Page 114 of Wood You Rather?

After confirming the Ducati was in front of the trailer, along with one other motorcycle, I circled around and left my car near the entrance on a dead-end street. I put my camera under the gray down jacket I had borrowed from Paz, then slowly walked along the edge of the forest, keeping an eye out for both bikers and that fucking moose.

The place wasn’t totally deserted. Cars came in and out of the park, and kids were out, throwing snowballs at one another on the opposite side of the street, so I pulled my knit cap lower and walked casually as I made my way toward the trailer.

Sure enough, there were two motorcycles parked out front, including a black Ducati Streetfighter V4. There was a weathered woodshed about twenty yards from me, so with a subtle scan of my surroundings, I headed toward it and ducked behind it for cover before pulling my camera out.

From this angle, the bikes and their license plates were visible, so I snapped a dozen or so photos to be sure I captured every detail. The large window on one end of the trailer was partially covered by curtains, but the light inside was on, and I could make out shadows.

I crouched down, waiting and watching. After several long moments, a large and imposing figure with a beer gut passed by the window. Not a match for my profile of Norman at all. So I waited, my teeth chattering in the cold, wishing for just one good look at his face.

Eventually, after my fingers went numb and my back was aching, I got it.

The door opened, and the larger man walked out, but a second man stepped onto the porch.

I was ready, pointing my lens and praying that I could get what I needed.

Because that man was tall and gangly, with strawberry blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and he had a tattoo on his right cheek.

I zoomed in, and there it was. A dragonfly. Small but unmistakable. I clicked the shutter, getting as many shots as I could.

He wore a vest over a black T-shirt, leaving his arms exposed, despite the cold, and I captured a dozen photos of the full sleeve on his left arm.

The other man wore a heavy coat and knit hat, but his face was partially visible, so I clicked away.

I promised Paz I’d get my shots and go home, but I was on a roll. And as the snow picked up, I became more and more eager to scope out the inside of the trailer. Because while I had connected the dots on the drug operation, we still hadn’t officially confirmed that the Heberts were responsible for Frank’s murder. And I was too close to give up now.

Carefully zipping up my camera again, I resolved to head back to my car, warm myself up, and wait for Stinger to leave. It was getting dark, and once I could use that to my advantage, I’d take a closer look.

So I slipped out from behind the wood pile and headed back to the other side of the park. It was eerily quiet now. Most people were indoors since the storm was picking up. It was nothing like the blizzard from a few weeks ago, but it was heavy enough to make driving difficult.

My phone, which had been on silent, was likely full of texts from Paz, warning me about weather and slippery roads, but I could not wait to show him these photos. Finally, I had concrete evidence. And with this addition to the evidence we’d already collected, I had hope that law enforcement could do the rest.

Sliding into my car, I carefully removed my camera from my coat, gently wiped it down, and put it back in its case. With the heat cranking, it didn’t take long to thaw out. Once feeling returned to my fingers, I opened the glove box in search of my lip balm. I couldn’t help but smile at the supplies Paz had packed for me. This man’s love language was definitely preparation. He needed to make sure everyone he cared about was protected and taken care of.

Funny enough, this stuff had been here for weeks. He’d done it all before we even kissed. Was he feeling something even back then?

I slid the seat belt cutter into my hand, admiring the smooth steel.

Without warning, the car lurched, and my shoulder was yanked back so hard it slammed against the seat before I was thrown forward so my head hit the steering wheel. I reacted, throwing up an elbow and trying to wiggle loose of the grip on my neck.

“Get the fuck out,” an angry male voice said, pulling on my hair.

I used my legs to brace myself and slammed one fist up, making contact with a satisfying crack.

Before I could pull free, though, I was being dragged out of the car. I squeezed the seat belt cutter in my palm and scanned the interior for my phone. Shit. It had been knocked to the floor on the passenger side.

I lunged for it but was pulled back again, my shoulder hitting the door frame.

It was only then that I could see them. Two men hovering over me, laughing, while another pinned my arms behind my back.

“Stop fighting,” the older one said. “Don’t make this harder. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

I froze. It was the man from the trailer. Dark gray beard and a beer gut. Still wearing a wool hat.

And the man next to him?

Stinger. Norman Bernard.

I let out a blood-curdling scream and thrashed against the man holding me, taking out one of his knees in the process.

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