I said, “I need to ask you some more questions about Brett.”

Cheryl stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork and watched it ooze. “Be my guest. I’m not sure how much more I can help.”

“You can start by telling me everything you know about Brett’s involvement with drugs.”

Cheryl set down her fork. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You told me you insisted he quit gambling, and he did—but he traded one transgression for another, and you had to be aware of it. You were in a serious relationship, spending time at each other’s homes. There’s no way he could have hidden regular trips to Montreal from you, or the outings he took to Burlington and St. Albans. This is important, Mrs. Copely. Did you ever see anyone you know in possession of drugs that you believed came from Brett?”

“Oh, God.” With trembling fingers, Cheryl reached for her glass of water. At that same moment, my cell phone rang.

“I need to take this,” I said. “I want you to think very carefully about your answer. Can I borrow a room?”

Cheryl showed me to a guest room, and I closed the door behind me. I’d asked Tim to look up the Swanton Chamber of Commerce online and get a list of its employees. He’d called the business and spoken to its manager. “Left the office at ten and wasn’t back until after noon,” Tim said. “Which apparently is unusual for him.”

“Call Harmison. Tell him to get some officers to the hospital right away.”

“Will do.” Tim paused. “And Trey?”

“I’m still working on that,” I said, feeling my elation stutter. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

Tim hung up, and I was left sitting on the guest bed in a room wallpapered in rosebuds, trying to process what I now knew to be true.

There was a part of me that felt Russell Loming could, in fact, be culpable, but I’d been too preoccupied with how he managed to pull off the murder to fully accept it. Between Brett, Crissy, and Doug, there was a lot of activity out at the refuge that Saturday night, and lots of comings and goings meant an enormous amount of risk. Loming could easily have been seen. If Brett confided in him at the drive-in about his intention to take his kids to Philly, Loming had to have known there would be witnesses at the fishing access. How had he executed such a perfect crime under such slippery circumstances?

When I talked to McIntyre about my frustration with Brett’s case, she’d tried to allay my doubt in my abilities by reminding me the killer had a head start, and loads of time to prepare should they ever be questioned. Loming wasn’t an idiot—yet he’d confessed to dealing drugs with Brett knowing full well Harmison and I would pursue that lead. It was just as Mac said: whoever killed Brett had years to prepare their response, nearly two decades to devise an escape plan. They’d be cool. Unflustered. And that described the individual I believed to be Brett’s killer to a tee.