Despite the sensational headline, the article focused on the Feron family’s reunion with their daughter. Skye Feron would undergo years of therapy to come to grips with what happened. Thomas scratched his head and wondered how Skye’s parents would bridge the chasm between them and their daughter.
The kettle whistled. Thomas poured the water into a travel mug and set the tea inside to steep. He’d attempted to interview Skye Feron at the hospital. By then, the woman had crept back into her shell and refused to speak with anyone. Except Justine. As Thomas understood it, the two women shared private conversations before the hospital released Skye.
The first hint of morning lay beyond the hills when his phone rang. He glanced down, saw the call was from his mother. A sick knowledge crawled into his belly. There was only one reason his mother would call this early.
“Mother, is everything all right?”
“He had a terrible night, Thomas. I’m talking to him, but he doesn’t know who I am. It won’t be long now.”
“Is the nurse there?”
Mason Shepherd refused to leave his home. He’d die in familiar surroundings, not in a hospital room with cold, white walls, surrounded by doctors who dealt with tragedy daily. On Thomas’s insistence, they’d hired a nurse to care for Mason last month. Since then, his deterioration had quickened.
“She’s on the way.”
“I’ll be right there.”
It was almost six when Thomas pulled his truck beside the curb in Poplar Hill Estates. He’d already phoned Aguilar to tell her he’d be late.
“Take as much time as you need, Sheriff,” she’d said as he navigated the sleepy village roads. “You should be with your family today.”
“Thank you, Aguilar. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
Morning birdsong greeted him as he climbed down from the cab. The morning chill held firm, the fog following him from the lake to the mansion district. He gave the house one look, remembering the first time the training wheels came off his bicycle, the skinned knees, neighborhood friends who kept him grounded when things at home weren’t so good. Once, he was young and foolish enough to believe life was forever, that there would always be a tomorrow to repair what lay broken.
Sadness coiled in his throat.
In his heart, he knew this was goodbye.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Saturday, October 2nd
10:10 a.m.
Fall came early to Wolf Lake that year. It rode an Alberta wind and frosted the grass on chilly mornings, painted fiery reds and yellows through the trees, and wilted flowers. The autumn wind rattled the windows on stormy nights, hunted the vacant alleyways in Harmon, and pushed leaves along the village sidewalks until tiny mountains pressed against doorways. Days remained mild, but nights reminded everyone winter was but a breath away.
The Times ran a national story on the Alec Samson case. The boy had a broken employment record after high school, including brief stints at fast-food restaurants and one office temp job for a law firm. His employment record concluded four years ago, and there was no evidence he ever left Wolf Lake and moved to Alaska. His parents were heavy drinkers. Two neighbors told The Times the mother and father beat Alec as a child. He’d formed an inseparable bond with his sister, Dawn, who suffered abuse at home and in school. She was Alec’s lifeline, his reason for living. When she committed suicide, something broke inside Alec and couldn’t be repaired.
Thomas closed the article and scrubbed a hand down his face. There was too much pain and injustice in the world.
Six weeks had passed since his father’s death. The loss remained surreal. For thirty-two years, he’d barely known Mason Shepherd, despite growing up under the same roof. How ironic they’d formed a bond days before Mason’s body surrendered to cancer. His father had known his time on earth was short. That’s why he’d reached out to his son, affirming his love and confidence for the first time in Thomas’s life.
Outside the window, the sun painted an intricate pattern of yellows and oranges as it filtered through the trees. Enough leaves covered the ground to justify raking, and more would fall over the coming week. Scout moved down the concrete pathway in her wheelchair, while Naomi harvested what little remained from her backyard garden. A light shone inside the guest house, and Thomas spied two silhouettes inside. Raven was visiting her brother.
Thomas pushed the chair away from his desk. Jack lay at his feet, panting and grinning. The big dog’s eyes kept wandering to the tennis ball in the corner.
“Okay, you convinced me,” Thomas said, grabbing the ball.
Jack followed excitedly at his feet, almost slipping on the stairs. Once they reached the lower landing, the dog bounded for the deck door and swung his head back and forth, watching Naomi and her daughter. Thomas slid the door open, and Jack took off running. Then Scout was laughing as the dog set his massive paws on her lap and licked her face. Naomi waved to Thomas, who ordered Jack to get down before tossing the tennis ball across the spacious backyard.
While Jack retrieved the ball, Thomas shuffled to the garden. Naomi clutched an armful of squash.
“Good thing you picked them before the next frost. Let me help you.”
She issued a relieved sigh and handed him half the harvest. They carried the squash inside the house and set the bounty on the counter. There was a sign on the wall that read, What the, with a fork beneath the words. Sauce simmered on the stove. The kitchen smelled like home.
On their way outside, Naomi said, “The sun feels nice. But it will be an early winter this year.”
“We’re overdue for a stormy winter,” Thomas agreed. “It’s hard to believe the lake will be a sheet of ice in a few months.”
Jack brought the ball to Scout, who hurled the tennis ball toward the guest house with a giggle. The dog raced after the ball and woofed, tail wagging. Naomi’s gaze traveled to Thomas’s yard. She wiped her
