Page 7 of The Guilty Trial

The technician nodded and slipped the card into her pocket. “Will do.”

“We’ll need the full forensic report as soon as it’s ready.” Jason told the sheriff. “Photos, prints, everything.”

“You’ll have it,” Fisher said, then added, “This is your case now. Anything you need, just ask.”

Allie’s attention returned to the body, to the number burned into the chest. Fourteen. What did it mean? A date? A code? Something personal to the victim?

Whatever it was, it meant something to the killer.

Chapter Four

FBI Field Office

Tacoma, Washington

Allie made her way across the floor of the office but stopped short when she spotted Eastman in the main aisle, crouched over what appeared to be a long strip of artificial turf. He was positioning it carefully, making minute adjustments to ensure it lay perfectly flat between the rows of desks.

“Eastman,” Allie said, “what are you doing?”

He looked up, his dark face grinning like he’d just sunk a birdie putt. “Isn’t it obvious? A putting green.” He gestured at the strip of green mat, which stretched a good fifteen feet down the aisle. At the far end sat a small plastic cup, the kind with a flag sticking out of it. “Saturday got me thinking. Golf’s great for focus, hand-eye coordination. Plus, it’s a nice break from staring at screens and papers all day.”

Allie raised an eyebrow. “In the middle of the office.”

“Why not?” He straightened, pulling a putter from behind a nearby desk. The club looked expensive, polished chrome with a leather grip. “Want to give it a try? I’ve got an extra club.”

“I’d rather go to the dentist.”

Eastman’s laugh echoed across the open workspace. “Come on. Just one putt. I’ll even give you a handicap.”

“No, really. But thank you.” Allie stepped around the mat, careful not to disturb his setup. “Good luck with all that.”

“Your loss,” he called after her. “I’m thinking about starting a tournament. Winner gets bragging rights.”

Allie didn’t respond. She passed through the doorway to the office she shared with Jason and closed the door behind her, grateful for the relative quiet. Case files from other investigations cluttered her desk. She moved them aside to make room for the new material and logged into her computer. Navigating to her email, she found the attachments from Chelan County—autopsy preliminary, crime scene photos, forensic report from the lead technician.

She hit print and waited as the pages emerged from the machine in the corner. While the printer worked, she opened the second email, the one from the evidence technician who photographed Sterling’s manuscript. The files were large, each page scanned in high resolution. Allie downloaded them and sent them to the printer as well.

Once she had everything, she organized the reports into neat stacks and placed the novel in a binder. The forensic report came first. She skimmed through the technical jargon and looked for anything that stood out. The technicians had lifted fingerprints from multiple surfaces throughout the cabin, and most of them matched a local woman who handled cleaning for the rental company. No surprises there. A rental cabin was a forensic nightmare, with layers of evidence from dozens of strangers.

The forensic report confirmed what the scene had already shown. Sterling had been stabbed in the center of the room, near the desk where he’d been working. The blood trail indicated he’d managed to drag himself several feet toward the sofa.

Allie set the reports aside and turned to the manuscript pages. She was a few chapters in when the door opened and Jason stepped in, dropping into the chair across from her desk without preamble. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his tie slightly askew. His jacket was slung over one arm, and he tossed it onto the back of a chair.

“Rough night?” Allie asked.

Jason groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I jinxed myself. I told you Joey was sleeping through the night, and apparently, the universe decided to punish me for it. She was up every hour, screaming her head off.”

“Welcome back to reality.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat back wearily in the chair. “Victoria’s a saint. I don’t know how she does it. We’re running on maybe three hours of sleep, and she’s already up, dressed, and taking care of everything like it’s nothing.”

Allie smiled. “You’re doing fine.”

“Tell that to my back. I fell asleep in the rocking chair at four a.m. and woke up sideways.” He motioned to the binder. “What’s that?”

“Sterling’s manuscript.” Allie yawned.

“That good, huh?”