Page 22 of In Her Grasp

Tommy’s gaze seemed to pierce through the walls, reaching into a past littered with hardship and discord. “Mike never could hold down a job for long,” he said, his tone revealing a touch of exasperation. “He’d get fired up over something minor, blow up, and that’d be the end of it. And he got rough with Mary. I wound up having to watch out for her, make sure she didn’t come to serious harm.”

Jenna observed Tommy’s hands as they fidgeted. “And the drinking?” she prompted.

“Started off casual, like most folks around here. But... with him it got worse, like it does with some.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Got him into a fair bit of trouble. Fistfights at bars, shouting matches in the street. Made himself more than a few enemies.”

“Any enemies that stand out?” Jenna probed, curious but cautious not to lead him.

“Here in Colstock, grudges don’t usually go away, but they don’t explode either— just simmer on low heat,” Tommy responded. “But Mike, he had a knack for turning up the flame.”

Jenna nodded, filing away each word, aware that the portrait being painted was incomplete, but every stroke revealed more of Mike Larson’s tumultuous existence.

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping softly against the concrete floor. Jenna noted the resignation etched into the lines of his face. “He and I were opposites in every way. I always tried to do right by everyone,” he said, a rueful smile flickering across his lips. “Guess that made me the golden boy by default. Naturally, I inherited the family farm when our parents died. That was fine with Mike. He never wanted the responsibility. Ever since then … well, I guess I’ve been responsible to a fault.”

“Responsibility like that can be heavy,” Jenna offered, watching as Tommy’s eyes unfocused, lost in reflection or regret.

“Sure, but it wasn’t the same for Mike. It was like he was chasing his own tail, circling closer to the fire each time.” Tommy’s voice faded as he continued. “I kept thinking, if I could just get him to settle, to find some kind of peace...”

“Did you ever talk to him about it, about trying to change?” Jake chimed in.

“More times than I can count,” Tommy admitted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “But talking to Mike was like trying to plant seeds on stone. Nothing took root. And man, did he ever have a temper.”

“What can you tell us about Mike’s disappearance?” Jake asked.

“That night... it was rough,” Tommy began, his voice more subdued than before. “Mike just got the boot from his job at Lohmeyer’s Feed Store. We were at The Rusty Nail, and he couldn’t shut up about ditching this place, starting anew.” He paused, searching their faces for understanding. “Kept saying there was nothing left for him here.”

Jenna listened intently, her mind meticulously cataloging each word. From Tommy’s account, she painted a mental image of the bar: dim lighting casting shadows, the clink of glasses, the smell of stale beer mixing with the desperation in Mike’s voice. She pictured him there, restless and seeking an escape that would never come.

“Anything else he said that stood out to you?” she probed.

“Nothing specific,” Tommy admitted. “Just... just that he needed a fresh start.” His gaze drifted away, and she noted the flicker of pain behind his eyes. It was clear that the memory of that evening was a wound still raw upon his conscience.

Tommy’s next words fell heavy in the room, laden with regret. “I tried to talk him out of it,” he confessed, his staresinking to the floor. “Told him Mary needed him that he couldn’t just bail on her.” His shoulders tensed under the weight of remembrance. “But I was a mess myself that night. I wasn’t much of a drinker, and that night I drank more than usual to keep Mike company. I felt sick, so I left early.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly, observing the lines of strain carved into Tommy’s features.

“Never saw my brother again,” he said.

The phrase reverberated within her, a stark reminder of the finality of disappearance. How many times had she herself turned over the last moments before Piper vanished, searching for some missed sign, some unheeded warning?

“Must be hell, playing that night over and over,” Jenna murmured, her voice low and empathetic. Her own experiences as both a sister and a sheriff lent her words authenticity. She watched Tommy closely.

“Every damn day,” he confirmed, barely audible. “Wondering if there was something I could’ve said, something that would’ve made him stay.”

A detail from earlier, the mention of Mike’s plans to leave, snagged her thoughts. “Mary mentioned someone named Sly. Can you tell us more about him?” Jenna inquired, pinning Tommy with an unflinching gaze.

“Ah, Sly,” Tommy responded, a flicker of warmth briefly illuminating his somber expression. He leaned back against the cool metal shelving, his posture relaxing as if the memory brought a momentary comfort. “That was his nickname—he was always a sly one. And he was the only person in town who could really put up with Mike for long stretches. They were like two peas in a pod, those two.” His eyes drifted to a spot on the dusty concrete floor, lost in remembrance.

“When Sly vanished six years ago, without so much as a goodbye, it knocked the wind out of Mike’s sails. It’s like he lost a part of himself that day.”

Tommy paused, his gaze returning to Jenna with a mix of defiance and sorrow. “Mike never did recover from that loss. Always seemed like he was searching for something after Sly left. Something he couldn’t find.”

Jenna listened intently as Tommy spoke of Sly, her mind working overdrive to connect the dots. Then, abruptly, a vivid flash from the previous night’s dream pierced her consciousness. The figure emerging from the water, his words an indecipherable tangle through the liquid barrier.

“You said Sly was his nickname,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“What was Sly’s real name?” she asked.

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