Page 7

"He was obsessed with that camera," Amanda Greenwald said, twisting her wedding ring.

Bradley's wife sank into the cushions of her chair as if she hoped she might just disappear entirely. She sat in the corner of her immaculate living room, a cup of untouched tea growing cold on the side table. "Sometimes I thought he loved it more than me."

The house was a testament to Bradley's social media success—every room looked like it belonged in a lifestyle magazine, carefully curated for maximum visual impact. Even the fruit in the bowl on the coffee table seemed artfully arranged.

"Mrs. Greenwald," Sheila said gently, "can you tell us more about Bradley's photography? Was it just a hobby, or something more?"

"Both." Amanda's lips trembled slightly. "It started as a hobby, but once his following grew... He had almost two hundred thousand followers. Companies were sending him free gear to review. He was talking about quitting his job, becoming a full-time influencer."

Tommy shifted in his seat. "Did that cause tension between you?"

Sheila noticed how he'd relaxed into the interview, his earlier awkwardness replaced by genuine engagement. He was learning.

"Sometimes," Amanda admitted. "Bradley could be.

.. intense about getting the perfect shot.

He'd wake up at four in the morning to catch the sunrise.

Skip dinner because the lighting was perfect on some mountaintop.

" She gave a hollow laugh. "Last month, he missed our anniversary dinner because he was trying to capture the alpenglow on fresh powder. "

"The camera that was found with him," Sheila said carefully, "it wasn't his usual equipment?"

Amanda frowned. "What do you mean? Bradley always used his Canon R5. He saved for months to buy it."

"It wasn't with him when we found him."

"That's impossible." Amanda stood abruptly, moving to a shelf lined with framed photos.

"Bradley never went skiing without it. Never.

" She picked up a photo—Bradley grinning, his own expensive-looking camera slung around his neck.

"He was paranoid about that camera. Wouldn't even let me touch it most days. "

"Would he have lent it to another photographer?" Tommy asked.

"No." Amanda's voice was firm. "He'd rather cut off his arm than let someone else use his camera." She set the photo down with trembling hands. "If he didn't have his camera with him... something was wrong. Bradley would never—" Her voice broke.

Sheila waited, giving her time to collect herself. The house felt suddenly airless, too perfect, like a museum where nothing was quite real.

"Did Bradley mention anyone following him lately?" Sheila asked. "Anyone paying unusual attention to his photography?"

"He had lots of fans." Amanda sank back into her chair.

"People were always messaging him, asking about his techniques, his equipment.

He loved the attention." She wrapped her arms around herself.

"But lately... he seemed nervous. Distracted.

Said someone kept showing up wherever he was shooting.

But when I asked who, he'd change the subject. "

"When did this start?"

"A couple weeks ago? He said it was probably just another photographer trying to learn his techniques." She looked up sharply. "You don't think..."

"We're exploring all possibilities," Sheila said diplomatically. "One more question—did Bradley ever mention anyone critiquing his social media presence? Someone who might have objected to how he presented himself online?"

Amanda's expression clouded. "There was that instructor at the resort.

Diana something. Bradley said she'd reported him for being unsafe.

" She shook her head. "But there were always people criticizing him online.

Saying his photos were too staged, too artificial.

He tried to laugh it off, but it bothered him. "

Sheila closed her notebook and stood. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Greenwald. We'll be in touch if we have any other questions."

Amanda nodded, still clutching the framed photo of Bradley. She didn't rise to show them out.

The front door clicked shut behind them. Sheila squinted against the harsh glare of sunlight on snow, fishing her sunglasses from her jacket pocket. The temperature had risen from the negative temperatures overnight, but it was still well below freezing.

Tommy bumped against a snow-laden branch as they passed under a tree, sending a shower of powder onto his shoulders. He brushed it off with a muttered curse.

"Not used to winter patrol yet?" Sheila asked.

"Still learning to duck," he admitted, shaking snow from his collar.

They reached the patrol car, its black paint almost painful to look at in the intense reflection. Sheila's breaths came out in visible puffs as she unlocked the doors. The interior was frigid—she'd have to remember to plug in the engine block heater once they got back to the station.

Tommy slid into the passenger seat, rubbing his hands together. "Mind if I turn on the heat?"

"Give the engine a minute to warm up first," Sheila said as she started the engine.

They were both silent for a few moments.

"So where are we going now?" Tommy asked. "Looking into social media followers, seeing if one of them might be the killer?"

