“I do have news.” Everett closes the door behind him. “And you’re going to like it.”
EVERETT
Noah’s office is dank and depressing. It’s no wonder he can’t solve a single case. I wouldn’t be able to think straight in this gray prison cell either. Maybe he should work in the bakery with Lemon, and then he can really get somewhere. Scratch that. The only thing Noah has ever shown real investigative interest in is my wife.
I settle into the chair across from him, and Toby sits dutifully by my side, so I reward him with a healthy rubdown.
Noah looks like he hasn’t slept. His tie is loose, his hair’s doing that thing it does when he’s been running his hands through it, and there are at least three empty coffee cups on his desk. I don’t dare open the box from the bakery to see how many carbs he’s decimated at this early hour.
“So what’s the big news?” he asks.
“Someone else on the street came forward with security footage,” I say. “I decided to walk the neighborhood this morning. I knocked on every door I could and asked if anyone had cameras facing the street.”
Noah sits up straighter. “And?”
“Mrs. Patterson, three houses down, has exterior cameras injust about every direction. She gave me digital access.” I pull out my phone, opening the file she sent. “Take a look.”
I turn the screen so Noah can see.
The footage is grainy but clear enough. Five figures dressed in black with hoodies, ski masks, and dark jeans move quickly down the street toward our homes.
“Same as our footage,” Noah says. “Still can’t see faces.”
“Watch the tall one on the left.”
We both lean in. The tallest figure runs ahead of the group, and there it is—a distinctive limp. His right leg drags slightly, and he’s compensating with his left. Not obvious unless you’re looking for it, but once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
“He’s favoring his left leg,” Noah says.
“Consistently.” I swipe to the next video. “This is from the protein-based vandalism. Two nights ago. See him? Holding the carton, handing out eggs like party favors.”
Same five figures. Same hoodies. Same masks. Exact same limp.
“That’s our guy,” Noah says as a slow smile spreads across his face. “We just need to figure out which one of those kids has a limp.”
“Tyler Pickens plays basketball,” I say. “If he’s got an injury, his coach would know. The school nurse would have records.”
“I’ll make some calls.” Noah is already reaching for his phone.
My own phone buzzes, and it’s a text from my favorite college girl.
Evie:Dad! Finals are DONE! Coming home Sunday for Mother’s Day and staying for the summer!
Relief floods through me. I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing her until this moment.
Me:That’s wonderful. Congratulations. Can’t wait to see you.
Evie:Mom has that Daughters event Sunday afternoon, right? TheMother’s Day thing?
Me:Yes. We’re all invited.
Evie:Perfect. DON’T TELL MOM. I want to surprise her. Can you keep Lyla Nell and the twins behind? I’m bringing craft supplies so Lyla Nell and I can make her something special. And I’m going to do footprint cards with the twins!
Me:Sounds great.
Evie:She’s going to cry. It’ll be perfect.
Me:She will absolutely cry. See you Sunday.
