Page 72 of Unpacking Secrets

“I think we need to talk to Chief Roberts or Detective Hanson,” he said finally. “If this guy is back in town, he’s dangerous. Given the fire at the cottage, I’m inclined to think you’ve become his target.”

As much as I wanted to protest that last statement, I had to accept that it was looking more and more likely. Henry’s hand found mine and I leaned my head back against the seat.

“Okay,” I said softly. “This is unreal.”

“I know. But you’re not alone in this.”

There were those words again. I swallowed my tears as he squeezed my fingers reassuringly.

I reflected on clearing out my mother’s house, finding her note, the long hours on the road, all alone. Somehow, this first true solo adventure of my life had resulted in gathering around myself a group of friends—friends who were becoming family, the big family I'd always wished for.

It seemed ridiculous to feel this warm, welling sense of affection in the midst of whatever this mess was.

Henry texted the chief a head’s up with Heller’s name, then drove us to Spruce Hill’s very tiny police station. He smiled a little at my skeptical expression.

“Size isn’t everything,” he whispered in my ear as he held the door for me.

I hummed softly in response. “I mean, it sure helps.”

He choked back his laughter as Chief Roberts greeted us and led us into his office at the back of the station. I’d barely noticed anything about the chief after the fire, but now I was able to appreciate his gentle green eyes, the softness of his voice when he asked how I was holding up. He was several inches shorter than Henry, a rotund but broad man with dark hair that had gone mostly gray.

Even in my distraction, I thought he looked like a man who probably had a lot of stories to tell.

Just as we settled into the two chairs in front of his desk, Detective Hanson joined us. She squeezed my shoulder reassuringly as she moved to stand at Roberts’ shoulder behind the desk.

At my request, Henry did the talking. While he’d already informed the police about a possible gunshot during my trip out to Cooper’s Point and given them the details about those news articles Nan had kept, he now added Lewis Zoratti’s warning about Tom Heller and the entries that mentioned Melissa and T in Nan’s journals.

After relaying that information, Henry drew some folded papers from his back pocket and passed them across the desk. Chief Roberts took the printouts, then leaned back in his chair.

“I printed these this morning. They’re copies of the articles we found. The original clippings were at the cottage.”

“Your mother left before my time,” Roberts said to me, “but her departure had a way of coming up in conversation over the years. The sketch you found of this Heller guy, is it safe to assume that was inside the cottage at the time of the fire, too?”

I nodded, fighting back another wave of grief at the loss of Nan’s artwork, but Henry straightened in his seat like an idea had just popped into his head.

“Juliet is an incredibly talented artist,” he said slowly, turning to look at me. “Do you think you could recreate it?”

I cringed a little, more at the praise than at the prospect of drawing Heller. “I can try. I only saw it for a few minutes, though.”

“That would be helpful, since I didn’t find a single record of Tom Heller after he left Spruce Hill. It’s like he disappeared, same as Melissa,” Chief Roberts told us. “I found an old file from decades ago that mentioned him—an Officer Jameson broke up a fight outside a school dance involving one Tom Heller.”

“That was in Nan’s journal,” I replied.

The thought of trying to recreate Nan’s sketch after only seeing it for those few minutes initially caused a big ball of anxiety to settle in my stomach, but suddenly I was itching to get started.

“Do you have some paper? I’d like to try the sketch now, before I think about it for too long.”

Hanson fetched me a pencil and a few sheets of blank paper from the printer. The three of them spoke in low tones while I worked, but I barely registered any of their conversation over the sound of the pencil scratching against the paper. These thin strokes were nothing like the sharp, dark lines of charcoal that Nan had laid out, but my memory of the image was clearer than I expected.

By the time I finished, the paper showed a fairly close rendition of Nan’s artwork. I tried not to shudder at those malicious eyes staring back at me. When I slid the paper in front of Henry, his eyebrows shot upward.

“You’re amazing, Red. That’s him,” he said, turning it around to show the chief.

I shrugged as I watched the chief for a reaction. He frowned slightly, then he tapped the image with one finger.

“Does he look familiar to either of you?” he asked. “Hanson?”

The detective shook her head. “I’m good with faces but I’ve never seen him.”

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