“You look like you’ve been living in here,” Laurel said.
Huck scratched the back of his neck. “Feels like it. But we’re not getting anything useful from the cameras. Whoever took that shot at Abigail was a pro.”
“I figured as much.” Laurel settled into the chair. “Abigail’s bruised but still breathing, thanks to the vest. She’s fortunate to be alive.”
He tried not to let frustration bleed into his voice. The more he dug, the more dead ends he found. “I’m reaching out to some old contacts to see if there’s any chatter about a sniper fitting the bill. So far, nothing.”
“Maybe he’s that accomplished,” Laurel said, her voice thoughtful.
“Perhaps he’s not working alone.” Huck leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, studying the woman he’d do anything to protect.
When she’d been pregnant, they’d started making plans to move in together, maybe build a barndominium on her mother’s property. Something rustic but solid, with thick logs and wide porches with enough room for them and whatever life they’d managed to piece together.
He knew Laurel still intended to build the place eventually. Rent it out, maybe, or use it as a safe house when one of her cases went sideways. She was pragmatic like that. Even in grief, she kept moving, eyes forward. But Cabo . . . Cabo had been different. They’d spent their time there like two people trying to escape the world. No badges, no crime scenes, no mixing themselves up in other people’s pain. Just ocean and sun and late nights tangled up in each other’s arms.
He wanted a future. Still did, even if she wouldn’t quite look at him the same way since the miscarriage. Like she was afraid of asking too much, of hoping for anything other than the here and now.
“Any news about Walter’s brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands like she hadn’t figured out how to frame the words yet. “There were . . . odd lesions on Tyler’s brain. Like cancer.”
“Cancer?”
She shook her head, her brow pinching. “Not exactly, but Dr. Ortega has sent samples to the lab, so we’ll see. Dr. Ortega does not guess, which I appreciate. He wouldn’t want to raise any alarms quite yet.”
“Raise the alarms.” Amusement caught Huck. “Look at you getting all into recent vernacular.”
She almost smiled. Almost. But something in her gaze remained shadowed and distant.
He shifted, leaning against the cluttered edge of his desk. “How’s Walter doing?”
“He says he’s doing all right,” she said, her lips pursing, the motion tight and troubled. “I don’t know if he actually is. I’m not . . . great at reading people, but I’m getting better.”
“You’re getting good at it,” Huck countered. “And Walter’s probably just trying to keep himself from crumbling. He lost a brother he barely got the chance to know. Feels guilty about it, too, I imagine.”
Laurel blinked, her eyes weary. “I imagine so.”
“You manage to wrestle jurisdiction away from the locals?” Huck asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.” Her lips turned down, and hell, if the expression didn’t make her look adorable. Those unique eyes, all exasperated and stubborn. “So far, no luck. There’s no federal case here. Dr. Ortega said the locals need to request our assistance before he’ll tell us anything else about Tyler’s death.”
“At least Ortega had the decency to give you something.” Huck glanced at her, cataloging the faint lines of tension in her shoulders, the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ears. She had truly glorious hair. Thick and gorgeous in a deep, rich reddish-brown that reminded him of fall leaves and firelight. He loved tunneling his hands through it, feeling it spill through his fingers like silk.
She tilted her head in that analytical way of hers. “Did you interview Abigail?”
“Sure did,” Huck muttered.
“She likes you.” Laurel held up a hand before Huck could scoff. “Well, that’s not true. She doesn’t like anybody. But you intrigue her, and she very much wants to impress you. You can use that when you interview her again.”
Huck leaned back, and the office chair creaked under his weight. “I’d think she wouldn’t want to end up dead. So you think she’ll work with me?”
“You never know what Abigail’s going to do.” Laurel’s tone was as dry as a Montana summer before a storm rolled in. “I don’t even know, and we share DNA.”
He nodded. “I’m headed out tomorrow to interview everybody at the church. I called Pastor John, and he arranged for me to speak with people he thought were most disturbed by Pastor Zeke’s death tomorrow. I’m also going to see that Tim Kohnex.”
“Good luck with him. I believe he truly thinks he’s psychic.”
Huck would worry about the odd man tomorrow. “How about we grab a pizza, head home, and you stay the night with me?”
