in front of me. Our portion of the plane was the first to make our way into the aisle.

I deboarded the plan and hurried my way to baggage claim to find my suitcase and the firearm case I’d checked.

* * *

I pulled the rental car down a narrow road surrounded by thick pine trees, the pavement covered in dirt and rarely traveled. The house I rented was on the outskirts of Briarport, and the map had shown little surrounding the place. I read each and every one of the reviews, and most said the same thing.

Clean space, great views, and private.

Privacy was my main concern.

If I was going to be working on an active cold case, I needed a space quiet enough to concentrate and secluded enough so I wouldn’t be bothered by outside distractions.

The road went on for a few miles before it turned into a long, curved bend and the pavement slowly shifted to solely dirt. The trees became sparse, and I could see the single building on a hill at the end of the road.

The light grey house with a white porch was surrounded by a bright, colorful garden, the flowers all in full bloom for summer. The closer I approached, I could see the ocean just beyond the hill the house was perched on. I knew from the listing the back side of the house was solely a rocky cliff with the water as a neighbor.

I parked the car in the single spot driveway close to the house. My suitcase and other belongings were in the backseat, and as I pulled them out, I could hear the crash of waves.

I couldn’t help myself and left the items at the start of the front walkway, abandoning them to venture into the backyard. A short, white fence lined the edge where the plush grass turned to rigid stone.

The breeze from the ocean below brushed against my skin the closer I moved. I inhaled deeply, taking in the salty smell and letting it remind me of the pacific coast I grew up near. With my eyes closed, I could almost picture home while I leaned against the fence.

“Hey, neighbor,” a deep voice called.

I startled and let go of the fence, pulling myself away from the edge.

The three miles exact I’d calculated between myself and the nearest house by road was apparently not enough.

An older gentleman walked up a path I hadn’t noticed before at the edge of the yard. It trailed down the cliff edge, and from what I could see from where I stood, led off into the town below.

I had a great vantage point over town, where I could see all the houses and shops but still keep my distance. Or so I thought.

“You must be Nelson,” I said, noting the man looked exactly like his profile picture on the house rental listing, even wearing the same newsboy hat.

“I sure am,” he said with a cheery smile. “Welcome to Briarport.”

He added the last part like he was a salesman straight out of a commercial, baiting tourists to town, and his pronunciation seemed to drop the final ‘r’.

“Boston?” I asked.

“How’d you know?” he asked, tilting his head.

His pale skin and freckled cheeks, in addition to his blue eyes, had me guessing he was Irish. He likely moved from South Boston, and recently, judging by the remaining thickness of his accent.

“The accent,” I pointed out.

“You’ve visited, then,” he said.

“For work.” I shrugged.

It’d been two years prior when I’d worked on a case in Boston. A triple homicide with a threat left behind promising massive lives lost had the FBI visiting the New England city.

He nodded and ran a hand along his grey stubble peppering his chin.

“Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were settling in, was all,” he said. “I saw the car parked in the driveway while I was walking the path and thought I would stop by.”

“Thanks,” I forced out, even though it was breaking clause seven of the terms and agreement both of us checked we would comply with when renting the place. Technically, the agreement outlined that Nelson needed to give reasonable notice if coming to the property for anything. Showing up on the lawn, unannounced and two seconds into my stay, felt a little unreasonable. I supposed that was just what friendly, small town neighbors did, though.

I’d have to get used to the idea and account for it while working if I were to call minimal attention to myself. Poor relations with those who lived in Briarport year round could hinder my progress.

I wasn’t used to working these cases alone.

My last active case with the FBI, I had my partner beside me. She’d always known what to say, the type of person everyone loved.

I tried to channel a bit of her into myself.

“I just arrived, but I already love the place,” I assured Nelson with a small smile.

He nodded.

“Anything you need, feel free to call. You have my number on the fridge inside the place, and I am only a short walk away. I live in the small house at the beginning of this path,” he said, pointing back to where he’d emerged from. “Seriously, anything at all. This town is more than happy to provide. It isn’t often I have someone rent this place longer than a week. Most of the seasonal renters own their own places along the beaches.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. It wasn’t often I grappled for answers, but the truth wasn’t something I wished to share with Nelson. I needed my work to be kept quiet and away from the FBI realizing where I had taken my break.

“I am just testing out the area before committing to anything,” I answered quickly.

“Well, I hope you find it all to your liking. I can tell already you’d fit right in.”

People were odd, the way they completely pulled things out of thin air sometimes. I’d just met Nelson, and nothing in my behavior or words exchanged could have possibly given the impression I would be a good addition to the town.

He turned and walked back to the path.

“I am sure I will see you around town soon,” he called back as he waved over his shoulder.

I gave a short wave and turned back to the driveway to retrieve my suitcase.

The handle extended up, and I pulled my belongings along the pathway to the porch, lugging them up the steps.

Inside felt exactly as I expected from the few photos shown on the listing: simply coastal decor and minimal furniture.

To my surprise, a small bookshelf sat in the corner of the living room to the right of the door, and I spotted a few familiar spines amongst the books.

Maybe Nelson was right after all. Maybe I would like him.

I made my way up the stairs directly across from the door to the second floor and found the single bedroom. A makeshift office space and bathroom were the only other rooms to share the floor.

I left the suitcase in my room and ventured back down to evaluate the kitchen and dining spaces. The kitchen was long and took up the back side of the house. A sunroom was built off the kitchen and overlooked the backyard and ocean.

I opened the door for the cool breeze rolling in with the lowering sun. The house was hot and stuffy without any A/C running.

That would be my next task: to find the source of keeping the house cool.

First, I needed to set up what I had packed with me on the case.

I picked one of the emptier walls of the dining room and started hanging up pieces of information I had. I cursed myself for being a complete stereotype out of a crime show, but it was the most efficient way for me to review the details and make connections.

I hung a map I had printed, which I marked the dump sites for each of the killer’s victims and the bar where many had last been seen.

Everything fell within the boundaries of Briarport, making me believe I was looking for a local. The times of killings varied throughout the year, and as Nelson had noted, there were seasonalvisitors, but this made me doubt they were the unsub.

This had to be someone living in town year round.

I kept hanging bits of the case and tips on the wall, adding sticky notes with my own thoughts next to everything.

With everything hung up, it was easier for my mind to map out the next most logical step. There were multiple tips hung, all from the same source. She’d laid out many pieces of the story for the FBI, and I planned to look into every detail. I found the name of the submitter next to one of the tips I’d placed on the wall.

My next step needed to be Lenore Calder.