He shook his head. “Nothing has jumped out in the files to connect them except the method of entry and timing of the incidents.”
My mind spun. “Okay. I want all the files on my desk as soon as possible. I’ll review and see if I can catch something. Fresh eyes and all that.”
Johns nodded, then the conversation shifted away. My deputies brought me up to speed on the other shit they’d tackled in my absence: mainly, a lot of drug- and alcohol-related offenses, plus a few domestic disturbances.
“Well, great work everyone,” I said when we wrapped. “Thanks for holding down the fort while I was gone.”
The room dispersed, and I headed to my office. A moment later, Johns appeared with a stack of files.
“This is everything we’ve got,” he said when he dropped them on my desk. “Six incidents, not a speck of evidence.”
I nodded grimly. “I’ll see if I can shake anything loose.”
“Good luck.”
Hours passedbefore I even had a chance to peek at the files, much less dig into them. Being on medical leave for over two months meant there were a lot of high-priority agendaitems I needed to attend to before I could get into any sort of investigative flow. Signing off on upcoming PTO and holiday bonuses for my staff, reviewing a few complaints that had come in from both civilians against the department and deputies against their colleagues, and a mountain of other paperwork I didn’t even want to look at. In the midst of it all, I took a break for lunch that lasted longer than anticipated when the locals at the diner saw me in my uniform and realized their sheriff had returned to work.
Later that afternoon, I stepped out to have some status check conversations with a few of my deputies regarding both the complaints and a couple of cases that had closed while I’d been gone.
When I returned to my office, I groaned at the sight of a large manila envelope resting on my computer keyboard, my name written across the front in bold, neat letters. Surely, that couldn’t be good.
I tore into the package, eager to react to whatever the fuck it was so I could move onto the one task I’d been looking forward to all day—those break-in files.
At first, my brain couldn’t compute what I was seeing. A sheaf of papers tumbled out onto my desk, what I recognized as newspaper clippings. Headlines blared at me.
UNIVERSITY STUDENT ACCUSED OF RAPE
BOISE STATE RAPE CASE SETTLED
HUMAN REMAINS FOUND
BELIEVED TO BE THOSE OF RYAN BOYD
DNA CONFIRMS REMAINS AS RYAN BOYD
None of it made sense. Why would someone send this shit to me? This happened so long ago and hadnothingto do with me—at least so far as anyone knew.
I flipped the envelope over, looking for a return address or any indication of who might’ve sent it, but of course there was nothing. Only my name on the front, which meant it had been hand-delivered.
Tipping it on its side, I shook it to see if I’d missed anything, and a single index card fluttered out, coming to rest face up atop the stack of articles.
There, in the same neat font as my name on the front, were two lines written in blood red that made my own blood run cold.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
COME CLEAN TO HER OR
I’LL DO IT FOR YOU.
Come clean toher?As in…Sutton?
Who the fuck…?
Questions flew through my mind, so many I couldn’t make sense of any of them.
With shaking hands, I stuffed everything back in the envelope and shoved it in my bag. I made quick work of closing up shop—shutting off my computer, the lamp in the corner, making sure the door was locked once I’d collected my coat and stepped onto the floor of the bullpen.
Johns must’ve seen something in my face because when I brushed past him, he asked, “You good, Sheriff?”
