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Royce
“I’m going to check out the rest of the rooms and the attic,” Royce said quietly.
He didn’t think anyone else was in the house with them, but he needed to make certain.
“There never was much up there, just stuff Tor tossed up there when he didn’t like it, or it didn’t end up working in a project. I suppose it could have changed.”
“Still needs to be done.”
Briar gave him an assessing glance and arched a dark blonde eyebrow. “Do you have a weapon? I’m not lending you mine.”
“I am the sheriff.” Those words were met with a not-so-delicate snort. “Yes, I have my Sig.”
“Glocks are better,” she said matter-of-factly.
Royce winked at her. “When this is all over, we’ll go to the range and see whose is better.” He left the bedroom, leaving the door open.
Briar’s voice followed him out onto the landing. “It will be mine, I was top in my class.” Shaking his head and suppressing a smile at Briar’s words, Royce kept moving, but from behind him he heard a quiet, “Be careful.”
The bathroom was sparse but grungy—from lack of cleaning, he assumed. The other two bedrooms were a mess, a jumble of clothing, old furniture, laundry baskets, paintings, and frames all tossed together. Royce couldn’t even see the beds that he figured were in there. Opening the door to the attic, he flicked on the light and began to creep up the stairs, weapon at the ready.
He didn’t think anyone was up there, the attic having a quiet, settled feeling to it. Still, at the top of the stairs, he called out, “Sheriff, coming in.”
Or up. Whatever. Semantics.
There was no answer. As he held his Sig out in front of him and slowly entered the attic space, Royce vowed to hire a deputy ASAP. He needed backup, not just Briar Nilson—although having her guard his six wasn’t something he’d say no to. In fact, he thought, she could guard his six any time she wanted. Not the time, Royce. He forced his brain back to the staffing problem. Presumably, since there had been deputies at one point, there was money in the budget for the position again. Marnie would know.
The attic was a jumble as Briar had said, worse than the bedrooms. But it was clearly empty of people. It wasn’t until he’d skirted halfway around the perimeter that he saw the lone mattress.
From the way the boxes and other things were positioned around the slightly less dusty area, it looked as if someone had cleared out a space and then laid the mattress down on the bare floor. Although, amidst all the mess, it was difficult to really know how new the setup was. Maybe Briar had played up here as a child. The makeshift bed was covered with a grubby pink-and-white checkered blanket, and a wad of clothing had been used for a pillow. A red mug half-filled with liquid sat on the floor and was cold to the touch.
Royce sniffed it—tea, he thought. And if a mug of tea had been sitting in the attic for twenty years, there wouldn’t be anything left in it.
Tucking his weapon into the back of his jeans, he slowly looked around and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
“What the hell?”
From what he and Briar had seen in the living room, it wasn’t seventy-eight-year-old Tor Nilson who’d been sleeping up here. Who was it, then? Had the unknown guest killed Tor? Or had Tor given them permission to stay? And where was this person now? Why hadn’t they come forward? At best, they were a witness to something, and at worst, they were responsible for murder.
Leaving the nest as it was, Royce returned to where Briar waited. She must have been deep in thought because she didn’t seem to hear him coming. She whipped around to face him, Glock raised, when he stepped through the doorway.
“Whoa.” He held his hands up. “It’s just me. You sure you’re okay?”
Briar nodded, tucking her Glock back into her holster.
“Sorry about that. A little jumpy, I guess.”
“I guess. Nobody here.”
“I figured.”
A gust of wind blew in through the open window, bringing in the fall scent of moldering leaves and damp earth. Briar wrapped her arms protectively around herself, and Royce almost didn’t want to tell her the next thing.
“Someone has been sleeping in the attic, though.”
Briar’s eyes widened and then narrowed again. “What?”
“Unless it was Tor, which I doubt, someone has been sleeping in the attic.”
