Noah said nothing. Carter scrutinized him.
"Ask the question you came to ask." Carter's voice had gone flat.
Noah reached into the folder and pulled out a photocopy of the charcoal sketch. He placed it between them and turned it so it faced Carter. The rough strokes. The low bridge over black water. The empty landscape beyond it, flat and featureless, as if whoever had drawn it couldn't see past the bridge or didn't want to.
"This sketch was in your file," Noah said. "Is this familiar? Do you recognize the location?" He tapped the edge of the paper. "Were you shown this during the investigation? Does it ring any bells?"
Carter studied the sketch. His eyes moved across it slowly, tracing the lines, the bridge, the dark water beneath it. He stared for a long time. Long enough that Noah thought he might be pulling something up from wherever memories lived after four years in a concrete box. His brow furrowed. His fingers moved toward the edge of the paper and then stopped, as if touching it would mean something he wasn't ready for.
"Never seen it before," Carter said.
Noah leaned forward. "It was in a folder with your name on it. Along with your arrest records, photos of the knife, and a witness statement that was half redacted. You're telling me you've never seen this sketch?"
"I'm telling you a lot of things were in folders with my name on them that I never saw. That's the whole point." Carter pushed his chair back and stood. The chains pulled taut between his wrists and the correctional officer stepped forward from his post. "They built a case out of things I never touched, places I never went, a girl I never knew. One more piece of paper I've never seen doesn't surprise me. It just adds to the pile."
"We're not finished," Noah said.
Carter glanced down at him. For the first time since he'd walked in, he saw exhaustion. Deep and permanent. He’d been saying the same thing for years to people who have never believed him and had started to wonder whether the words themselves have lost their meaning.
"I am," Carter said.
He turned and walked toward the exit. The officer fell into step beside him and they disappeared through the steel frame.The lock engaged behind them with a heavy sound that echoed off the walls and then faded to nothing.
Noah sat alone at the table. The sketch lay where Carter had left it, the bridge and the dark water staring up at the fluorescent lights. He thought about Carter's hands. The bitten nails. The way he'd reached for the sketch and then stopped. The steadiness of his voice when he talked about the evidence. Not ranting, not performing innocence. Just stating facts he’d given up on anyone acting on.
He thought about Ray at the kitchen table, saying "He's guilty" without blinking.
He thought about the case file in his father's basement. The boxes stamped with PROPERTY OF ADIRONDACK COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE that had no business being in a retired sheriff's wine cellar.
Either Carter Lyle was very good at playing the wronged man, or he was one.
Noah gathered the sketch, slid it back into the folder, and sat there for a while longer in the empty room. Two weeks. That was all Carter had left. Two weeks and then a transfer to Terre Haute and then a needle and then nothing. And if the man was telling the truth, every day that ticked past was a day closer to killing someone who didn't deserve it.
He stood, tucked the folder under his arm, and walked back through the corridor toward the security checkpoint, past the polished floors and the labeled signs and the heavy doors that opened and closed with the sound of a system that believed it was working exactly as intended.
8
The deputy behind the front desk at the Adirondack County Sheriff's Office was young, maybe twenty-five, with a crew cut and a pen he kept clicking while Ruby talked. She'd been talking for three minutes and he hadn't written anything down.
"So when did you last hear from her?" he asked.
"Last night. She was supposed to text me when she got to her shoot. She never did. I've called her probably thirty times. Goes straight to voicemail."
"And you're her..."
"Friend. Best friend."
He nodded slowly. "Ma'am, we can't file a missing person report based on a friend's concern unless there's evidence of foul play. She's eighteen. And it hasn't been twenty-four hours."
"It's been close to twenty-four hours."
"Close isn't twenty-four." He set the pen down. "Look, people go off the grid all the time. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she's with someone. If she doesn't turn up by tomorrow, have her family come in and we can get things started."
Ruby stood at the counter and felt the frustration of being young and female and talking to someone who had already decided she was overreacting. She wanted to say that Fiona wasn't the type to disappear. That Fiona texted back. That Fiona always texted back, even when she was busy, even when she was tired, even at two in the morning. But she could see from his face that none of that would matter. Fiona was legally an adult, and the clock hadn't run out yet.
"Fine," Ruby said. "Thanks for your help."
She pushed through the front entrance and stood on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun, trying to decide what to do next. The answer came to her the way bad ideas often do, which was quickly and with the feeling that it was the only option left.
