Kids like Crissy.

TWENTY-FIVE

I paused on the threshold and took stock of the street before leaving Russell Loming’s. I was feeling significantly more optimistic than when I went in. After our initial conversation I hadn’t expected to find much meat on the bones of his account, yet here I stood with the knowledge that the small-town drug dealers my parents always warned me about included none other than Uncle Brett.

Loming’s statement, assuming it was unvarnished, had flipped my investigation on its head. Despite his insistence that Brett never furnished his daughter with drugs, the tally on Brett’s supply had mysteriously come up short. It was possible—likely, even—Crissy had her hand in Daddy’s cookie jar. The missing drugs, the money owed, all added up to motive. Not only was Brett indebted to Loming, but my uncle had become a liability; his decision to quit dealing put Loming at risk of exposure and threatened the future of his side hustle. Could Crissy’s abduction have been Loming’s idea of a shot across the bow? I recalled Tim’s report about the drug case he’d been working in A-Bay, the husband-and-wife operation that fell apart when the relationship soured. I could easily imagine Loming and Brett coming to the same end.

There were other possibilities, too. I was happy to consider the prospect of an entirely new suspect, a Canadian drug lord come to clean up loose ends, but that didn’t quite fit. After everything I’d learned, I refused to believe there was no connection between Crissy’s disappearance and her father’s death, and if a kingpin from Montreal heard Brett planned on going straight and Crissy somehow got caught in the cross fire, Brett’s killer would never have let her live. I still had a strong suspicion the person I was hunting was a close acquaintance of them both. Loming fit the bill. I couldn’t be sure if I was right, however, without first eliminating another potential suspect from the mix.

For the second time, I drove to Cheryl Copely’s. I took my time walking to her front door, noting the absence of snowy tire marks leading out of her garage, and wondered if she’d left the house at all since the news broke about Brett.

The first time I rang the bell, I got no answer. I rang again. Still nothing. “Mrs. Copely,” I called, pounding my uninjured fist on the door. “I’m a senior investigator with the police. I need to speak with you about Brett Skilton.”

After another few whacks loud enough to alert the neighbors, the door swung open to reveal a petite blond in her midfifties. She wore a plum-colored cardigan and matching lipstick, and her penciled eyebrows hovered in a way that made it clear she was pissed. But her eyes. They were the blue of a lake in summer when the sun breaks through the water. Robbie had inherited his best feature from his mom.

“Can I help you?” she said tartly, as those blue eyes darted around the street.