“Fabulous. Where are they going?”
“Owen’s,” he said, mentioning both the largest residence and only funeral home in the village.
There was a sound like a ringing or perhaps a song.
“Connor?” His brother did not answer.
Dial tone, he decided and returned the handset to the cradle. Then he stepped out of the office to watch the procession making the turn. The last vehicle was a white SUV driven by the sheriff of Onutake County, Axel Trace, who had not even bothered to check in with the village constable.
Logan stepped out to the street and removed his hat as they passed and came upon Paige’s daughter, Lori Morris, walking from school with her grandmother. With all the excitement, he’d lost track of time. He glanced at his watch and saw it was already a little after three in the afternoon.
He turned to Lori, dressed in a purple polar fleece jacket that added bulk to her thin frame. “How was school?”
Lori looked away from the retreating procession of official vehicles.
“Mr. Garrett got called away so we had Mrs. Unger,” she said and made a face.
Logan joined her, twisting his face as if he were poisoned. Mr. Garrett was Lori’s teacher, and a volunteer with the fire department. He was also a paramedic. And Mrs. Unger had been his primary school principal, as well. She had been universally disliked back then based mainly on her position of authority but also on her tendency to be nicer to her charges whenever a parent was around. Since leaving school, Logan had gotten to know Mrs. Unger, who also volunteered with the fire department, and had grown to admire her. She was silver-haired and tough as any US marine he had ever known.
“Still looking over her glasses at kids?”
“Yes!” said Lori and rolled her golden eyes and then did a fair imitation. “I don’t know what she was talking about. We’re studying plants and she was talking about comotosis and phototosis or something and I think that’s high school stuff. And she is so boring! She makes me comotosis!”
He laughed. Lori was funny.
“Mitosis and photosynthesis?” asked her grandmother, impatience making her voice tight.
“Maybe,” said Lori.
“And this—” she waved a finger at Lori before continuing “—is the sort of nonsense that caused me to have to speak to her after class.” Mrs. Morris turned to Logan. “I don’t see why I should be punished for my granddaughter’s disrespect.”
His brother’s new “dragon-orange metallic” Audi Q8 model SUV raced by, exceeding the speed limit. The color looked to Logan exactly like the orange flashing light on a snowplow. He frowned.
Mrs. Morris watched the SUV disappear after the procession. “You should give him a ticket.” Then she directed her cool gray eyes on Logan. “Shame about Dr. Sullivan.”
Word traveled fast.
“Did Paige call you, Mrs. Morris?”
“You can call me Beverly, Logan, as I’ve told you.”
He looked away, uncomfortable with that. He’d always think of her as Paige’s mom, Mrs. Morris, despite her insistence that he call her by her first name.
Mrs. Morris sighed. “Yes, she did call.”
“What happened to Dr. Sullivan?” asked Lori.
The two adults exchanged a look. Logan shook his head. He wasn’t speaking about this before an eight-year-old. The world had too many monsters, but the ones under her bed would do for now.
Mrs. Morris clearly felt differently for she answered the question.
“Your mother’s supervisor has been in an accident.”
“Is he okay?”
“No, I don’t think he is.”
“What kind of accident?” asked Lori.
“I’ll tell you on the way home.” Mrs. Morris set them in motion. Lori remembered to say goodbye and waved a hand sheathed in a mitten fashioned to look like a zebra puppet complete with a braided tail and pink lolling tongue. The googly eyes rolled, making it look as if it also had a head injury. Logan waved back. Then he replaced his hat and returned inside to the phones.
He made it only to the new wheelchair ramp and paused at the sound, unsure what it was. He could identify where it came from, toward the village library, on the corner of Raquette and Main, in the former home of the Hornbeck family. The village’s namesake had founded the bank back when the railroad stopped in this village. The sound reminded him of a fish thrashing in the river after it was hooked. But it turned out to be Paige Morris, hurrying along Main, passing the autobody shop and the antiquarian bookstore.
She wiped her face every few seconds with her gloved hands. Today was cold and windy, and Paige had a blocked tear duct. He remembered with perfect clarity in the winters of their childhood that the tears rolled down her left cheek and froze on the collar of her maroon nylon snow coat. Funny how he could remember that but not a minute of his time in the US Marines or a minute of his engagement to Paige.
But Paige’s tear duct dripping did not make a noise and she was making a noise. Was that pain? He crossed Main Street to intercept her. She usually walked home after five but was early today.
It wasn’t until he was nearly before her that she noticed him. The noise she was now making was obvious. Paige was crying.
Paige hurried up Main Street with her head down against the wind and her shoulders bent by the weight of her troubles. Someone stepped directly into her path, bringing her up short. She startled, glancing up. Instinctively, her hand went to her shoulder bag and the printed copy of the file she had found on Dr. Sullivan’s computer.
Logan stood before her.
For just a moment he looked as he always had, back when her family had been in trouble and he’d done the wrong thing for the right reason. One look into Logan’s sympathetic eyes and she fell to pieces.
The years of his absence disappeared. Pain and fear lowered her resistance and she stepped into his arms, sobbing. He was just the right height to cradle her against his chest and rest his chin on the top of her head. His familiar scent comforted her as tears rolled down her cheeks like raindrops down a windowpane.
“Why are you crying?” he said. “Is it Dr. Sullivan?”
She couldn’t have answered if she had wanted to. And she couldn’t tell him what had happened. But she wasn’t sure who to tell about the text message or what she had found afterward. She wasn’t even sure what the document meant, just that it highlighted an inconsistency. Inconsistencies were the enemies of quality assurance.
Dr. Sullivan had found something. She suspected he reported his concerns to the head of security or to his supervisor, Sinclair Park, or even the CFO, Veronica Vitale, and then he had died.
A correlational relationship. Not necessarily causal. But she could not eliminate, out of hand, the possibility of causality.
“Is this about Dr. Sullivan?” Logan asked again.
Paige nodded, snuggling closer to the canvas jacket supplied to Logan by the village.
Logan cradled her against him. “I’m sorry about Dr. Sullivan, Paige.”
Nodding, she managed to rein in the sobs. Logan helped coach Ed’s son on basketball. He’d lost a friend, as well. Her coworker’s death would leave such a hole in the community.