“The currents.”

“Right. I’m not completely in control, but I have to keep going. I have to trust I’ll make it to shore. The thing is, I’m scared of what I’ll find when I get there.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Just don’t let go of that trust.” Her words were like a gentle hand on my shoulder. “And let me give you some advice. Whatever happens from here on out, don’t make any decisions out of fear.”

“But that’s how I make all my decisions.”

Mac laughed. “Now,” she said, “what is it you want to ask me about your uncle’s murder?”

I smiled. There was no getting anything past Mac. “Have you ever worked a cold case?”

“Once or twice. It’s not easy, primarily because it puts investigators at a huge disadvantage against the offender.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “the information you’re working with is decades old. But it’s not just that. Whoever did this has had years to plan what they’d say if someone came around asking questions. They’re bound to be prepared.”

She was right. Motives and timelines were relevant, but I was used to watching for nervous tics and suspicious behavior when I conducted interviews. I’d been trained to sniff out anger that never abated—but what I should be looking for was the opposite of that. Composure. Utter calm.

Those were the characteristics that would point me to Brett’s killer.

TWENTY-FOUR

I woke up the next morning to find Swanton had gotten its first snowfall of the season. It had let up, leaving the sky a cloudless blue, but the trees wore fur capes, and everything sparkled in the magical way that makes you forget winter’s flaws.

Verifying the address he’d provided, I drove to Russell Loming’s place and parked across the street. Given his appearance and oily demeanor at the plant, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he lived in one of the tumbledown farmhouses I’d seen on my way into town. I found none of that. Loming’s home was well maintained, and I arrived just in time to see a woman in her midsixties usher three small children into a car while a jolly Loming, dressed in a blue bathrobe, waved at them from the living room window. When he saw me emerge from my SUV, the smile melted from his face.

“Looks like you had a wild night,” I said when he opened the front door.

“Russ Jr.’s got the stomach bug. Gran and Pop to the rescue.”

“Mind if I come in?”

“Jesus.” He wasn’t subtle about weighing his options, but in the end he drew the robe across his chest and waved me inside. He seemed shorter to me than when I’d seen him at the factory, the result of poor posture. I suspected that had something to do with his embarrassing attire. “Look,” he said once I was in the front hall, “can we make this quick? I’m running late.” His hair was damp and there were several nicks on his neck that suggested he’d shaved in a hurry.