Page 55 of Scarred By Sin

July 2026

Friday — 10:48 pm

The forensics techs were still working in the lab, their voices carrying faintly through the open bookshelf in the library along with the occasional click of a camera shutter and the soft scrape of tools against surfaces that hadn’t been disturbed in a very long time. Brook was sitting in one of the dining room chairs that Bit had dragged into the foyer earlier that evening, her back against the wall near the base of the staircase. The foyer was dim, the sconces turned low, and the house had gone still in the way it only did after dark, when the stone walls gave up the last of the day's heat, and the floorboards stopped their restless creaking.

Sheriff Gentry occupied the wooden bench near the front door, his hat resting on his knee, exhaustion evident in his broad face that came from a week of events that his county had never been built to handle.

Theo appeared from the kitchen, carrying two mugs. He handed one to Brook and the other to Sheriff Gentry before retreating toward the library without a word, understanding that the conversation about to take place was better had without an audience.

Sheriff Gentry raised the mug to his nose and inhaled.

“You must have stopped in at Lacie’s Café.”

“Theo bought some decaf for me on his way back from town yesterday.”

“She imports her decaf from a small roaster in Oaxaca. Swiss Water Process, single-origin. People drive forty minutes just to buy a bag.” Gentry took a sip and nodded his approval. “Best decaf you’ll ever have.”

Brook brought the mug to her lips and let the coffee settle on her tongue. She closed her eyes after coming to the realization that Theo had just discovered a needle in a haystack. The flavor was rich and full-bodied, with a depth that she hadn’t been able to find in any of the decaf options she’d suffered through her pregnancy.

There was a warmth to the coffee that went beyond temperature, something almost chocolatey beneath the roast, and for a few seconds, her stress faded into the background. The mug was warm between her palms, and the steam curled upward in the still air of the foyer, drifting past her face before dissolving into nothing. She finally opened her eyes and made a mental note to buy several bags before they left town.

“Has Gwenyth come out of her room?” Gentry asked, his gaze drawn to the staircase landing.

“Once. When the forensics team arrived.” Brook adjusted her position in the chair, the baby having settled directly on her bladder for what seemed to be the third time that hour. “She came downstairs and stood outside the library for a while, observing the techs’ work. She was coherent. Even interested, from what I could tell. She didn’t say anything to them, but she wasn’t confused or withdrawn.”

“And then?”

“She wandered into the kitchen and made herself a grilled cheese sandwich.” Brook took another sip of the coffee. How much easier would her pregnancy have been had she had these grounds on hand? “Sylvie stayed in the kitchen to make sure she was alright. Gwenyth handled everything with care, used the stove without difficulty, and cleaned up after herself. She put the plate in the dish rack and wiped down the counter, as if she knew Porter wasn’t there to do it for her.”

Gentry processed that information quietly. Brook caught the conflict working through him, the same struggle that seemed to follow every conversation about Gwenyth Ellingham. A woman who couldn’t take care of herself, according to Dale. A woman who had just made a meal, cleaned up, and observed a forensics operation with quiet interest, according to everyone else.

“I have to be honest with you, Ms. Sloane. I never knew those women came to Nestor on their own.”

“Neither did we until tonight.” Brook set the mug on the floor beside her chair, the ceramic clicking softly against the hardwood. “My team is going to look into how these women could have heard about Nestor in the first place. His research was rejected by the academic community, so there wouldn’t have been any published papers or institutional referrals. Someone was connecting them to him, or he was reaching out through channels we haven’t identified yet.”

“That was thirty years ago. Word of mouth was about the only channel people had.”

“Now that the techs have fingerprinted the journals, I’ll go through each one personally. When I submit my reports to the Bureau, I’ll make sure you have copies of my notes, as well.”

“I appreciate that.” Gentry turned the mug slowly in his hands, the steam rising between his thick fingers. “So, where does this put the investigation?”

“The women weren’t murdered, Sheriff Gentry. It’s looking as if they came here voluntarily, received treatment, and died of their cancers. Nestor buried them. While tragic and illegal, it’s not homicide.” Brook met the sheriff’s gaze. “What happened to Nestor is murder. Someone struck him hard enough to fracture his skull and left him in that greenhouse alongside those women. Technically, once the Bureau closes its investigation into the female remains, Nestor’s murder falls under your jurisdiction.”

Gentry slowly exhaled through his nose.

“You wouldn’t happen to want to stick around, would you?”

“Since it’s still going to take Dr. Kessler several more days to excavate the rest of the remains, my team will stay on for the time being. We can work both ends simultaneously.”

The relief on Gentry’s face was brief but genuine. He covered it with another drink of coffee.

“What can you tell me about Nestor’s disappearance?” Brook asked, hoping for more insight now that they had some direction. “Details that weren’t in the initial report.”

“I wasn’t the sheriff at the time. That was Len Caulfield. He’s been dead going on twelve years now.”

“There didn’t seem to be an in-depth investigation conducted back then. At least, not to my satisfaction.”

“It’s a small town, Ms. Sloane.” Gentry set his mug on the bench beside his hat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The posture made him appear smaller than he was, and the weariness in it had been there long before this case arrived on his doorstep. “I was a young deputy back then, barely a year on the job. I remember the other deputies talking about it, though. The general consensus was that Nestor couldn’t handle it anymore. He’d lost his wife, spent years locked away in that greenhouse, and people assumed he’d gone off somewhere to take his own life. Didn’t want Gwenyth to find his body. That was the story most people settled on, and once a tale like that takes hold in a town this size, it’s hard to shake loose.”