Page 23 of In Her Path

“She does,” Jenna agreed. “Which is why we need to verify her alibi.” She glanced at her watch. “Call the station, would you? Ask Officer Fairmont to pull the security footage from the laundromat," Jenna said. "I want to know if Natalie was there when she claims she was."

Jake pulled out his phone, making arrangements with dispatch as Jenna drove to Mill Street, a two-block stretch of Trentville that time seemed to have forgotten. Where once there had been a thriving commercial district, there were now empty storefronts, weeds pushing through cracked sidewalks, and the lingering sense of promise betrayed.

Oswinkle Hardware sat at the corner of Mill and Third, a 1940s brick building with a faded sign that still proclaimed its name in hand-painted letters. The windows were boarded over, the awning that had once sheltered customers from rain now sagging. Parked in the loading zone was Warren’s battered Ford pickup.

“Looks like our guy’s home,” Jake murmured.

Jenna pulled into an empty space across the street, killing the engine. She'd arrested Warren Oswinkle three times before. Each time, he'd been drunk but docile, his eyes carrying the wounded look of a man who believed the system had failed him completely.

“You think he did it?”

“I think he had reason to,” Jenna said carefully. “Whether that translated to action...” She left the thought unfinished.

They crossed the street, approaching the front of the building. The place looked deserted, although the front door wasn’t boarded over. Jenna rapped her knuckles against door. “Sheriff’s Department,” she called, her voice carrying into the dim interior. “Warren? It’s Sheriff Graves. We’d like to talk to you.”

Silence answered. Jenna knocked again, harder this time, the sound echoing hollowly through what had once been a thriving business. “Warren Oswinkle? This is the Sheriff’s Department. We need to speak with you about Curtis Paige.”

A shuffle from inside, then the front door swung inward on unoiled hinges. Warren Oswinkle stood in the opening, backlit by weak light from somewhere deeper in the building. He was thinner than Jenna remembered, his clothes hanging from his frame as if made for a larger man. Several days’ worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Sheriff Graves,” he said, his voice hoarse. “This is a surprise. Come to arrest me again?”

Jenna kept her hands visible, her posture non-threatening. “We just want to talk, Warren. About Curtis Paige.”

He stepped back, opening the door wider, gesturing them inside. “I heard about what happened to him. Best news I’ve heard in a long time. Sure. Come on in. Not much to see, but you’re welcome to it. Doesn’t even belong to me anymore. But nobody bothers to kick me out.”

Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. This was irregular—potentially dangerous—but they needed whatever Warren knew. She stepped across the threshold.

The interior of Oswinkle Hardware was a museum of failure. Dust lay thick on shelves that still held merchandise—packets of seeds gone brittle with age, dusty tools that had never been used. At the back of the store the windows had been partly uncovered, letting in a little light.

“Thirty years,” he said, his voice taking on the rhythmic quality of a story told many times. “My grandfather built this place after he came back from the war. My father ran it for forty years after that. And me—” His voice caught. “I was supposed to pass it on to my boy. Would have, too, if not for that bastard Paige. I lost everything—not just this place, but my wife, my family …”

His movements grew more agitated as he spoke. “You know what he said at the hearing? When I begged them not to take my store? He said—” Warren’s voice rose, mimicking Paige’s cultured tones. “‘Progress requires sacrifice, Mr. Oswinkle. Your building is in the path of Trentville’s future.’”

Tears streamed down his face even as his voice rose in anger. “My future didn’t matter. My family’s future. And he took it because he could. And after all that, they never even built whatever was all that important.”

Jenna watched him carefully, noting the flush creeping up his neck. “Warren,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Where were you last night? Between midnight and two a.m.?”

“Why?”

“We’re investigating Curtis Paige’s death,” Jake said. “We’re talking to everyone who knew him.”

Understanding dawned slowly on Warren’s face. “You think I killed him.”

“We’re establishing timelines,” Jenna corrected. “Trying to account for everyone’s whereabouts.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “My whereabouts. That’s rich.” He grabbed a crowbar from a shelf, then swung it in a short arc, the metal cutting through the dusty air. “I was right here. Where I always am. With my memories and my bottles and my—“ His voice broke. “My nothing. That’s what he left me with. Nothing.”

“We’ll need to confirm that,” Jenna said. “Is there anyone who can verify you were here?”

Warren’s face darkened. “No one comes here anymore, Sheriff. No one wants to see what failure looks like up close.” He stepped toward them. “Except you two. And you’re not here out of concern, are you? You’re here because you think I’m good for this. The crazy drunk with the grudge. Easy solve.”

“This isn’t personal, Warren,” Jake said. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

“Your jobs,” Warren spat. “Like the job you cops did when Paige was stealing from the city?” The crowbar rose, not in direct threat but in a gesture of defiance and despair. “Where were all of you then?”

Jenna’s hand moved to her sidearm, not drawing it but ready. Jake shifted his weight slightly, creating a better angle between himself and Jenna. The movement wasn’t lost on Warren, whose eyes darted between them, reading the threat in their positioning.

“You think I might hurt you?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “After everything I’ve lost? You think I’ve got nothing left to lose?”