Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

J o’s steps crunched on the frostbitten path leading to Garvin McDaniels’s house. The air nipped at her cheeks, a harsh whisper of the season’s turn.

Garvin’s house was remote, surrounded by fields and forest. The old farmhouse had seen better days. Paint was peeling, and a few porch balusters were missing. Yet it looked better than it had the last time Jo had been here. Now that it was blanketed under a blanket of snow, the house seemed to reclaim some of its lost dignity, its weed-infested lawn mercifully hidden from view.

As she drew closer, a knot of apprehension tightened in Jo’s stomach. She hoped Garvin wouldn’t mind her stopping by. He had refused to sell to her, mentioning that he’d also refused Marnie Wilson, who had expressed interest too. Hopefully, Marnie didn’t have something more persuasive than pie.

Jo approached the door and knocked.

Garvin opened the door, his expression shifting from surprise to a warm welcome. “Sergeant Harris, what brings you here?” he asked, his eyes landing on the pie.

“Please call me Jo. I thought you might like some homemade apple pie,” Jo said, offering it to him. The scent of the pie seemed to fill the space between them, a symbol of her goodwill.

Garvin accepted the pie, a smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Jo. That’s very kind of you. Please come in.”

In Garvin McDaniels’s modest living room, Jo settled into an armchair, its fabric worn from years of use. The room was a capsule of memories, the furniture holding the imprints of a family’s history. On the walls, photographs in faded frames told stories of joyous gatherings, holidays, and milestones. Each image was a window into Garvin’s past, a life rich with moments now frozen in time.

Garvin, sitting across from her, gestured toward one of the photos. “That’s my Essie,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and lingering sorrow. “She’s been gone five years, but it feels like just yesterday.”

Jo followed his gaze to the photograph, noting the way Essie’s laughter seemed to echo through time. “How long were you married?” she asked softly, her voice respectful in the hallowed space of Garvin’s memories.

“Would have been fifty years this spring,” Garvin replied. His voice, tinged with sadness, barely rose above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the delicate balance of the past and present.

“Do you have kids?” Jo inquired, her curiosity gentle but genuine.

Garvin nodded. “Yes, but they live far away. Got their own lives.” His glance drifted, momentarily lost in thoughts of distance and time. Then he suddenly brightened, his eyes lighting up with a new thought. “How about some pie?” he offered, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

Jo had initially planned not to stay long, but observing his lifted spirits at the prospect of sharing the pie, she decided to stay. It was clear he could use the company.

Garvin carefully pulled out china dessert dishes from the cabinet, his best, no doubt reserved for special occasions. Together, they moved to the kitchen table, a sturdy, well-used piece surrounded by chairs that bore the patina of many years.

Jo sensed the depth of his loneliness, his attachment to the cottage now more understandable. It was more than a building; it was a vessel of memories, of a life he had shared with his wife.

Garvin cut two pieces of pie and slid a plate in front of her. “Coffee?”

“That would be great. Black is fine.”

Garvin made the coffee, and they both dug into the pie.

“Lordy, this is delicious.” Garvin dug his fork into the golden sugar-sprinkled crust. “Been a while since I had anything homemade.”

“My sister made it. She’s getting to be an excellent cook. That’s sort of one of the reasons I want to buy the cottage,” Jo ventured.

Garvin’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Jo wondered if she’d crossed the line, but then, he smiled. “Tell me more about why you want to own that property.”

“I’ve really made it my own, you know,” she began, her eyes brightening with enthusiasm. “I’ve picked up furniture from yard sales. Each piece has its own story and was bought to fit in a specific place in the cottage.”

Garvin listened, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he took a bite of the pie. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of work into it.”

Jo nodded, gesturing animatedly as she described her efforts. “And the porch! I’ve put up window boxes full of flowers. You should come by and see them in summer.” Her voice softened, a wistful tone creeping in. “It’s quiet, serene. The stream out back adds just that right touch on quiet nights. And it’s the perfect size for me.”

Garvin’s eyes followed her gestures, his expression one of understanding. “I haven’t been there in a long time, but it is a nice spot, that’s for sure.”

Jo’s gaze drifted, picturing her cherished space. “It’s become more than just a house to me. And now, with my sister staying, it’s even more important. It’s our sanctuary, a place that truly feels like ours. There’s even a stray kitten in the woods we’ve been feeding.”

Garvin frowned, and Jo, remembering his strict rule about not having pets, hurried to say, “But don’t worry, we’re not having it inside or anything.”

Garvin nodded thoughtfully, absorbing her words. His smile was warm but held a hint of reluctance. “I can see why you love it so much,” he admitted. “But I still don’t know about selling. It’s a big decision.”

Jo reached out and touched his arm. “I understand. Don’t worry. I’m not going to pressure you. I have enjoyed talking to you, though.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop by again?” Garvin looked hopeful.

“I sure will. Maybe next time, I’ll even bring dinner.”

After leaving Garvin’s house, Jo returned home, her thoughts still lingering on their conversation. Pulling into the driveway of the cottage always made her feel good. The yard was covered in a twinkling blanket of snow. Bridget had put white fairy lights along the porch and shrubs, which made the place look even more cozy. Snow glistened on the boughs of the stately pines in the forest behind the house.

