8:40am
Alaina was behind the wheel of her Honda Pilot, her phone in one hand, the steering wheel in the other. She’d turned off the county highway that cut through Aspen Falls and was heading down a two-lane road that looked as though a snowplow hadn’t cleared it since December. The road was covered in packed snow, without a hint of asphalt visible. Her tires squeaked and crunched as she trundled along at a snail’s pace, spinning a little on patches of snow that had melted and then iced over.
It was March and she was ready for winter to be over. She snorted. But this was Minnesota, and spring was never a guarantee…at least not until May. Sure, there were years when it came a little earlier, when March temperatures soared into the sixties and then somehow, almost as if by magic, stayed in that temperate range. This winter had been brutal, though, even by Minnesota standards. Polar vortexes that made temperatures and wind chills plummet, sometimes lasting for days, and snowstorms that didn’t bring impressive snow totals but still managed to cripple day-to-day life with irritating frequency—yeah, that was the story of this winter, and it couldn’t morph into spring quickly enough.
She stared out the window, waiting for Shane, one of the contractors she worked with, to pick up, gazing with reluctant admiration at the pine trees dusted with snow, at the bare branches of the oaks and maples and willow trees kissed with hoar frost, their branches sparkling silver in the early morning sunshine. It was beautiful, she thought grudgingly. But so were crocuses and tulips and green grass and all of the other colors that burst forth to welcome spring.
Shane finally answered. “Alaina.”
She forced a pleasant tone. She’d been trying to get a hold of her carpet installer for the past two days. “Hey, Shane. Got a slight problem at the Hyacinth property.”
“Oh?” His voice didn’t register an ounce of concern.
“My normal drywall guy is on vacation, and the sub I usually use has been out sick with the flu.”
“Okay…”
She swallowed her irritation. How could he not see the domino effect of all this? “So we’re a day or two behind on the project. Which means carpet is gonna have to get pushed back, too.”
“Ohhh.” Recognition finally sounded. “Gotcha. So when do you think we’re looking at? I have a job starting on Monday, a new office complex down in Maple Grove.”
She did some quick mental math. “I have someone coming today, so we should be good to go by Friday. We’re just laying carpet in the bedrooms, so you shouldn’t need more than half a day, max.”
“You’re just throwing up the drywall now?” Shane paused. “Don’t you wanna paint before putting down carpet?”
Of course she did. But this flip had been shot to hell by weather issues and sickness. She could paint the house herself—she always did—but she wasn’t going to lay carpet. And she didn’t want to have to reschedule Shane or find someone else to do it and risk further delays.
“It’s fine,” she said firmly. “I just want the carpet done. Does Friday work for you or no?”
She heard the shuffling of papers. “Uh, yeah, it looks like I can squeeze it in,” Shane said.
“Good. I’ll see you then.” She ended the call and tossed the phone on the passenger seat.
The Hyacinth house had been a disaster from the beginning. Not because of the condition it was in—her specialty, the thing she did, was buy houses that were in crap shape and get them fixed up to resell—but because of the delays. This, too, was par for the course with flipping houses. There were always going to be things that didn’t go according to plan: plumbing issues that were more extensive than she first realized, wood rot that required replacement, electrical issues that needed resolving. In truth, this particular house had needed relatively minor repairs. Most of them were simply cosmetic, not the expensive stuff involving rewiring or plumbing a house. Perhaps it just felt like a disaster because of what had happened during the flip.
Noah’s death.
Everything had been pushed to the back burner with the project. And even when she did manage to squeeze in a little work on the house, she’d done it half-assed, with little to no focus. She’d soldiered on—she always did—but the sorrow and guilt were always latent within her, ready to burst to the surface at a moment’s notice.
She shook her head, almost as if the physical act of doing so would clear her thoughts. She needed to focus on the task at hand, to find her composure and shift back into work mode.
And hope she could stay there.
It was something she’d struggled with more than she cared to admit over the last couple of weeks.
A van was already parked outside the tiny, single-story home tucked a quarter-mile back off a winding driveway on Hyacinth Lane. The name Grimmer Contracting was stenciled in black, block-style letters on the side of the van, the ink dark and shiny, as if it had recently been painted. Several extension ladders were secured to the roof, and Alaina had no doubt the interior was filled with all manner of tools and construction supplies.
Alaina pulled to a stop next to the van, cringing a little that she’d arrived after the contractor she’d hired. She hated being late, made it a habit to always leave a few minutes early so she was on time. So she’d be the one waiting.
She glanced at the clock on her dash. It was ten minutes ‘til nine, their agreed meeting time.
She was early.
But so was Rob Grimmer.
She grabbed her phone and shoved it into her purse, then reached for her red wool hat and settled it on top of her head.
She stepped out of the car and into the watery morning sunshine. The temperature was milder than it had been in days, but white puffs still clouded the air as she took a deep breath and pasted on a professional smile.
