Page 15

The morning sun glinted off fresh snow as Sheila turned onto Pine Ridge Road. Small wooden cabins dotted the mountainside, most of them vacation rentals or seasonal homes. Cedar smoke drifted from stone chimneys, and icicles hung like crystal daggers from the eaves.

They found James Morton loading camera equipment into an old Subaru Outback. His movements were meticulous, each lens and tripod placed exactly so. His graying hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly air.

"Mr. Morton?" Sheila called as she stepped out of the patrol car.

He turned, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Yes?"

"Sheriff Stone, Coldwater County. This is Officer Forster. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Morton closed his trunk with deliberate care. "I'm actually heading to Salt Lake. I have a meeting with the Sierra Club about documenting wildlife corridors."

"This won't take long," Sheila said, moving to block his path to the driver's door. "We're investigating the deaths of Bradley Greenwald and Sarah Winters."

Morton went very still. His face, already pale, seemed to lose what little color it had. "I don't know anything about that."

"Really?" Tommy asked. "Because we have records of you confronting both of them about their social media presence."

"That was months ago." Morton's voice was carefully controlled. "Ancient history."

Sheila studied his face. "You were fired from the resort's photography program after an incident involving a student's phone."

"If you're referring to my justified criticism of how social media has corrupted true photography—"

"We're referring to you throwing a student's phone across the room," Tommy cut in.

Morton's jaw tightened. "That phone was a distraction. The student was more interested in getting likes than learning proper composition."

"You followed Sarah Winters around the slopes," Sheila said. "Criticizing her snowboarding photos."

"I was trying to teach her about authentic moments." His voice took on a passionate edge. "She had real talent, but she was wasting it on staged stunts for her followers."

"And Bradley Greenwald?" Tommy asked. "Was he wasting his talent, too?"

Morton's expression darkened. "Greenwald was a hack. He wouldn't know an authentic moment if it hit him in the face."

"That bothered you, didn't it?" Sheila pressed. "Enough to confront him publicly?"

"I expressed my professional opinion." Morton adjusted his glasses again. "This is ridiculous. Unless you're planning on charging me, I have a meeting to attend."

"The Sierra Club," Sheila said, nodding. "Interesting timing, leaving town right after Sarah's body was found."

He waved his hand dismissively. "I've had this meeting scheduled for weeks. Check with them if you don't believe me." His calm facade was cracking slightly. "I'm not discussing this further without my lawyer."

"Mr. Morton," Sheila said, "it would be in your best interest to clear this up now."

"No, Sheriff, it would be in my best interest to exercise my constitutional rights." His voice had a practiced quality as if he'd prepared for this moment. "Either arrest me or let me go."

Sheila hesitated. They couldn't risk letting Morton leave—not when two people were dead, and night was only hours away. It seemed he was forcing their hand.

"James Morton," she said, "you're under arrest for suspicion of murder."

"Are you serious?" he asked, looking bewildered as Tommy approached him with handcuffs. "Get away from me! You can't arrest me!"

"Actually, we can," Tommy said. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

Morton shook his head incredulously as Tommy handcuffed him. "My lawyer is Richard Hallibeck," he said, his voice higher now, as if on the edge of panic. "I won't be saying anything else until he arrives!"

"Watch your head," Tommy said as he helped Morton into the back seat.

Morton looked up at Sheila through the car window. "You're making a mistake," he said quietly. "The real killer is still out there, still working. And you're wasting time with me."

Something in his tone made Sheila pause. Was it a threat? A warning? Or did he genuinely know something about the murders?

Sheila didn't know for sure. What she did know was that they had forty-eight hours to get him to talk.

Or else they'd have to let their primary suspect walk.

* * *

By late morning, Morton sat in interview room one with his lawyer. Through the observation window, Sheila watched them confer in low voices, Morton's hands moving in agitated gestures despite his earlier calm.

"Well?" Tommy asked, handing her a fresh coffee. "What do you think?"

She accepted the cup gratefully. "About Morton being our killer?"

"Yeah. The photography obsession, the fixation on authenticity, the conflicts with both victims..." He leaned against the wall. "It fits."

"Maybe too well." Sheila sipped her coffee, grimacing at its bitterness. "His reaction when we mentioned the murders—did it seem genuine to you?"

"Hard to say. He definitely got worked up talking about social media, though."

"That's not enough for a conviction." She watched Morton push his glasses up his nose for the dozenth time. "So far, our evidence is circumstantial at best."

Tommy shrugged. "Sometimes circumstantial is all you get. And we've got forty-eight hours to build something stronger."

She gave him a long, appraising glance. "Look at you, talking like a veteran."

His cheeks colored. "You learn quickly when you learn from the best."

Sheila stifled a yawn. "And you learn a lot more quickly when you're not sleep-deprived. You should get some rest—I'll keep an eye on things."

Tommy grinned wryly. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? The new guy has to do the hard work? Come on, Sheriff. You must be exhausted."

"And you aren't?"

He shrugged. "Nothing a little caffeine can't cure. I went through most of college without sleeping. What's one more night?"

Sheila studied him, considering the offer. It would definitely do her some good to get a little sleep.

"If Morton decides he wants to make a deal," Tommy added, "or if anything else develops, I'll wake you right away. What do you say?"

The word 'develop' triggered something in Sheila's memory—Star's darkroom plans, which suddenly reminded her that she hadn't checked if the girl had come home last night.

She cursed under her breath and pulled out her phone.

"What is it?" Tommy asked.

Sheila dialed Mrs. Jacobs. No answer.

She tried again. Come on, she thought. Come on—

"Hello?" Mrs. Jacobs answered, sounding groggy.

"Margaret, it's Sheila. Did Star come home last night?"

A pause that seemed to stretch forever. "No, dear. I watched until midnight, but there was no sign of her. I assumed she was staying with friends..."

Sheila's stomach clenched. "You haven't seen her at all?"

"No. Sheila, is everything alright?"

"I have to go." She ended the call, then called Star. No answer.

As Sheila's unease and guilt mounted, she hurried toward the door.

"What's wrong?" Tommy straightened, instantly alert.

"I just need to check on someone, make sure they're alright." She grabbed her coat from the back of a chair.

He started to rise. "Let me come with you—"

"No." She turned back to him. "If Morton is our killer, we need to keep a close eye on him. I need you here."

Tommy looked torn between following orders and following her. "At least let me call for backup to meet you—"

"This is personal business," she said. "I don't need backup." And with that, she hurried out—desperately hoping Star was just having a sleepover without telling her about it.

But given Sheila's line of work, it was difficult not to imagine the worst.