How had Tyler died?
Chapter 9
TheElkHollowPoliceDepartment was nestled between a pawn shop with a tidy red awning and a malt shop painted in mint green and pink, both clean and inviting looking.
Laurel parked her Nissan Murano in the gravel-lined lot. Sunshine filtered through the windshield, a clear break from this morning’s rain. Walter sat in the passenger seat, shoulders pulled tight.
During the drive, they’d both watched out for that black truck that had rammed them. Just in case.
Laurel called Dr. Ortega three times after leaving the office. Each attempt went straight to voicemail. Hopefully, he’d soon conclude Tyler’s autopsy.
“Ready?” Laurel asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Walter nodded, the motion stiff.
Laurel stepped out of the SUV and waited for him to join her. The police station looked clean and bright, fresh white paint and blue trim gleaming in the sunlight. Brass letters above the door readELK HOLLOW POLICE DEPARTMENT. Petunias and snapdragons lined the walkway in symmetrical rows.
She opened the sparkling clear glass door. Cool air drifted out, carrying scents of lemon cleaner, brewed coffee, and cinnamon. The floors gleamed with fresh polish, and sconces along the walls cast a soft glow over thick leather chairs in the waiting room. Buttery yellow paint covered the walls.
Framed photographs hung in tidy rows above the reception counter, highlighting officers posed with children at town events; others showed them accepting plaques or shaking hands with grinning officials.
An elderly woman looked up from a jigsaw puzzle spread across the mahogany counter. She’d twisted her silver hair into a precise bun, and her blue eyes appeared bright and alert. The vibrant pink pantsuit she wore added a splash of color against the muted tones of the lobby, matched by chunky gold jewelry at her ears and wrists. A daisy-shaped pin glinted from her lapel. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Laurel Snow accompanying Agent Walter Smudgeon.” Laurel met the woman’s gaze. “Detective Robertson asked him to come in.”
The woman’s attention shifted to Walter, her expression softening. “Yes, he mentioned you’d be here. Follow me.”
Walter moved behind Laurel and the woman without a word.
They walked down a hallway painted in a calming sage green.
The woman opened a conference room door to reveal a polished oak table under a soft overhead light. Potted lilies and ferns with thick and vibrant leaves filled the corners, and a faint scent of vanilla lingered, likely from the candle flickering on a side table.
“Detective Robertson will be with you shortly,” the woman said. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Walter dropped into a chair.
“I’m fine,” Laurel said, her attention locked on Walter’s stillness. Might he still be in shock?
The woman slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her.
They sat there quietly for almost fifteen minutes before Walter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t appreciate being kept waiting.”
“I agree. I hope the detective isn’t playing games.” Treating Walter like a suspect was a mistake. Such a move didn’t make sense to Laurel, but following other people’s thoughts rarely did. Her mind moved along tracks most people didn’t seem to see, and tracing their logic often felt like mapping fog.
The door opened, and a man who appeared to be in his early thirties walked in with brisk, purposeful steps. His dark brown hair had been neatly trimmed, and his hazel eyes scanned the room, flickering upon studying Laurel’s face. His shoulders remained back and at attention.
“Hello. I’m so sorry to be late,” he said, his voice even and professional. “We had a call about a wreck involving a couple of the high school kids.” He shook his head, the motion sharp. “We also had two break-ins and a small fire, so all the deputies were out. I had to check on the kids myself.”
Laurel stood, and Walter followed, his movements a little too careful, like his body hadn’t caught up with his mind.
“Is everyone okay?” Walter asked, his voice steady and direct.
The man nodded. “Yes. Just bumps and bruises. The football team will still play this weekend.” He flashed a brief, almost reflexive grin before his expression settled. “I’m Detective Joshua Robertson.”
He offered his hand to Laurel first. She shook it, noting the firm grip and precise way he measured her with his gaze.
“Special Agent Laurel Snow, FBI.”