Rob Grimmer opened the driver’s side door of the van and nodded a greeting to Alaina. He was a big man, a former college defensive lineman, if the stories she’d heard about him were true. He was at least a foot taller than her, with broad shoulders that looked like he could easily stand down a Mack truck.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and blew into them, and Alaina wondered why he wasn’t wearing gloves. Maybe to prove how manly he was? She tried not to roll her eyes.
“Morning,” he said, squinting at her. “Was wondering if I got the time wrong.”
She gritted her teeth. She was not late, and she wasn’t about to be made to feel as though she was.
“Good morning.” She smiled frostily. “Looks like you decided to get here early, too.”
He didn’t respond to her subtle dig.
“That’s a pretty big car you’re driving,” he said, eyeing the Pilot. “Especially for a tiny thing like you.”
She bristled. Guys like Rob Grimmer were all too common in the construction world, and she’d learned pretty quickly that she would constantly need to prove herself, to demonstrate that she had just as much right to be in this industry as they did.
“Should we go inside?” she asked, fishing the house key from her purse.
He shaded his eyes, giving the house a once-over as they headed toward it. “So you have some drywall that needs to be done?”
She pushed the key into the lock and gave the door a good shove. It groaned, the wood rubbing against the frame, but she managed to force it open. The house wasn’t much warmer than the temperature outside, and Alaina immediately marched over to the thermostat to adjust the heat. She’d set it at 50, just warm enough to hopefully keep the pipes from freezing.
Rob surveyed the interior. Alaina knew it wasn’t much to look at. None of the homes she bought ever were, at least to start.
But that was the point.
She bought houses for peanuts, houses that had sat vacant for years or homes that had recently been foreclosed on and had suffered years of neglect and abuse, and then worked her magic. Hired contractors, did some of the work herself, and bingo, she’d resell them for a hefty profit.
“The prior owners had started a remodel,” Alaina sa
id. She dropped the keys on the kitchen counter, stained Formica that was absolutely a holdover from the sixties. “They had some water damage and were in the process of ripping out the drywall.”
“Never finished, huh?” Rob asked, crouching down to inspect the framing.
“Apparently not,” Alaina answered.
“Any idea why?”
Alaina knew exactly why. Because the husband had died, leaving a monumental financial mess for his widow. The woman had stayed in the house an additional couple of years, struggling to make payments and to try to turn her fortune around, but eventually she’d had to admit defeat and the bank had foreclosed.
And Alaina had been there, swooping in and purchasing the house for a steal.
She tried to ignore the pang of guilt she felt. It wasn’t a good feeling, knowing she was taking advantage of people under stress and duress. But that was her job. It was what she did. It was the reason she had a ridiculously healthy bank account for a woman her age.
Besides, she hadn’t been the one to foreclose on the house. The bank had done that.
Alaina shrugged, finally getting around to answering Rob’s question. “Guess it just made more sense to sell.”
Rob looked at her, his hazel eyes assessing. “Huh.” His knowing look told her he didn’t believe a word she said. “Alright, I have a crew coming out this morning. Two of my best guys.”
Alaina nodded. “And they can be done by tomorrow?”
Rob walked the perimeter of the room and then headed down the hallway to the bedrooms. Alaina followed behind him.
“Yeah, it should be doable,” he said.
“Good.” She smiled. Inside, she was breathing a sigh of relief. She didn’t want any more delays.
Rob nodded. “Tony and Oscar can definitely handle this. Like I said, they should be here any minute. I can stick around if you want me to get them started, but they’ve been doing this for years. They’ll know what to do.” He scratched his head. “I have another job starting today, too, a basement remodel over by the hospital.”
“That’s fine,” Alaina said. “Before you go…you have a copy of your license and insurance, right?”
Rob frowned. “What?”
“License and insurance,” she repeated. “Just so we’re doing everything by the book.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been in the business for twenty years, sweetheart. Trust me, I’m legit.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said coolly. “But I’d still like to see it.”
Rob’s cheeks reddened.
“I’m not sure I have a copy on me,” he said shortly. “I can bring it by tomorrow.”
Alaina folded her arms. “I’d like to see it before we actually start work.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “So you want to hold off until tomorrow?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m not starting a project without the paperwork.”
She did things by the book. Always. She had to, especially as a woman in a business that was dominated by men.
“And I can’t get it to you until tomorrow,” he shot back.
“Then I guess you call your guys and tell them today’s a no-go.”
A muscle in Rob’s jaw pulsed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He looked like a man who was very much trying to get his temper under control.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.
Alaina pursed her lips and said nothing.
“Looks like I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, then spun on his heel and strode down the hall, back toward the living room. A moment later, Alaina heard the door slam shut.
She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes. Things were not going according to plan.
Alaina sighed. She needed to call Shane and let him know there had been a change in plans, see if he’d be willing to come out on Saturday instead.
She reached inside her purse, intending to dig out her phone so she could call him, but it was already buzzing with an incoming call. She cringed when she saw the name displayed on the screen and immediately debated whether or not to answer it.
