Page 30 of Her Final Hours
“Where is the family living now?” Noah asked.
“Clayton, New York.”
The thought of seeing them again only made him sick to his stomach.
“You can always speak to the lead investigator, Helen Peterson. She was the state investigator who was handling the case back then. She’s retired now and lives over in Tupper Lake. If anyone is going to remember, it would be her. Payton Scott became her Rebecca case.”
A Rebecca case — every investigator had one, an unsolved case that they obsessed over.
“And…” Hugh got up and crossed to the kitchen for more milk. “There was that other girl.”
“Jenna?”
“That’s right. I remember her.”
“As do I,” he mumbled, his mind returning to the night Payton vanished. It had haunted him and driven him into law enforcement. His father liked to think it was because of him, but it wasn’t.
11
Monday, March 19, 3:15 p.m.
Solving one cold case was challenging, unraveling more seemingly impossible.
Hugh didn’t encourage him, even though it was only a matter of connecting the dots. He figured if it hadn’t been solved already, what hope was there now?
Still, his father had a point — expecting anyone to remember twenty-five years ago was being too optimistic, but Noah felt it was worth the trip. Reluctantly Hugh made a quick phone call on his behalf, and the arrangement was made for later that day.
After ensuring that McKenzie was following up on the deceased man, Noah told him he would be in touch the next day.
Helen Peterson was a resident of Tupper Lake, a small Franklin County village within the Adirondacks’ boundaries just west of High Peaks.
Noah headed west on NY-86, followed by State Route 3. Her one-story home was set back from McLaughlin Avenue, one of the central veins that wound through the town and forest.
As the Bronco rolled through the landscape, his heater was working overtime to push back the cold. The small amount of snow on the ground painted the surroundings a wintry white, creating an eerie atmosphere. As the final rays of light filtered through the trees, he rolled into the driveway; his headlights illuminated the old but well-maintained house.
The house was a one-story structure with faded paint that had seen better days. Its design leaned toward a more traditional style with a sloping roof and a small porch at the entrance. Wooden shutters framed the windows, some slightly open and smothered in a thin layer of frost. The whole property exuded an air of history, fitting for the retired state investigator.
As he got out, a stiff wind howled, biting into his heavy coat and sending a shiver down his spine. He glanced to his right to a single-car garage and beyond that to an adjacent building — an oversized two-car garage.
After ringing the bell and getting no answer, Noah followed the path to the more oversized garage. He reached the side door and pulled it open. He was greeted by a warm glow from multiple lights hanging from the ceiling. The garage was surprisingly neat and well-organized. The smell of engine oil mixed with the scent of wood and heated metal attacked his senses.
In the center of the garage, a classic Oldsmobile Starfire convertible from 1962 was hoisted in the air. The vintage car was a sight; its sleek lines and polished chrome caught Noah’s attention immediately. It stood in contrast to the new Toyota SUV on the other side, a shiny vehicle that seemed out of place amidst the nostalgia of the classic automobile.
Noah glimpsed someone working beneath the car as hestepped into the garage. A radio playing tunes from the ’70s masked his approach. Legs clad in blue overalls protruded from underneath, attached to a mechanic’s creeper. “Sorry to bother you,” Noah called out. “I was wondering if Helen is home?”
The creeper slid out, the wheels rolling across the cold concrete, revealing a woman in her late sixties. She wiped her hands on a cloth and assessed Noah with a knowing gaze. “That would be me,” she replied, her voice weathered by confidence. Even after all this time, there was a sense of authority in her demeanor, a testament to her years of experience as an investigator.
Noah began introducing himself, but she interrupted him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I know who you are,” she stated. “Of course, you’re much older than I remember, but I don’t forget a face, especially yours.” Her words hinted at a connection beyond a simple meeting, evoking memories from his childhood.
She crossed the room and turned off the radio.
Noah commented on the car. Helen glanced back briefly before heading to a sink and washing her hands. “It was my late husband’s. He passed away three years ago. It was sitting out here, so I figured I would finish the work he started. Keeps my mind occupied and my hands busy,” she explained. “Gardening was never my thing. That was him too.”
Noah nodded, expressing his condolences. Helen took a handful of paper towels and dried her hands before disposing them in a nearby trash can. “Death is a part of life. Comes for us all,” she said, stepping out of the garage. “Come along.” She invited him to follow, leading him across the snowy path to her home. “Supposed to be a ferocious storm hitting the east coast shortly. They say three days, but I think it might last longer.”
“I heard 13 to 19 inches of snow. I hope you have a good snow blower.”
“I have one better. Someone with a truck who does it for me. I gave up using a blower after the damn thing wouldn’t start each year.”
