He reaches for the corded phone on his desk, but he stops before he touches the handset. “What in the damned tarnation?” His gaze is focused on the back parking lot.
Forcing concern into my tone, I play dumb. “Sheriff? Are you okay?”
“Aw, hell!” He jumps from his chair, then glances at me. “Wait here, Miss Henry. I’ll be right back.”
Sheriff Jackson unholsters his gun as he grabs the radio at his hip and darts out of the room. “10-75! 10-75! Someone is stealing my truck from the station!”
Tilting my chair back and balancing on the back legs, I watch the sheriff freak out while holding in my laugh.
“Wanda! Try to get my deputies on the radio! Mine isn’t working!”
Sheriff Jackson dashes out the back door, and I rush to the window. The sheriff chases his truck as someone drives it out of the lot, throwing dust in the sheriff’s face. He doesn’t stop running and follows his vehicle out onto Main Street.
Surging into action, I start pulling open the drawers of Sheriff Jackson’s desk. My heart pounds in my chest as I rifle through drawer after drawer.
Camden should be able to keep the sheriff and his deputies busy with a missing truck long enough for me to find the evidence. But I still don’t want to dally.
Yanking another handle, I sift through its contents.
Papers. Papers. Spare gun. More papers.
Finally finding one that won’t open on the bottom left, I pull as hard as I can, hoping it’s a crappy lock and the drawer will just come free. I huff when I can’t get it to budge even the slightest.
This was supposed to be Griffin’s job. But since he had to stay back, I’m improvising.
Digging through the wide, skinny drawer in the middle, I search for a key. Instead, I find a pair of scissors.
Images flash through my consciousness as my past threatens to take over and blind me.
But I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m stronger. I’m smarter. I’ve survived.
Opening the scissors, I stick one of the blades into the lock and jimmy it around until the blade can’t go any further. I twist the handle, and the lock gives way. Inside, I find flash drives. So many flash drives. There has to be at least a hundred or more here.
Which one is it?
I begin picking them up one at a time, reading the labels, but each label ties my stomach in knots. CJ Session 65, CJ Session 13, CJ Session 72.
My throat squeezes shut as nausea rolls through me. Eyeing the open doorway, I make sure no one is coming.
I’ve seen some ugly things in my time, but I could never imagine allowing something like this to happen to my son. Let alone watching it afterward.
They’re not getting away with this. I won’t let them.
Grabbing a couple of pocket folders from a drawer I had already searched, I remove the papers and load them up with the flash drives. I refuse to leave a single one behind for this sick asshole’s pleasure.
My hands shake as I take each flash drive and place it in a folder.
When I’m done, I close and lock the drawer and shove the loose papers into another. I replace the scissors and make sure everything is in its place.
I straighten my clothes, tuck both pocket folders under my arm, and march out of the office and back through the station.
My heart stops when Wanda speaks to me as I open the door to the lobby. “Sheriff Jackson will be back soon.”
I force a smile at her. “It’s fine. I know he’s busy. I’ll just come back later.”
Wanda shrugs and goes back to flipping through the magazine in front of her.
