Page 57 of Sinister Secrets

By nine, I’m pacing outside the Gator Glade Sheriff’s Department, waiting for Kingston to arrive. Twenty minutes later, when he finally makes an appearance, the man makes no attempt to disguise the way he feels as his eyes latch onto mine through his windshield. I end the call I’m on while he takes his time exiting his cruiser. Slip my phone into my purse, exchanging it for the paperwork I organized last night.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says by way of greeting.

“And yet here I am.”

His eyes narrow, mouth twisting into something ugly. Before he has a chance to say anything that will make the tension between us any more volatile, I shove the documents in my hand toward him.

He makes no attempt to take them, instead asking, “What’s all this?”

“This,” I say, tapping the top one. “Is a copy of a bank statement I found in a box of Gordon Massey’s personal effects that were left at the real estate office where he used to work.”

“That’s not his name.”

“I know. But given that the initials of the name on the account match his, I decided to do a little digging. I found a man with the same name mentioned online, listed as a neighbor to a hit and run victim.” I turn to the next page, a printout of the article. “I was able to link the name to this address.” I flip to the next sheet, an old rental listing for the duplex. “And used the tax roll to find the owner.”

The sheriff sniffs. “There’s no way that you got from this”—he knocks the back of his hand against the bank statement with enough force that I would have dropped the papers if I hadn’t had them clenched so tightly in my fist—“to finding all that.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to,” I challenge. “But I was.”

“Right. Because you’re just such a good little investigator, aren’t you? I’m sure your prior knowledge of the situation had nothing to do with it.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That you know more than you’ve let on. Like what really happened to your old friend.”

“You know you don’t really believe that.”

A sinister smile spreads darkly across his face. I do my best to ignore it and the slippery, slimy feeling it unleashes inside my stomach.

“Listen, Lyle. We don’t have time for this. I called the rental office first thing this morning while I was waiting for you. One of their employees was able to identify Gordon as their tenant from a picture I texted them. We need to file an affidavit for a warrant and get in there to look around.”

“Oh, I intend to.” He snatches the papers from me. Rolls them into a tube which he shoves in his back pocket before crossing his arms over his chest, his evil jack-o-lantern grin never faltering. “But not with you. All I need you to do is to give me your supervisor’s number.”

“For what?”

“So I can tell him you’re off the case.”

I cross my arms, matching his posture right down to the nasty smirk. “Really, Lyle? You ask the FBI for help and then just dismiss them because you get in a tizzy that they’ve actually succeeded in making headway in an investigation that you’ve failed to?”

“That’s not what’s going on here.”

“Then what is?”

“You want to know why I was late coming in this morning? What I was doing while you were so busy with all your detective work?”

I raise my eyebrows, signaling that I’m waiting for his big reveal. The smirk he gives me chills me to my core. Whatever he’s up to, he thinks it’s big.

“I was talking to the medical examiner. Did you receive a call from him this morning?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He turns to leave, reaching for the door. I dart a hand out to keep it closed.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.

The man puffs his chest out before taking an intimidating step toward me. It’s all I can do to force myself to stand my ground without reacting with violence.