Just as quickly, she decided. The last time she’d ignored a call from her mother had been the one telling her about Noah. And Alaina was still trying to forgive herself for that.
“Mother.” She tried to keep her tone neutral, but there was a certain flatness to her voice.
“Alaina.”
Her mother sounded tearful, and Alaina immediately braced herself. What bad news did she have this time?
“I’m at a job site,” Alaina began, hoping her mother would get the hint that she wasn’t in a position to talk.
“Why is there a man calling me? A man who wants to talk to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“A man,” her mother repeated.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alaina said. “Is it a reporter?”
“You don’t know?” her mother asked, dumbfounded. “He said you were the one who recommended he call.”
Alaina bit back a sigh. “Mom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“He’s a detective. A private investigator.”
Alaina’s eyes widened and suddenly it all made sense.
Lucas.
Her mother was talking about Lucas.
She frowned. Alaina had given him a wide berth in the investigation, asking him to look into every potential lead, every possible angle. It made perfect sense that he would want to talk to her parents.
“What did you tell him?” Alaina asked.
Her mother sniffled. “What was I supposed to say? He asked if he could come over to ask me a few questions, said you suggested he get in touch. Said he was looking into Noah’s…” She drew in a shaky breath. “Your father will be livid if he finds out. You know that, right?”
“So?” Alaina didn’t care what her dad thought. She swallowed. That wasn’t entirely true, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Not even to herself.
“Isn’t he out of town, anyway?” Alaina vaguely remembered something about a business trip. He’d originally scheduled it for the last week of February but had postponed it because of…because of Noah.
“Well, yes—”
“What’s the problem, then? He won’t be there. You don’t even have to tell him if you don’t want to.”
“You know I don’t keep things from your father,” her mother said.
Alaina rolled her eyes. She knew all too well the dynamics of her parents’ relationship. It was so traditional it made her want to vomit. He was the breadwinner, she was the homemaker. He made the decisions and her mother went along with them. It was the way it had always been, and what her father expected of Alaina, too. And she’d bucked at it, essentially from day one.
“What did you tell Lucas?” Alaina asked.
“Who?”
“Lucas McGowan. The investigator.”
Her mother hesitated. “I…I told him to come over. He’s on his way here now.”
8
Wednesday, March 21st
9:30am
The house was impressive.
Lucas parked outside the Dans home—a two-level brick colonial—his front tires hitting the snowbank next to their driveway apron. He reversed and repositioned the car but made no move to turn off the engine, allowing the heat to pump out of the vents as he made some mental notes.
The house was located on the south side of town, where homes were spaced on lots a half-acre or larger. The neighborhood wasn’t a development; this wasn’t one of those neighborhoods with cookie-cutter homes and HOA fees and community pools and parks. In fact, as he drove down the road heading toward the address he’d been given, he’d passed other homes like it mixed in with seventies-style split-levels and single-story ramblers. He wasn’t a native of Aspen Falls, had only been in the town for a handful of years, but he knew immediately that several of these houses had been here for a while. They’d been built on a prairie, or maybe someone’s old farm, judgi
ng from the flatness of the landscape. Wetlands dotted the road on either side, small sections with tiny ponds or marshland, now frozen over. A few copses of trees were scattered between, all of them bare and spindly, the brown nubs on their branches just waiting to burst forth with spring buds. All reminders of the fact that nature was here first and there truly were some places that were just unbuildable.
It was an established neighborhood and, from the looks of it, quiet. Family friendly. Several homes had snowmen standing sentry in front yards, with sleds stacked up on front porches or still scattered in the snow, large blotches of bright red and blue plastic on an otherwise pristine canvas.
He gazed at the house. It was definitely on the newer side, probably less than twenty years old. A front brick façade, beige vinyl siding, red wooden shutters framing the front windows. The front porch looked freshly stained, a rich honey color, with a nice outdoor furniture set consisting of couch and loveseat occupying the far right corner of the space. He pictured summer evenings with a glass of wine, gazing across the street and admiring the wetlands. Imagined the pond that, although frozen now, would be alive with cattails blowing in the breeze and ducks swooping in for a swim and crickets and cicadas humming in the tall grass that surrounded it as night fell.
There were no sleds or toys in the Dans yard, no snowman to greet visitors, but the myriad of footprints that crisscrossed the front yard indicated the occupants had spent some time outside. Letting a dog out, maybe? Lucas didn’t know.
He killed the engine and opened his car door. For the first time in what felt like forever, a rush of arctic air didn’t greet him. The day was almost mild, at least by Minnesota winter standards, and he glanced at the beanie on the passenger seat, knowing he wouldn’t need it for the quick walk from the road to the house.
He made his way to the sidewalk, a concrete path that had been meticulously cleared of snow. As he approached the house, he saw the thick layer of salt scattered on the walk, an almost guarantee to melt the snow and ice that could be so treacherous to navigate. His boots crunched on the thick salt crystals and he stomped hard on the porch, trying to dislodge the pieces he knew had gotten stuck in his treads.
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