It’s nearly midnight, twenty-four hours since that sign went up in the town square, and I’m no closer to finding out who did it. I’ve interviewed every witness who’ll talk. No one saw who posted the sign.
Whoever did it picked the perfect time. Petra left the Roc at eleven and says the screen was empty. I suspect the sign went up around eleven thirty, when those lingering at the Roc didn’t plan to leave until Isabel kicked them out at twelve. A brief window of time when the streets would be empty. Then one last burst of activity when the Roc closed, during which someone was bound to spot the sign.
I’ve spent the last couple of hours dusting for prints while expecting nothing. Paper isn’t the best source for fingerprints, and a half dozen people handled the sign after it was taken down. I should have been more careful about that. At the time, I’d been focused too much on the message and too little on finding who posted it.
When I do manage to lift prints, they’re all from people I know touched it: Isabel, me, and Anders. Either the poster wore gloves or their prints didn’t adhere.
The paper is cheap all-purpose white sheets, bought by the ream in Dawson and sold in our general store. The marker used to write the message is standard black.
Phil has made improvements in the inventory system, which means cracking down on store staff whose idea of inventory control is to make daily notes of what they remember selling. Itemized receipts in duplicate are the new standard. I have a list of those who bought paper or markers in the last few months. That doesn’t include everyone who bought it earlier and has a stash at home, which is probably everyone in town. Nor does it account for the other businesses that purchase it or the fact that you can grab a few sheets of paper free at the community center.
Lifting footprints from the scene is out of the question. By the time I got there, the entire area had been trampled. I still checked last night, but it’d been a mess of smudged prints.
The better question is how someone got the sign on the movie screen, eight feet off the ground. Whoever posted it must have brought a chair or step stool. But who’d risk lugging something like that through town? Even at near midnight, it’d be noticeable.
I’m at the scene of the crime, pacing as I try to figure out how the sign got up there. The podium is nearby, but it’s fixed to the ground. There’s a basketball net. A couple of trees, too far to be used. Nothing that could be easily dragged over and climbed on.
Am I sure that’s what they did? What if the tool was something used to reach up instead?
Was the sign haphazardly affixed? Or firmly taped on?
And what difference does it make, really? I’m grasping at straws here, and they aren’t even solid straws.
As I wander through town, I tell myself I’m working the case. This is close to the same time of night. What do I see? What do I hear? Who’s out and about? Whose apartment light is on close enough that they might have seen something?
There aren’t many lights. People adjust to the patterns of sunlight in the north. A month ago, they’d have been awake, even out on porches, taking in the midnight sun. Now they’ve gone to bed. When I do see a flicker of distant light, it comes from a chalet on the edge of town. The small houses are our premier living quarters, a perk for essential-services workers. This particular chalet, though, should be dark and empty.
It’s Anders’s.
I’d asked Anders to sleep over at our place. Last night, he’d agreed without comment, still lost in the shock of that sign. Tonight, he’d argued, but Dalton insisted. Anders might be on light duty, but we can’t function with a police force of two, meaning he needs to be well rested in case of an emergency. Or that made a good excuse. The truth was that neither of us wants Anders being alone right now.
Just a few days ago, he was telling me how good he felt, how stable and steady his life had become. He had close friends, a job he enjoyed, a town he considered home, and the beginnings of a solid relationship with a woman he really liked.
He’s already lost Marissa. He told her the truth before the town meeting, and she agreed he was right to end it. That’d been a blow, as much as he tried to pretend otherwise.
So he’s spending the night at our place. He’s there now, with Dalton and Storm, and if I squint across town, I can see light in our living room. I’d popped by there an hour ago, and they’d been deep in conversation, so I’d slipped out again.
Now there’s a light at Anders’s place. A light on the move, meaning someone carrying a candle or lantern.
It could be Anders popping back to grab something he forgot. Yet that light looks dim, as if stifled, and he has no reason to do that in his own home.
I flick off my own light and head toward the chalet.
* * *
Someone is definitely moving through Anders’s chalet. Searching for something?
The light has disappeared, but when I circle around back, the door is ajar. I creep up to it. Before I slip in, my hand drops to my gun. Then I hesitate.
Having my gun in hand is always the right move for entering into a dark and unknown situation. Even in Rockton, where we don’t need to worry about anyone opening fire, we take our guns out as a warning.
Sure, you thought it was okay to break into the general store for a pack of matches—you’d have repaid them in the morning—but what if we mistook you for a bear?
After what happened today, though, an unholstered gun could be mistaken for a show of police power. Local law enforcement threatening an innocent resident who just popped by to tell Anders they support him.
I leave the gun in my holster and ease open the back door. It’s quiet inside. I slip in and shut the door behind me.
I keep my flashlight in hand as a potential weapon, but I leave the light off. Enough illumination shines through the windows for me to see. All of the chalets also follow the same blueprint. I could move through Anders’s with my eyes closed.
The back door opens into the kitchen. A visual sweep tells me it’s empty. I slide out of my shoes and creep forward in stocking feet. When a board creaks overhead, I stop. Another creak, paired with a soft footfall.
I continue out of the kitchen and into the living room. The stairs are to my left. Before I turn that way, I peer around the living space. This is the biggest room in the small house, and even the furniture arrangement is similar to ours—sofa to my right, chairs across from it, and a fireplace on the far wall. Anders has a coffee table where we have a bearskin rug. When I notice that dark shape, I think, Oh, right, the coffee table. Then I realize there’s something lumpy at the base.
I squint, but the window light hits the room wrong, casting the table into shadow. I take a step that way. Something protrudes across the floor.
An arm. I’m seeing someone’s arm.