Page 17 of Her Final Hours (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #3)

S olving one cold case was challenging, unraveling more seemingly impossible.

Hugh didn’t encourage him, even though it was only a matter of connecting the dots. He figured if it hadn’t been solved already, what hope was there now?

Still, his father had a point — expecting anyone to remember twenty-five years ago was being too optimistic, but Noah felt it was worth the trip. Reluctantly Hugh made a quick phone call on his behalf, and the arrangement was made for later that day.

After ensuring that McKenzie was following up on the deceased man, Noah told him he would be in touch the next day.

Helen Peterson was a resident of Tupper Lake, a small Franklin County village within the Adirondacks’ boundaries just west of High Peaks .

Noah headed west on NY-86, followed by State Route 3. Her one-story home was set back from McLaughlin Avenue, one of the central veins that wound through the town and forest.

As the Bronco rolled through the landscape, his heater was working overtime to push back the cold.

The small amount of snow on the ground painted the surroundings a wintry white, creating an eerie atmosphere.

As the final rays of light filtered through the trees, he rolled into the driveway; his headlights illuminated the old but well-maintained house.

The house was a one-story structure with faded paint that had seen better days.

Its design leaned toward a more traditional style with a sloping roof and a small porch at the entrance.

Wooden shutters framed the windows, some slightly open and smothered in a thin layer of frost. The whole property exuded an air of history, fitting for the retired state investigator.

As he got out, a stiff wind howled, biting into his heavy coat and sending a shiver down his spine. He glanced to his right to a single-car garage and beyond that to an adjacent building — an oversized two-car garage.

After ringing the bell and getting no answer, Noah followed the path to the more oversized garage.

He reached the side door and pulled it open.

He was greeted by a warm glow from multiple lights hanging from the ceiling.

The garage was surprisingly neat and well-organized.

The smell of engine oil mixed with the scent of wood and heated metal attacked his senses.

In the center of the garage, a classic Oldsmobile Starfire convertible from 1962 was hoisted in the air.

The vintage car was a sight; its sleek lines and polished chrome caught Noah’s attention immediately.

It stood in contrast to the new Toyota SUV on the other side, a shiny vehicle that seemed out of place amidst the nostalgia of the classic automobile.

Noah glimpsed someone working beneath the car as he stepped into the garage. A radio playing tunes from the ’70s masked his approach. Legs clad in blue overalls protruded from underneath, attached to a mechanic’s creeper. “Sorry to bother you,” Noah called out. “I was wondering if Helen is home?”

The creeper slid out, the wheels rolling across the cold concrete, revealing a woman in her late sixties.

She wiped her hands on a cloth and assessed Noah with a knowing gaze.

“That would be me,” she replied, her voice weathered by confidence.

Even after all this time, there was a sense of authority in her demeanor, a testament to her years of experience as an investigator.

Noah began introducing himself, but she interrupted him, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“I know who you are,” she stated. “Of course, you’re much older than I remember, but I don’t forget a face, especially yours.

” Her words hinted at a connection beyond a simple meeting, evoking memories from his childhood.

She crossed the room and turned off the radio.

Noah commented on the car. Helen glanced back briefly before heading to a sink and washing her hands.

“It was my late husband’s. He passed away three years ago.

It was sitting out here, so I figured I would finish the work he started.

Keeps my mind occupied and my hands busy,” she explained.

“Gardening was never my thing. That was him too.”

Noah nodded, expressing his condolences.

Helen took a handful of paper towels and dried her hands before disposing them in a nearby trash can.

“Death is a part of life. Comes for us all,” she said, stepping out of the garage.

“Come along.” She invited him to follow, leading him across the snowy path to her home.

“Supposed to be a ferocious storm hitting the east coast shortly. They say three days, but I think it might last longer.”

“I heard 13 to 19 inches of snow. I hope you have a good snow blower. ”

“I have one better. Someone with a truck who does it for me. I gave up using a blower after the damn thing wouldn’t start each year.”

