His composure cracked—just a second. “Dead?” His voice wavered. “You’re sure?”
Burke nodded once.
“I didn’t kill her,” Keller said quickly.
Tessa watched him. “No. But you made her world smaller.”
He didn’t look up.
Preston Sinclair — Faculty Archives
“Sinclair’s office sat at the far end of the hall, lamplight spilling across shelves of fly-fishing magazines and framed photos of mountain streams.”
Scout gave a low whistle. “Hard to believe this guy teaches poetry,” he said. “Always amazed me.”
Sinclair grinned. “Hard to believe you supplied the beer at poker.”
“You knew Sara Parker,” Burke said.
“Well enough,” Sinclair said. “She came by last month. Said some records were missing.”
“Did she find them?” Tessa asked.
“She checked logs. Faculty correspondence. Said she’d circle back.” His smile faded. “She looked tired.”
Tessa’s voice dropped. “Lauren Pierce has been confirmed deceased.”
Sinclair bowed his head. “She deserved better than what this place gave her.”
“Where are the records?” Tessa asked.
“Downstairs,” he said, reaching for his keys. “I’ll show you.”
Scout fell in behind them as they moved into the hall. He hadn’t said much since Benton’s office, but his eyes had been on everything—Benton’s hands, Keller’s smile, the way people avoided looking at Burke.
And Tessa.
Not the way a man looked at a woman to admire her.
The way a deputy watched someone walk into danger without flinching.
She moved through the building like she belonged there—chin level, shoulders square, voice calm enough to steady a room.
Quinn didn’t posture.
She just did the job.
And that made him respect her.
Faculty Storage — Basement Level
The corridor below was dim, concrete echoing under their steps. Fluorescent light flickered on, revealing rows of metal shelves and tightly packed boxes.
Sinclair flipped open a ledger. “Sara Parker signed in two weeks ago. Checked Lauren’s file—Keller, Raines, and me.”
Burke leaned closer. “Did she say what she found?”
Sinclair shook his head. “She smiled and said, ‘You’ll see soon enough.’”
