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Things are seldom what they look like.

The words kept bubbling up in Denise as she walked Harvey in the park, his long leash clinking and tail wagging. He loved being out.

So did Denise.

She’d had a busy day at the paper. She’d worked on a story about a new dental practice. Then a story on a construction company donating playground equipment. And then she’d rushed to the Loop to report on a crash between an 18-wheeler and a van. No one was hurt, but traffic got backed up for an hour.

And between her stories, Denise assessed her recent death row interview with Darnell George Sharp. It had been several days. Still unsure what to make of it, she hadn’t yet written anything new on the murders.

Today, whenever she found a free moment, she checked the comments and social media posts coming in on her investigative feature. It continued to be a mixed bag, some saying Donnie Ray Hyde was evil and got what he deserved; others saying he didn’t kill Abby and Erin—Carrie did it, and the sheriff’s office covered it up. Still others pinwheeled into conspiratorial nonsense, about links to the White House and aliens. And the usual characters chimed in, like FactorRex31, who kept insisting: Chron is dead wrong.

Sitting on a park bench in an off-leash area, Denise unhooked Harvey, then tried in vain to decompress. But, like any good reporter, she was never off the clock on stories that mattered. Taking in the evening breeze, she considered the chronology of the murders.

Vern Hamilton visits Hyde on death row, leading to his confession. Hyde’s fellow inmate says Hyde is almost happy after confessing to killing Abby and Erin, giving away belongings and saying he was going to ease his mother’s suffering after he was gone. Hyde’s mother says that after her son’s confession and execution, some of her financial difficulties got straightened out.

The old maxim from the detective rose again.

Things are seldom what they look like.

Watching Harvey gnawing on a stick, Denise’s dissatisfaction ate at her.

Something’s not right about this , she thought. Yielding to impulse, she took up her phone, scrolled through her contacts and clicked on a number. Harvey trotted toward her, stick in his jaws, just as her call was answered.

“Hello?” a woman said.

“Mary-Ellen?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Denise Diaz, from the Chronicle .”

“Oh, yes, hello.”

“I’m sorry if I got you at a bad time, but I want to ask you a few things, if that’s okay?”

“All right.”

“Well.” Denise paused when Harvey placed the stick on her lap, wanting to play. She tossed it, and Harvey left to fetch it. “I recall you telling me how after Donnie Ray’s execution some of your financial matters were cleared. Like a godsend, I believe you said.”

“That’s right, an answered prayer.”

“Mary-Ellen, can you elaborate a little? Like, what were those matters, and how did they come to be resolved?”

Like a sad wind over a field of faded dreams, a long mournful sigh sounded at the other end of the line.

“As I said, my husband, Jack, gambled, drank, had run-ins with the law. When he died, he left me with debts, mostly back taxes, liens on the house. A world of trouble on top of what I had going with my boys. Then, after Donnie Ray was killed in Huntsville, I got a letter saying the county discovered it had made some kind of error years ago and my property tax issue was forgiven.”

“Who was the letter from?”

“I’ll get it.”

Denise heard Mary-Ellen moving through her home, rustling papers. “Here it is. Cecil Pratt, County Commissioner. It says something about a miscalculation, property improperly assessed, a retroactive application of something called a homestead exemption, going back a few years, all amounting to forgiveness of the amount owing and a reimbursement coming. About fourteen hundred dollars.”

“Do you know Cecil Pratt?”

“Goodness, never met the man.”

“Was there any indication this good news was coming before Donnie Ray’s execution?”

“None. In fact, I thought the county was fixin’ to seize my house and put me on the street.”

“Mary-Ellen, can you take a picture of the letter and send it to me right away? I think it’s interesting.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you. Again, I’m so sorry to trouble you.”

“No trouble. You’ve been kind and respectful, Denise.”

As she ended the call, Harvey barked, and Denise tossed his stick again. He fetched it and she threw it a few more times, until her phone pinged with the photo of the letter from Mary-Ellen.

Denise read the one-page letter, eyeing the official’s name: Cecil Pratt, County Commissioner .

She searched online and found his bio: Cecil Floyd Pratt, county commissioner, married to Eunice for thirty years, two sons, one daughter. Served in the US military, then in the reserve, then became a deputy sheriff, then elected sheriff. He was then elected commissioner and reelected twice more. Belonged to gun clubs, volunteered with the Boys and Girls Club, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, was a member of local Kiwanis and Rotary.

Denise tapped her finger on the screen.

Here was Cecil’s photo from the time he was sheriff. He stood next to a US flag, white Stetson firmly in place, dark suit, white shirt, dark tie.

That made Denise think of something.

She searched the names Cecil Pratt and Vernon Hamilton together. Various references emerged showing them as senior members of state and regional sheriff and police associations. Then Denise searched for photos.

Several popped up of Cecil and Vern together, including one from a few years back showing Cecil with his arm around Vern’s shoulders. Both grinning from a podium. The caption read: Long-time compadres Cecil and Vern together at the conference in El Paso.

So Vern and Cecil were old friends.

Compadres.