Scout watched him carefully.
“He’s dirty,” Scout said once they were in the hallway. “But he’s not our guy.”
“But he knows something,” Burke said.
An analyst approached.
“Margot Holt cleared. Violets match oncology donations. No link to Quinn or the cabin.”
Tucker nodded once.
“Good.”
He looked down the hall.
“Sinclair.”
This time no one rushed.
They moved with purpose.
Across the quad, students moved between classes.
They had no idea how close this was getting.
Professor Sinclair — Faculty Studio
The door was already open.
Preston Sinclair stood beside his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, a fountain pen resting between his fingers.
He did not look surprised.
“Sheriff Scott,” he said mildly. “Agent Tucker. Deputy Wilson.”
No irritation.
No stiffness.
Just acknowledgment.
Burke set the recorder down.
“We need to clarify your movements the night Agent Quinn disappeared.”
Sinclair nodded once. “Of course.”
He gestured to the chairs.
“You’re welcome to sit.”
He remained standing.
Scout watched him carefully.
“You were on campus until 22:14,” Tucker said.
“Yes.”
