Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night. We didn’t make any decisions or discuss the future or what this means in terms of our relationship. Still, I’m feeling more at ease this morning, and I realize the simple act of telling him the truth lifted a weight from my shoulders. I no longer have to deal with it alone.

I’m standing at the podium in our ragtag meeting room. Most of the reports I’ve heard this morning are about tornado damage and cleanup. We had a couple of instances of after-hours looting, mostly to businesses that sustained damage, and a couple of reports of fraudsters posing as home-repair companies trying to bilk the people whose homes were damaged by the storm.

I end the meeting with an update on the investigation into the remains found at the barn.

“Holy shit,” Skid mutters. “Death by hogs.”

“That’s something out of a horror novel,” T.J. adds.

The statement is followed by enthusiastic nodding of heads.

“Are we looking at foul play?” Glock asks.

“Even if the actual death was an accident—a fall into the pen, for example—an unknown individual may have made an effort to hide the body.” I look at Skid. “Nolt worked for a while at that big hog operation down in Coshocton County.”

“There you go,” Glock says.

“Hewitt Hog Producers,” Pickles puts in.

I nod at them and return my attention to Skid. “I want you to get me the name and contact info of everyone who worked there in the two-month period leading up to Nolt’s disappearance. Check for criminal records and warrants, too.”

“You got it.”

“So if Nolt somehow ended up in the pen with those hogs,” Glock says, “how did his body end up buried beneath that old barn?”

“That’s a twenty-minute drive,” Skid adds.

“Maybe Nolt had some kind of disagreement with one of his coworkers,” T.J. says. “Maybe there was an argument or a fight and Nolt ended up in the pen. The coworker panicked. Dumped his body in the crawl space of the barn.”

“If it was an accident, why not call the cops?” Pickles asks.

Skid grins at the old man. “Not everyone’s as smart as you, Pickles.”

“Maybe he had a warrant,” Glock offers.

“Maybe the hog operation was breaking some law,” T.J. says. “Pollution or some EPA regulation.”

“We need to look at all of that.” I glance down at my notes. “Almost every witness I’ve spoken with about Leroy Nolt thought he was seeing a woman. Interestingly, he didn’t tell anyone her name or reveal her identity. Not to his family. Or his best friend. Or coworkers.”

Pickles shrugs thin shoulders. “First thing that comes to mind is that she was married.”