Pickles, the marmalade-striped stray cat they’d been feeding, was on the porch. He lay curled up in the box they had set up for him, now lined with blankets to ward off the chill. Despite the cold, Pickles remained steadfast in his reluctance to venture inside the house.

“Hey there, Pickles,” Jo murmured, reaching out to gently stroke his fur.

The cat, in response, leaned into her touch, his purring a soft, comforting sound in the quiet evening.

“Don’t worry, buddy. Garvin’s warming up to the idea,” she whispered, half to Pickles, half to herself, harboring hope for her purchase of the cottage.

Bridget was in the kitchen. Jo smelled something delicious cooking as usual.

“How did it go with Garvin?” Bridget asked, eager for an update.

Jo shrugged off her coat, settling down at the kitchen table. “It went well, I think. He’s still undecided about selling, but I feel like we made a connection. Gave him the pie, talked about the cottage. He’s considering it. What are you cooking? It smells fantastic.”

Bridget turned from the stove, a plate in hand. “I know you’ve had a long day, so I made you some stuffed peppers,” she announced, placing the dish in front of Jo. The peppers were beautifully prepared, their vibrant red skins slightly charred from the oven, stuffed to the brim with a savory mixture of seasoned ground meat, rice, and herbs. Steam rose from them, carrying with it the mouth-watering scent of garlic and tomato.

Jo looked at the dish, her stomach rumbling despite the fact that she wasn’t particularly hungry. “This looks amazing, but you really don’t have to go to all this trouble, especially since you already ate.”

Bridget waved away Jo’s protests with a smile. “I enjoy doing it, and I want to make sure you’re well fed. Consider it a thank-you for letting me stay here.”

Jo took a bite of the stuffed pepper, the flavors bursting on her tongue, a perfect blend of spice and comfort. It was a simple yet profound reminder of the care and love that Bridget brought into their home.

“How was your dinner with Reese?” Jo asked again, eager to hear about Bridget’s evening.

“It was great. She’s such a nice person,”

Jo nodded her agreement, her mouth too full to talk.

“She suggested I take this pastry certificate course at the college.” Bridget looked up at Jo, seeking her opinion.

Jo smiled, her heart swelling with pride. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. You have such a talent for baking. And cooking.” She held up her forkful of stuffed pepper.

Bridget’s smile broadened. “I’m seriously considering it. I can’t keep relying on you forever. It’s time I stood on my own two feet, and maybe I’ll get a job in the culinary field.”

Jo reached out, touching Bridget’s hand gently. “You’re not a burden, you know. But I support you, whatever you decide.”

“Thanks. Oh, I fed Finn.”

Jo glanced toward the fish tank in the living room. Finn, her goldfish, swam back and forth amid the air bubbles drifting toward the surface. “Thanks.”

They talked a bit about their day, and then the conversation shifted to a more somber topic. Bridget’s expression turned serious. “Holden called earlier. They’ve found five bodies at the Webster residence. They’d been there a long time. None of them are Tammy, though.”

Jo’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of their sister, who had been abducted when she was a child. They’d recently caught the killer after decades of searching and discovered where all the victims were buried. They’d given DNA samples to the FBI, hoping for a match that might bring closure to their family’s long-held agony.

“That’s... both relieving and heartbreaking,” Jo murmured, a mix of emotions swirling within her.

Bridget nodded solemnly. “He said some of the families might finally get closure. But there are a few they can’t identify yet. It’s tragic, thinking about those lost children. How can it be that no one knows they are missing?”

Bridget methodically cleared the dinner table, surrounded by the comforting hum of the kitchen appliances. The plates clinked as she stacked them, her movements efficient and practiced. Wrapping up some leftovers, she thought of Pickles on the porch. Providing for him had become a small but significant part of her daily routine, instilling a sense of purpose and connection in her new life.

Stepping into the chilly night, Bridget carried a plate of food to Pickles, who was still nestled in his makeshift shelter. The cat, recognizing her presence, looked up with cautious amber eyes. "Here you go," she murmured softly, setting the plate down. The cold air bit at her skin, but caring for Pickles filled her with a warm sense of responsibility.

Kneeling beside the box, she gently stroked Pickles’s fur. "You know, winter's coming," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe think about coming inside? But if not, I'll make sure you're warm and fed." Her words, meant for Pickles, echoed her own longing for safety and comfort, a subtle reminder of her need for a secure haven.

As she stood, her gaze drifted into the dark night beyond the porch. Memories of her tumultuous past surfaced, contrasting starkly with the tranquility she had found living with Jo. The darkness seemed to hold both fears and possibilities.

A shiver ran through her, not from the night's cold but from a lingering fear. She’d recently thought she’d seen someone following her—a shadow from her past that she hadn't mentioned to Jo. This person knew things that Bridget didn’t want anyone to discover.

"Maybe it was just my imagination," she whispered into the night, trying to dismiss her fears. The possibility of her past catching up with her loomed in her mind, unsettling her newfound peace.

Resolutely, Bridget stood taller, a determined glint in her eyes. She was building a new future here, one she was fiercely determined to protect. Maybe she would have to take steps to guard herself. Just as a precaution. Fear would no longer dictate her life. She was prepared to do whatever she needed to secure her future.