Page 12

Sheila leaned back in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes. Photos from Bradley Greenwald's social media accounts filled the monitor before her—an endless stream of skiing shots, each more dramatic than the last.

"Nothing," Tommy said from his desk. He sounded as exhausted as she felt. "I've gone through every comment on his posts from the past six months. Plenty of admirers, a few trolls, but no one who stands out as particularly obsessed or threatening."

Sheila nodded, scrolling through another page of images. Greenwald had been prolific, sometimes posting multiple times a day. "Same here. The hostile comments are mostly from other photographers criticizing his technique or accusing him of staging shots."

"Could one of them be our killer?" Tommy straightened up, seeming to find renewed energy. "Someone who thought he was corrupting their art form, maybe?"

"Maybe." Sheila enlarged a photo of Greenwald executing a perfect jump, the mountains stark and beautiful behind him. "But most of these critics seem more interested in technical debates about camera settings and lighting than actual threats."

Tommy pushed back from his desk and stood, stretching.

His shirt had come untucked, and his tie hung loose around his neck.

He looked younger somehow, more vulnerable.

"What if we're wrong about the social media angle?

What if this was just a one-off? Someone with a specific grudge against Greenwald, and now they're long gone? "

It was a reasonable question. Sheila had been wondering the same thing herself. But something about the crime scene kept nagging at her—the careful positioning, the attention to detail, the staged quality of it all.

"Nothing about this crime suggests inexperience or the messiness that comes from a heat-of-the-moment decision," Sheila said.

"The killer didn't just murder Greenwald—they created a scene.

They waited for the perfect conditions, used the cold to preserve the body in a specific pose, even took a photo to document their work.

All of that shows premeditation, planning, and a cool head.

It's not easy to keep your calm while murdering someone. "

Tommy frowned, looking troubled.

"What is it?" Sheila asked.

He opened his mouth to sleep, then closed it again. "Just replaying the scene in my mind," he said. "Trying to imagine how it all went down."

She studied him. Why did she have the impression he was lying to her? What would he be hiding?

Before she could ponder this further, her phone buzzed. Finn's name lit up the screen.

Guilt crashed over her. She'd meant to call him hours ago, check how he was doing. But she'd gotten caught up in the case, and somehow, the entire day had slipped away.

"I need to take this," she said to Tommy. "Would you mind getting us fresh coffee?"

Tommy nodded, understanding in his eyes as he took both their mugs and headed for the break room.

Sheila stepped into the hallway before answering. "Hey," she said softly. "I'm so sorry I haven't called. Things have been..." She trailed off, realizing how inadequate any excuse would sound.

"Busy?" Finn's voice held an edge she wasn't used to hearing. "Yeah, I figured. Since you haven't answered any of my texts either."

"I know, I know. I'm really sorry." She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

Finn sighed wearily. "Well, let's see. I've been lying in this bed all day, staring at the ceiling, listening to the guy in the next room complain about his bunions. The highlight was when they brought me lime jello instead of orange."

"I really did intend to check in with you earlier."

"I know you did." He paused. "Miss me?"

"More than you know," Sheila said softly. "I saw you just yesterday, but it feels like it's been an eternity."

"That's what happens when you work and live with the same person."

She sighed, growing thoughtful. "Maybe it's not so bad, though. Maybe it's good for us both to have a little space."

There was a long pause. Sheila started to grow worried.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked. "Do you think you need that?"

"No. No more than anyone else, I mean. Don't you need space sometimes?"

"When I do, I take it. Go for a jog, work out, something like that. This… lying in a hospital bed… this isn't getting a little space. This is like being put in solitary."

"Come on," she said lightly. "You'll be out of there before you know it, back to solving cases."

"Speaking of which, it's about time you fill me in on what's going on with yours. I'm dying for some actual mental stimulation here."

For a brief moment, Sheila actually wondered whether he was speaking about her mother's death or Bradley Greenwald's.

"It's a strange one," she said. "Tommy and I have been going through the victim's social media accounts, looking for any suspects. No dice."

"Just you and Tommy, huh?"

Sheila knew Finn too well to miss the hint of jealousy in his voice. "He's just helping me investigate, Finn."

"Right. The eager young rookie with the perfect record from Salt Lake PD. Must be nice having such competent help."

"Finn," she said, "you have no reason to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous." But his tone suggested otherwise.

"I'm just being practical. Sometimes working closely with someone, spending long hours together.

.." He trailed off. There was no need for him to elaborate.

Sheila knew very well the romantic feelings that could be sparked by close proximity and a shared mission—after all, wasn't that how she and Finn had fallen for one another?

"That's not fair." She felt her earlier guilt turning to irritation. "He's not the one I'm living with—you are. I chose you , Finn, and I still choose you."

The line went silent for a few moments.

When Finn spoke again, his voice was softer than before. "You're right—that wasn't fair of me. Chalk it up to me being tired and cranky. Just... maybe stop by later tonight?"

She hesitated, not wanting to make any false promises. Turning, she saw Tommy just a few paces away—she hadn't heard him approaching. He moved past her with a pair of coffees on a tray in one hand, his other hand cradling his phone against his ear. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

He hadn't overheard them talking about him, had he?

"Tomorrow morning, then," Finn said. "But don't make me wait any longer. I'm withering away without you, babe." There was a smile in his voice now.

She found herself smiling, too. "It's a date." She was about to tell him she had to go, but then she thought of something else.

"Have you heard from Star today?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"No reason," she said quickly, not wanting to worry him. "Just checking to see whether she'd visited you."

After they said goodbye, Sheila stared at her phone for a moment before dialing Star's number. It went straight to voicemail. She tried not to worry—teenagers often ignored their phones when they were with friends. But something didn't feel right.

She called Mrs. Jacobs.

"Hello, dear," the older woman answered on the second ring. "Any word from Star?"

"No, I was hoping she'd gone home."

"Not yet. But I'll keep watching for her. Should I be worried?"

"No, I'm sure she's fine." Sheila tried to sound more confident than she felt. "But would you let me know when she comes home?"

"Of course, dear. Try not to worry too much. You know how teenagers are."

Yes, Sheila did. For better or worse.

She ended the call and took a deep breath. Star was smart and capable. She'd be fine.

She needs you, a nagging voice in the back of her head told her. You knew it wouldn't be easy when you signed up for this.

Yes, maybe so. But there wasn't much she could do if she couldn't reach Star, was there?

She stepped back into the office. Tommy was just hanging up his phone. His face was drawn, troubled.

"What's wrong?" she asked, immediately alert.

He looked up at her, his expression grim. "You may have been right about the killer striking again."

Sheila's stomach dropped. "What happened?"

"Resort security just called. A woman named Sarah Winters is missing. Her truck is still in the parking lot, but there's no sign of her anywhere."