Page 91 of The Deadly Shallows

He turned to fully focus on the team. “I have one more thing to report. Given how the three C-School instructors were killed and after my call with Scott Mirch, my gut says that thread is a critical piece of our puzzle.”

He paused as the team nodded their agreement, then continued. “I called the original CGIS agent on the case, Brett Anderson. His voicemail says he’s up north fishing, so I left him a message and hope to hear back soon.”

“Now,” he said, turning toward Em and Logan. “Any luck at the tattoo parlors?”

“Yes,” Emmy said at the same time Logan said, “No.”

They looked at each other.

Logan frowned. “What do you mean yes? We weren’t told anything.”

Em tilted her head. “Please, it was totally apparent that Leroy made the brand.”

Noah watched the two of them spar back and forth, trying to smother a grin. When those two went at it . . . He shook his head.

Logan shifted to face her better. “Are you sure Leroy wasn’t merely concentrating?”

“He could have been, but his expression when I showed him the picture of the brand seemed to indicate recognition.”

“His gaze did harden, and his lips shifted sideways,” Logan said, thoughtfully. “So perhaps you’re right.”

Emmy gave a triumphant smile.

Logan tilted his head, his gaze intent on Em. “You don’t have to be smug about it,” he teased.

“I’m sorry,” Em said, smoothing her skirt across her lap. “I think I do.”

Logan chuckled.

Em looked to Noah. “To get back to my point, I believe a man named Leroy at Custom Ink designed it. Roger, the guy at the front counter, recognized it, but he also got stiff when Leroy emerged.”

“So how do we get Roger or Leroy to talk?” Noah asked.

“Leroy won’t,” Em said, “but Roger . . .” She tapped her booted foot. “I’ll follow up with him. See if I can break through.”

Logan tapped his pen against his notepad, his gaze fixed down on the page.

“Very good,” Noah said. “Keep me posted.”

FORTY-SIX

A full day of casework and tracking down leads later, Noah was happy to be back at Kenzie’s with Brooke.

Rissi and Mason were on their way to the airport for Mason to catch his flight to Georgia. Noah prayed there were answers waiting in Andrews’s hometown—something, anything, that could help reveal the other shooters’ identities. Finn arrived at Kenzie’s not long after them, but Logan, Emmy, Caleb, and Austin remained at the station—all still fully entrenched in their work.

“Uncky Noah,” Owen said, holding out his arms, “swing.”

With a smile, Noah grabbed hold of Owen’s hands and swung him back and forth. Around and around with his bum leg would have been a bit too much, but Owen’s belly laugh said he didn’t mind the modified version in the least.

A half hour later, Noah sat across his sister’s family room from Brooke and Owen, who were on their third round of Don’t Break the Ice. Owen’s two-year-old face scrunched in concentration as his red plastic hammer hovered over the plastic pieces of ice.

Noah’s second round of Don’t Spill the Beans with Fiona was proceeding in a far more relaxed manner. Scents of red chili powder and freshly chopped onion swirled in the air as his mom stirred her famous chili con carne.

The smell of baking corn and honey emanated soon after, as Kenzie pulled her homemade cornbread from the oven. “Ten minutes,” she called over the wide galley bar separating the kitchen from the family room.

Wood crackled in the fireplace, sparks flitting up the chimney as the flame’s glow flickered along Brooke’s fair skin. She was breathtaking.

A grunt escaped Owen’s mouth, and his hammer flew along with the plastic ice. “Smash. Smash. Smash.”