Page 120 of The Deadly Shallows

“Did you get an address for Mr. Valdez?” she asked.

“Yep. It’s written on the orange Post-it note on my desk,” Em said.

“Thanks. I’ll grab it on the way out.” But first she was curious about the box.

“Okay, ladies.” Em rubbed her gloved hands together. “Let’s get started.”

Austin stepped back with Brooke while Em did her customary round of photographs, capturing each side of the box.

“Where’d it come from?” she asked Brooke as Em’s flash bounced off the examination table’s silver legs.

“We found it at the hotel where Dwayne stayed—the man I saw at the hospital in the nurse’s costume,” Brooke said. “The man who killed Andrews . . . the man who had me . . .” Her voice shook a bit as she trailed off, but she seemed determined to stay in the middle of the investigation.

Austin placed her hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Brooke looked up with a tight-lipped smile, but also a fire in her eyes. “Yes.”

“All right,” Austin said, highly impressed at Brooke’s fortitude. “Did you find out his last name?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe something in this box will hold the answer,” she said.

Brooke’s taut shoulders eased. “That would be awesome.”

“Let’s open her up,” Em said, handing the box of gloves to Brooke, who handed it on to Austin.

Grabbing a utility knife, Emmy sliced the packaging tape. Setting the knife aside, she pulled back the flaps. Musty dust poofed out, and Em quickly collected a sample from what had fluttered back into the box.

“Lovely,” Austin said, half-afraid of what might be inside. Over the years of private investigation, she’d found plenty of funky and outright scary things in abandoned boxes.

Reaching in, Emmy pulled out a T-shirt with the American flag emblazoned across the front, its ends tattered. She turned it over. Restore Our Country was written in white block letters across the top.

“So he’s patriotic but disillusioned, perhaps,” Austin said, as Emmy laid the T-shirt on the paper-covered table, where all items would go until she labeled each, inspecting everything for trace evidence.

Next out was a stack of three hardcover books. “First up . . .” Em said, turning the book on its side, “The Constitution of the United States.”

“So Dwayne wasn’t a light reader,” Brooke said.

“Yeah, and he is growing more interesting with each item,” Austin said.

“Next we have . . .” Emmy turned to its spine. “The Federalist Papers.”

“He’s definitely patriotic,” Austin said.

Brooke shook her head. “I just don’t understand a guy who lives in a literal fleabag rent-by-the-hour motel, goes by more last names than fingers on my hand, but reads serious books on our nation’s founding.”

All of that mixed together was painting a very complex portrait. Who is this guy?

“And the mystery continues,” Emmy said, holding up the third and final book. “Scapegoats: Thirteen Victims of Military Injustice by Michael Newton.”

“Oh boy.” Brooke shifted to face Austin. “I’d say you nailed it with ‘patriotic but disillusioned.’”

Emmy reached into the box and lifted out something bundled in a tattered, mustard-yellow towel. She held it away from her body. “Not going to lie, I’m a tad fearful of what we might find in this.”

“That makes two of us,” Brooke said.

“Three.” Austin held up her hand.