My phone buzzed from where it sat on the desk I had commandeered. My mother’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Winston?” my mother said through the phone.

I noticed the way Len slowed her search, listening while she worked.

“Is everything alright?” I asked.

“It’s been a bit since we’ve heard from you. I know you’re on an assignment in the field, according to your sister, and I just wanted to make sure everything was going well.”

Even in my late twenties, the worrying never stopped. 

I appreciated the concern. More than anything, my mother cared about Lyla and me.

“The case is moving along,” I said, careful not to share much detail. “I believe it will be wrapping up soon.”

Len froze at those words. The way her body tensed made me immediately regret them.

“That’s perfect!” she said, her voice growing more excited. “That means you may just be able to make it home for the holidays this year after all.”

Ah, there it was. 

I knew it was coming eventually. It’d been far too long since I last visited, and I was longing for a trip anyway.

“As long as nothing else comes up, I will be there,” I promised her. “But we have a few months still to plan the details.”

“I know, but you’re hard to nail down with how busy the FBI keeps you. I wanted to make sure I brought it up early.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “I do have to get back to work right now, but I promise, we can discuss more the moment this case ends.”

Guilt washed over me for rushing her off the phone, but I knew I should get back to supporting Len with whatever she’d dragged us to the museum for.

“I love you, Winston,” she said.

“I love you too,” I answered before hanging up the phone.

Len glanced back over her shoulder, as if she was just realizing I had been on the phone. I knew better than that.

“Sorry,” I said and slid my hand through my hair. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my mother and sister, so they have been a bit more antsy to get me on the phone lately.”

“I don’t mind,” Len answered with a shrug.

She turned back to flipping through the files. I watched her for a few more minutes, waiting for her to give some hint of what she was looking for.

“Here!” she shouted.

The folder was thin, and she pulled a single sheet of paper from it. I walked over to get a better look at it. The Briarport Chronicle header was on the top, an article and photo printed on the sheet.

“The sheriff?” I asked, immediately recognizing the man.

“Look at the date,” she insisted.