“I know this is a difficult morning, Ms. Anderson, but I need to ask you a few questions. I’ve already talked to Caleb and Max. Is it all right if I get some information from you also? We can do it right here if you’re more comfortable.”
Millie swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
Naomi lingered close, starting a fresh pot of coffee but remaining quiet. Caleb stayed near the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
The sheriff pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Were you in the house all night last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything unusual? Voices, movement outside, anything that stood out?”
“No. I didn’t sleep well, but I didn’t hear anything.” Millie hesitated, her fingers tightening around her coffee mug. “However, two nights ago, I . . . I might have seen something.”
Caleb straightened. “What do you mean?”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I looked out my window, and I saw a light. In the woods. It was brief—just a flicker. I thought maybe it was nothing. A reflection or . . .”
“Why didn’t you mention it?” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. He wasn’t angry—just surprised. And concerned that she’d kept something like that to herself.
Millie’s throat worked. “Because I wasn’t sure. I’ve been on edge since long before I got here, and I thought maybe I was imagining things. I didn’t want to sound paranoid.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. He wanted to tell her she should have said something anyway, that her safety—everyone’s safety—was more important than worrying about sounding paranoid. But now wasn’t the time.
Sheriff Sutherland made another note, then looked up at Millie. His expression shifted—still compassionate but more serious now. “Ms. Anderson, I understand your situation. I know you’re here because you needed to be somewhere safe, and I don’t take that lightly.”
She nodded, her face pale.
“But I need to show you something,” Sutherland continued. “And I need you to tell me if you recognize this person.”
Caleb watched as her hands went rigid around the mug.
“You want me to look at the . . . the dead . . .” She couldn’t finish.
“It’s just a photograph,” Sutherland assured her quickly. “Of the victim’s face. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Caleb watched Millie’s hands turn white-knuckled around the coffee mug, even though the ceramic had to still be warm.
What if she knew the dead man?
The thought hit him like a fist to the gut. What if this was connected to her ex? What if Garrick had sent someone?
Millie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
Sutherland reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. He tapped on the screen before turning it toward her. “Do you recognize this man?”
Caleb moved closer without thinking, positioning himself where he could see both Millie’s reaction and the screen
Millie forced herself to look at the photograph.
The man’s eyes were closed, his face pale against the leaf-covered ground. She would guess the deceased to be in his forties, maybe early fifties, with thinning brown hair and a clean-shaven jaw. Dirt was smudged across his temple, and his features held the slackness of death.
The image wasn’t overtly graphic. Still, Millie’s stomach turned.
She studied the man’s face, forcing herself to take in the details. The shape of his nose. The lines around his eyes. The way his lips were slightly parted.
There was nothing familiar about the man. Nothing that sparked recognition.
Relief crashed through her, sharp and immediate, even as guilt followed close behind.