"That's not a bad idea," Sheila said. "But I was thinking we could go to the resort, talk to anyone who might be able to tell us about the resort's activity: who comes and goes, who's a frequent visitor, that kind of thing.

I get the impression the killer knows the area well, so there's a good chance someone's seen them. "

As they pulled away from the Greenwald home, Sheila glanced at Tommy. "So? Gonna share your thoughts on that conversation we just had with Mrs. Greenwald?"

Tommy considered for a moment, and she was pleased to see him taking time to organize his thoughts rather than rushing to conclusions.

"I think Bradley Greenwald knew his killer," he said finally. "The missing camera proves it. He wouldn't have handed it over to a stranger—but he might have trusted another photographer, someone who understood how to handle expensive equipment."

"Good observation," Sheila said. "What else?"

"The killer must have been following him for a while. Mrs. Greenwald said Bradley was nervous about someone showing up at his shoots. And they'd have to know his habits to catch him alone on the mountain."

They turned onto the highway leading back to the resort. The Wasatch Mountains loomed ahead, their peaks sharp against the winter sky. Fresh snow had dusted the higher elevations overnight, and the clouds gathering above suggested more was coming.

"That's a good analysis," Sheila said, guiding the car around a curve. "But don't get locked into one theory. Sometimes the obvious answer isn't the right one."

"What do you mean?"

"The killer could have stolen the camera earlier, used it to lure Bradley out. Or maybe Bradley had already lost it, and that's why he was using different equipment." She downshifted as they began climbing. "Keep your mind open to all possibilities."

They fell silent as the road wound higher into the Wasatch range.

The morning sun painted the mountains in stark contrasts—brilliant white peaks against deep blue sky, shadows pooling purple in the canyons.

Pine trees dotted the slopes like bristling sentries, their branches heavy with fresh snow.

To the west, the Great Salt Lake was just visible, a silvery shimmer on the horizon.

Sheila's thoughts drifted back to her father's office, to the hidden panel and the secrets it contained.

What had her father learned during his time with IA?

If someone had silenced Sheila's mother, and if Gabriel was afraid that same person would silence her if she wasn't careful…

was he implying that the guilty person was still around, ten years later?

Maybe still working in the department?

"Sheriff?" Tommy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Something on your mind?"

"Just thinking about the case," she lied, then immediately felt guilty. Still, it wasn't like she could get into all this with him.

"Mind if I ask a question?" he asked.

"You just did." She smiled to show she was joking.

"Is it true your sister was sheriff before you?" he asked.

The question caught her by surprise. Sheila's hands tightened on the steering wheel as memories flooded back—Natalie's laugh, her fierce protectiveness, the way she'd throw herself into every case like it was personal.

The way Sheila had found her lying on the floor of the cabin, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. ..

"I'm sorry," Tommy said quickly. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's okay." Sheila surprised herself by meaning it. "Yes, Natalie was sheriff. Before… before she died." She stopped there, her mouth dry.

"I heard she was amazing at her job."

"She was." Sheila smiled despite the ache in her chest. "Youngest sheriff in county history. Solved the Riverside Strangler case when everyone else had given up. She's the reason I became a cop."

"Really? I thought it was because of your dad."

"Everyone thinks that." Sheila checked her mirrors, moved around a slow-moving truck.

"But it was Natalie who inspired me. Dad was a great sheriff, but Natalie.

.. she had this way of connecting with people.

Making them feel heard. She taught me that being a good cop isn't just about solving crimes—it's about serving the community. "

"Sounds a lot like you," Tommy said softly.

The comment caught her off guard. She glanced at him, saw nothing but sincerity in his expression. It made her uncomfortable, how easily the words had flowed, how natural it felt talking to him about Natalie. Even Finn had learned to tread carefully around that topic.

Why was it that sometimes it was easiest to be vulnerable with the people she knew the least?

"Anyway," she said, too briskly, "that's ancient history."

"Thank you for telling me," Tommy said. "I know it's not easy, talking about family we've lost."

The simple understanding in his voice made her throat tight. She was saved from responding by her phone's sharp ring. Michael Wright's name flashed on the screen.

"Wright," she answered, her thumb hitting the speaker button. "What's up?"

"You need to get back here." Michael's voice crackled with tension. "Someone just delivered a photograph to the admin office. It's Bradley Greenwald— after he was killed."