Upon entering the house, he found himself in a cozy kitchen. The interior gave off a vintage charm, with old-fashioned wallpaper sporting a pattern reminiscent of the ’80s. Stacks of newspapers cluttered the hallway, an unusual sight that hinted at Helen’s tendency to hold on to things.

Noah narrowed his eyes, picking up one and glancing at the date from ten years ago.

Helen was quick to explain. “Those are local and national papers. I should throw them away now that my grandson has me on the internet, but I guess I’m old school.

Nothing like turning the page and feeling the paper in hand. ”

Noah nodded, understanding her sentiment. “Why keep them?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“It’s a habit, I guess. An obsession, my family would say,” Helen replied.

She directed him to sit at a round oak table while she put the kettle on to make some tea.

The kitchen looked as dated as the wallpaper.

Solidly built but showing signs of time.

Noah noticed a calendar on the wall detailing hospital appointments. There was a Bible quote in a frame:

Those who trust in the Lord will soar like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint.

Resilience in the face of dead ends was admirable.

It spoke to her zeal to solve the cases of the missing girls and that of every other investigator who came after.

Contrary to what the public might have thought, it haunted cops to come up empty-handed, to offer families no answers.

It was why so many hit the bottle, that and having images of the abused and dead in their mind.

His gaze continued, and he noticed a framed newspaper article on the wall.

It showcased Helen receiving a commendation.

The photograph captured her determination and dedication to her work, reminding her of her achievements .

Helen returned to the table, pouring milk into her tea as she studied Noah intently.

“Milk?”

He gave a nod.

He could sense that she was trying to piece together memories from their shared past. “You remember much about that time?” she asked him, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“A lot,” he replied, his eyes meeting hers. “But I’m not here to talk about what I recollect. I’m interested in what you do.” He paused. “Do you miss the work?”

A wistful smile graced her lips. “Every day,” she confessed. “I don’t miss the nightmares, though. You get those?” Her question held a touch of empathy, acknowledging the toll the job could take on a person’s psyche.

Noah nodded, understanding the weight of her words but choosing not to delve into his own experiences. Those conversations were reserved for his therapist. Instead, he redirected the conversation. “How many years did you do, and what made you retire?”

Helen stirred her tea. “That’s easy. My knees and back. I ended up having surgery and was never the same after that. But I banked twenty-nine years before calling it a day, more than most,” she explained, a sense of pride underlying her words.

As she continued to stir in a spoonful of sugar, Noah commented, “Things have changed a lot since then.”

“It has indeed. Advancements in DNA, and cameras, and agencies are communicating with each other. What I would have given to have had the tools you have now. Though I don’t envy you, what with everyone having a camera on their phone.”

Noah smiled in agreement. “It keeps cops honest,” he remarked, acknowledging the benefits of increased transparency.

She set her drink down, her gaze fixed on him. “But at what cost?” she mused, her voice filled with concern. Increased surveillance and its effects on law enforcement’s reputation was a subject of heated debate in the news.

Noah regarded her, realizing that her sentiment echoed that of many old-school cops.

Transparency came with pros and cons, and it was essential to strike a balance.

“I expect it would have helped when you were canvassing the neighborhoods when Payton went missing,” he said, returning the conversation to the reason for his visit.

At the mention of Payton, Helen’s expression changed.

She left the room without telling him where she was going.

After a few minutes, she returned, carrying a cardboard moving box and placing it near his feet.

The lines on her face deepened, reflecting the pain of the ailments of aging and the emotional weight associated with the case.

“There are three more boxes out back,” she revealed, her voice full of sorrow and determination.

“They’re a little worse for wear. I had a flood in the basement, and they got soaked, but I managed to save these.

” Her eyes glistened with purpose as she lifted the box lid.

“These belong to the state?”

“They’re my copies along with what family, friends, and those who knew her gave me because they felt the local Sheriff’s Office no longer had a vested interest.”