Page 1 of Breaking Rules

CHAPTER ONE

George Bennett lowered his jigging rod into the freshly drilled hole, the cold air biting at his cheeks as he settled on his makeshift seat. Lake Whitepine lay serene under the early-morning sky, its frozen surface a mirror to the faint pink hues of dawn. The solitude of ice fishing had always appealed to George. It was a peaceful escape, a world away from the daily grind.

He worked the rod with practiced ease, rhythmically moving the jig in the frigid water. Every tiny vibration, every subtle shift in the line’s tension, he felt it all, attuned to the nuances of the sport. George savored these moments of tranquility, the soft creaking of ice his only companion.

As the sky brightened, he felt a weight on the line. George’s heart skipped a beat. He jerked up, setting the hook.

“It’s a big one,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face. He adjusted his grip, ready for the fight. The line danced under his expert guidance, the promise of a hefty catch sending a thrill through him.

But the excitement quickly morphed into unease. The tug on the line felt wrong, heavier and less lively than a fish. The usual chorus of morning birds fell silent around him, as if nature itself held its breath. A chill crept up his spine, one that had nothing to do with the winter air.

He peered into the hole, expecting the glint of fish scales. Instead, what he saw made his blood freeze. Through the clear, dark water, a human face, blue lipped and ghostly pale, appeared. Dead eyes stared back at him, void of life. A scream stuck in George’s throat. His grip on the rod faltered, and it clattered to the ice. He stumbled backward, feet slipping, and landed hard on the cold surface. The breath whooshed out of him, his mind reeling in shock and disbelief.

For a few heartbeats, George lay there, staring at the hole in the ice, his heart pounding in his ears, his breath coming out in quick puffs. Slowly, he pulled himself up, his body trembling. By some miracle, his rod hadn’t slipped into the water.

With a deep breath, George edged closer and picked up the rod, his hand shaking. The hook was still snagged on something, something he didn’t dare imagine. He didn’t want to know which part of the body he had caught.

With the rod gripped in his left hand, he scrambled for his phone with his right. His fingers felt numb as he dialed nine-one-one, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“There’s a body... in the lake.”

The cold air was filled with the distant hum of approaching snowmobiles as Chief Sam Mason and his team worked around the hole in the ice. George Bennett stood nearby, his hands still wrapped around the fishing rod, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

Sam gently took the rod from George’s unresisting grip. “We’ll take it from here,” he said softly. “Thanks for keeping a hold on that. If you had let go, the body would have drifted off, making it almost impossible for us to find under the ice.”

Officer Kevin Deckard, meanwhile, was busy attaching a grappling hook to a sturdy rope, preparing for a more secure hold on the body submerged in the frigid water.

Sergeant Jo Harris approached George, her voice calm and steady. “Can you tell me exactly what happened, George?” she asked, guiding him a few steps away from the growing crowd of onlookers.

As George recounted his morning’s horrifying turn of events, Kevin and another officer began drilling additional holes around the original one, creating a larger opening to retrieve the body. The sound of the augers drilling into the ice echoed across the lake, drawing more curious fishermen from their bob-houses as they abandoned their lines to witness the commotion.

Lucy, the German shepherd police K-9, paced around, her nose twitching, sensing the tension in the air. She occasionally paused to sniff at the ice, her ears perked up, attentive to every movement around her.

With the expanded hole, Sam and Kevin, aided by a couple of fishermen, carefully maneuvered the body onto the ice. The deceased’s features were bloated, making immediate identification difficult.

The murmurs of the crowd grew louder as someone near the front peered more closely at the body now laid out on the ice. “Isn’t that Alex Sheridan?” the onlooker questioned, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Recognition sparked in a few others as they nodded.

“I recognize the jacket. And it sort of looks like him. Hard to tell.” A tall man with a bushy beard grimaced and looked away.

Alex Sheridan, known in the small town as an avid hiker, seemed an unlikely victim for such a grim fate. Questions and speculations started to ripple through the crowd.

“How did an experienced hiker end up under the ice? Could it have been an accident?” they whispered among themselves.

The name caught Jo’s attention. Alex was the campaign manager for Marnie Wilson, who was running for mayor. Jo was no fan of Marnie—she thought the woman was shady—so it was something of a coincidence that her campaign manager was now dead.

Jo’s attention was split between George’s recounting and Lucy’s meticulous sniffing. Lucy was better than any human at finding clues, so when the dog’s attention lingered at the feet of the victim, Jo took notice.

“Sneakers,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing. The body was indeed clad in light sneakers, wholly unsuitable for hiking in the snow-covered terrain around the lake.

“Who goes hiking in the snow wearing sneakers?” She voiced her thoughts aloud, more to herself than anyone else.

The victim was wearing an expensive jacket, thick gloves—well, at least one glove; the other had probably fallen off in the water—and jeans.

Her gaze shifted to Lucy, who was now intently sniffing around the side of the body.

Sam overheard Jo’s comment, and his gaze immediately flicked to where Lucy was still sniffing. He nodded and signaled to Jo that he saw the discrepancy too.

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