Page 16 of Fatal Fame
"She came by tonight. Upset about your reaction to her wanting to work with that podcaster." Hugh paused, and Noah could hear ice clinking in a glass that probably contained something stronger than tea. "Son, you were too hard on her."
Noah narrowed his gaze. "I was protecting her."
"You were controlling her. There's a difference, and she's old enough to know it." Hugh's tone carried the authority of a man who'd spent decades managing difficult people and complicated situations. "She's eighteen, Noah. She's not going to sit quietly on the sidelines while interesting things happen around her, especially when those things involve the kind of work that runs in her blood."
"The kind of work that got her mother killed."
"The kind of work that defines who we are as a family." Hugh's voice sharpened. "Like it or not, Mia's a Sutherland. She's got the instincts, the intelligence, and the drive to be good at investigation. You can try to smother that, or you can help her learn to do it safely."
Noah rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of a day that had started with Thomas O'Connell's warnings about corruption and was ending with family conflicts he didn't know how to resolve. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her to follow her instincts. I told her she could count on my support if she needs advice or connections." Hugh paused. "I told her the truth, that sometimes the people who love us most have the hardest time seeing us as adults."
"Dad, you have just undermined everything that?—"
"She's going to work with them whether you approve or not. The question is whether you want to be part of that decision or whether you want to drive a wedge between yourself and your daughter."
The line went quiet except for the sound of Hugh's breathing and the distant noise of night settling over High Peaks. Noahstared at the case files scattered across his desk, thinking about patterns and connections and the way investigations had a tendency to consume everything in their path.
"You think I'm wrong," Noah said finally.
"I think you're scared. And I think fear makes us do things that feel like protection but look like control to the people we're trying to protect." Hugh's voice softened. "She's not Lena, Noah. She's not going to make the same mistakes or take the same risks. But she is going to investigate things that interest her, and if you're not part of that process, you won't be able to guide it."
Noah hung up without saying goodbye, but the damage was already done. He could feel the wedge Hugh had described opening between himself and Mia, and could see how his protective instincts were pushing her toward the very dangers he was trying to keep her away from.
5
Pierce spent the better part of the morning doing what he did best, turning fragments of information into a coherent narrative that would eventually become compelling audio content. Seated at a corner table in Daily Grind Café, laptop open and notebook filled with his cramped handwriting, he worked through the timeline that Evelyn Cross had provided while cross-referencing it with the newspaper coverage Mia had shown him.
The coffee shop hummed with the kind of low-level activity that made it perfect for working, local residents stopping by for their morning caffeine fix, tourists planning their day in the mountains, the occasional business meeting conducted in hushed tones over oversized muffins. Pierce had chosen a spot where he could observe the room while maintaining privacy for his phone calls, a habit developed over two seasons of investigating cases where the wrong person overhearing the wrong conversation could shut down sources permanently.
His phone rang as he was reviewing Evelyn's notes about Rebecca's art class schedule. The caller ID showed a local number he didn't recognize.
"Pierce Landry."
"Mr. Landry? This is Tom Dillard. I understand you're looking into the Rebecca Hale situation."
Pierce felt the familiar surge of excitement that came with unsolicited contact from potential sources. "That's right. Can I ask how you heard about my investigation and got my number?”
"Small town. Word travels fast, especially when it concerns something like this. Evelyn gave me your number." The man's voice carried the careful neutrality of someone who'd spent years avoiding taking sides in community disputes. "I worked with Rebecca at the time. Taught alongside her, I mean. Art program at the high school."
"Would you be willing to meet? I'd love to hear your perspective on what Rebecca was like in the weeks before her death."
There was a pause that suggested Tom Dillard was weighing the wisdom of getting involved. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. Like I said to Evelyn. There is nothing I'd tell you that isn't already public knowledge, more or less."
“Still, it would be good. If you don’t mind.”
They arranged to meet at the high school after classes ended, which gave Pierce the afternoon to prepare questions and review what he knew about Rebecca's professional life. According to the newspaper coverage, she'd been well-liked by colleagues and students, the kind of teacher who stayed late to help struggling kids and volunteered for extra duties without complaint. But Pierce had learned that official narratives rarely captured the complexity of real people living real lives.
Tom Dillard turnedout to be a thin man in his fifties with the kind of patient demeanor that suggested decades of dealing with teenage drama and administrative bureaucracy. He met Pierce in the art department hallway, surrounded by student work that covered every available wall space with the enthusiastic creativity that characterized high school art programs everywhere.
"Rebecca's old classroom," Tom said, gesturing toward a door marked with her name on a placard that had never been updated. "They've been using it for storage since... well, since she died. Nobody wanted to take it over permanently."
Pierce followed him into the room, noting the way afternoon sunlight streamed through large windows designed to provide optimal lighting for artistic work. Even empty, the space felt like it belonged to someone who'd cared about creating an environment where young people could explore their creativity without judgment.
"What was Rebecca like as a colleague?" Pierce asked, settling into one of the plastic chairs that seemed to be standard issue for every public school in America.
"Dedicated. Maybe too dedicated, if that makes sense." Tom perched on the edge of a desk, his expression thoughtful. "She had this way of getting involved in her students' lives that went beyond what most teachers would consider appropriate professional boundaries."
