Page 75 of Now and Then

“You smell that?” Chris calls.

The smell hits me then. Sharp. Not stale like a house that’s been closed up for weeks. “Maybe it’s cleaning supplies.”

I step fully into the kitchen only to find that it’s been ransacked. Cabinet doors hang open, the sink is cluttered with empty blister packs of cold medicine, boxes torn open, and lithium battery casings split on the counter, the insides stripped. Coffee filters, faintly stained pink, are wadded up near the trash.

“Definitely not cleaning supplies,” I say quietly.

I move toward the small laundry room. Brown boxes are stacked against the wall. It can’t be coincidence that they have the same dimensions as the ones we saw at Magnolia Road. I nudge one open with the toe of my boot, but it’s empty. The bathroom fan hums faintly overhead. The window’s cracked open despite the cold.

I step back into the kitchen and glance around again. Nothing is missing—no electronics, no TVs. “They weren’t looking for valuables.”

Chris leans against the counter. “Then what were they looking for?”

“My guess? A place to work.” I rub my hand on the back of my neck. “Off-season properties. Minimal traffic. Easy in, easy out.”

Chris scans the room again. “Seems like a lot of risk for a temporary setup.”

“Exactly,” I nod. “They left no equipment behind. No storage. Nothing here to suggest they planned to stay long.”

“So, what? This was some kind of a satellite office?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. All of this.” I gesture around the kitchen at the haphazard mess. “They used the place, cleaned out what they could, and moved on.”

Chris snorts. “Guess they didn’t count on a nosy neighbor.”

I nod once. “Which means we haven’t seen the main site yet.”

The words settle heavily between us. My hand drifts to my pocket, remembering the folded slip of paper I found, Daley written in rushed ink. It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

“You good, man?” Chris watches me.

“Yeah.” I’m not. I should be walking entry paths in my head. Building timelines. Instead, my mind drifts somewhere it shouldn’t. Back to the dance floor and the way Sutton looked at me.

Every night. The words echo at the worst possible time.

I drag a hand down my face and force myself to refocus. “The crime scene unit is on their way,” I say as Chris moves toward the doorway. “Let’s bag what we can before we turn the scene over to them.”

I step onto the porch, scanning the tree line. The lake beyond is black and still. Looking back at the house, at the broken window, at the hollow dark inside, I know someone’s building a lab. And I hate feeling like we’re already a step behind.

A few hours later, Chris peels off toward the station, and I head in the opposite direction, tires humming against the asphalt. The drive back to Sutton’s house is quiet at nearly midnight.

Part of me wants to turn around and keep circling the lake, to continue working the case. But most of me knows exactly where I’d rather be.

The lake disappears in my rearview mirror, swallowed by trees and darkness.

The suspicious calls we’ve recently had run through my mind. Every time, it was the same—clean entry to off-season houses, nothing damaged or stolen. Everything left in a way that suggested squatters.

But tonight . . . The broken window flashes in my mind. The chemical smell lingers in my nose. Something has changed.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake what I’m missing loose.

The cab of my truck still smells like Sutton’s perfume. Vanilla with a soft floral undertone. It clings to the fabric of the seat where she sat earlier, laughing about the costumes we picked.

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

Normally, I can turn the job off. But tonight, the image of the shattered window won’t stop bleeding into the image of her standing in front of me on the dance floor.

Every night.