The tall stack of printouts hit with a wallop. The top several pages slid to one side like a drifting snowbank, bumping up against Bell’s coffee mug. “Everything you ever wanted to know about Ava Hendricks,” Rhonda declared. It was just after eight on Monday morning. The overnight snow hadn’t materialized, after all. Good thing: The town was still digging out from under what was now commonly referred to as the Saturday Night Massacre. It snowed every winter in these mountain valleys, but rarely did it snow this much all in one go. In the downtown area, the plow had pushed the snow into tall piles that brooded over the corners of major intersections, creating a mini-Stonehenge effect. Driving to the courthouse that morning, Bell could have sworn she saw a couple of Druids chanting and gesturing oddly at the base of an obelisk, but it turned out to be adolescents in gray hoodies with floppy sleeves who were posing for selfies next to snow piles. “And by the way,” Rhonda added.
