Maybe it’s incompetence.
Maybe it’s more.
Either way, it makes Ingram a liability.
And that makes what Freya is walking into a hell of a lot more dangerous.
18
The junkyard sitsat the edge of town like a place Echo Valley has tried to forget—rusted-out skeletons stacked three high, twisted doors hanging open like broken mouths, metal smell thick enough to taste. Wind sweeps between rows of crushed cars, rattling loose parts and making the entire place sound like the walking dead. The air is cold enough to sting when I inhale, metallic and sharp, scraping down my throat like a warning.
Crows sit on top of ruined dead things as if waiting for the next show.
It’s terrifying, if I’m being honest. But I step outof the car anyway.
Anton’s warning echoes in my head like a pulse: Someone knows you’re looking.
It’s a perfect thought to carry into a junkyard filled with blind corners.
My heartbeat thumps at my throat as I walk through decaying cars and toward the gated police-hold section. This isn’t the kind of place I’d choose for alone time.
But I’m not alone. Not really.
Anton must be here somewhere. Hidden. Watching.
When I came to Echo Valley, I thought the one positive thing about a small force was the chance to work alone. It seemed like a chance to prove and earn that I didn’t really get in LA. But now? I’m so happy I have Anton.
I don’t feel right about Ingram. He’s been sloppy with the death of a young woman, and that alone knocks him down a notch in my book.
But I can’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he admitted. That he saw something at the quarry and chose not to flag it, not to dig.
Maybe he missed the guardrail detail. Maybe he noticed it too late. Maybe it was easier to let it go than to reopen a case already stamped “accident.”
And now he wants to meet me here. Alone.
That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
I don’t have a place for people in my life that are dishonest.
I hope he comes clean. Is honest about any errors.
People make mistakes. I can work with that. I don’t forgive people who try to hide them.
And the question rises before I can stop it.
Why would he hide them?
The thought unsettles me immediately. I don’t have anything to support it. No motive. No proof. No reason toassume intent where negligence would explain everything just as easily.
Sloppy work doesn’t mean anything on its own. Even so, the thought doesn’t still me. Suddenly, I’m not only wanting cover over the shadows around me but for the one arriving, too.
I unlock the padlock and push through the creaky gate. Zoe’s wrecked Mazda Miata comes into view. Seeing it in person makes my stomach tighten. The entire front end looks like it folded in on itself, windshield shattered in a starburst, hood crushed.
She didn’t stand a chance in this tiny car. And for some reason, as I approach Zoe’s tomb, an overwhelming sense that I owe Zoe’s family more answers comes over me in waves.
If it was a suicide, if it was an accident, at least we’re certain. And if not, I hope whoever did this is punished.
I pull out my issued phone, switch to the camera app, and begin capturing every nook and cranny of what’s left of her car. Angled shots of the front. Side impact. I squint at every dent, thinking it might hold a clue. Every photo steadies me. Every procedural step pulls me closer to the version of myself I want to be.
