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Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t seem so. We found a log near the body, bits of its bark caught in her hair. We think she was hit with it, fell, and hit her head on a rock.”
Kevin sat back in his chair, nibbling on his cinnamon twist, eyes narrowed. “That’s odd. If the killer had a gun, why resort to a log?”
“Anybody home?” A voice rang out from the reception area, and Reese poked her head around the post office boxes and motioned someone to join them. It was Jackson Pressler, one of the older residents of White Rock. Sam wasn’t surprised to see him. Jackson had been the one to discover the rare owls on his property and petition the government to make that area a sanctuary. He must have seen all the activity.
“Hey, Jackson, what can we do for you?” Sam asked.
Jackson ran his hands through his white hair, nodding grimly. “Saw the cars heading up the dirt road to the sanctuary. Can’t help but worry.”
Jo, ever the empathetic soul, wheeled a chair toward him. “Have a seat, Jackson.”
Jackson waved it away, standing resolute. “Don’t need it, thank you, Jo. I just need to know what’s happening near my land.”
Sam met his gaze, deciding honesty was the best approach. “There’s been a murder, Jackson. At the sanctuary.”
The old man’s eyes widened, shock and anger flashing through them. “Again? Damn it! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s that Thorne construction stirring up trouble.” He jabbed a finger into the air for emphasis. “Saw a young fella trespassing the other day while I was out fishing on the Hogback River behind my place.”
“Did you recognize him?” Sam asked, already mentally making space for another suspect on his list.
Jackson shrugged. “Eyes aren’t what they used to be, and he was far away. But he was young, wore a black-and-tan baseball cap. Hightailed it out of there when he saw me.”
Sam nodded, and Jackson continued. “Hate to think there’s a killer running around.”
Sam returned Jackson’s gaze, a solid resolution hardening in his own. “Jackson, I assure you, we’re on it,” he said, giving the man’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “This isn’t a random act, and we already have a lead to follow up on.”
“Who was it?” Jackson inquired, curiosity lighting up his eyes.
Sam pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. “Can’t say yet,” he finally responded, casting a glance toward Jo, who was already settled at her desk by the window, laptop open. “We need to notify the next of kin first.”
“I’m on it,” Jo confirmed, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
Sam’s gaze returned to Jackson. “Suffice to say, it’s someone who might have ruffled a few feathers.”
Relief washed over Jackson’s face, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I appreciate that, Sam.”
With a final nod, Jackson turned and made his exit from the station. As the door closed behind him, Sam redirected his attention back to his team. “Guess I better get going and interview our first suspect.”
CHAPTERTHREE
Kevin watched Sam, Jo, and Lucy leave the station. He felt a twinge of longing. He was dying to get back out in the field, but he’d have to convince the doctors he was ready for that first.
Turning his back on the door, he stepped toward the metal filing cabinets. His part-time duty was to file that paperwork, a job he’d done dozens of times before his accident. He knew the system like the back of his hand. Or he used to. Right now, he just stood staring at the cabinets, uncertainty furrowing his brow. The cabinets seemed like uncharted territory. He stood before them, an unfamiliar sense of disconnect gnawing at him.
How hard could it be? They probably filed them alphabetically. He was sure he’d remember the system once he opened the drawers. He had to figure it out either way because he didn’t want anyone to know there were still gaps in his memory. But the way Jo had looked at him oddly made him think she might have guessed.
The station door creaked open, pulling Kevin out of his thoughts. He couldn’t see who it was from his position, but a knot of worry formed in his stomach at the thought that Sam and Jo might have returned. He turned to the filing cabinet, feigning nonchalance as he opened a drawer.
A voice wafted over to him, the tone as smooth as a polished river stone. “Hey, Reese, brought you some brownies for helping me out.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Reese said.
“That’s what friends are for. So, they’re really letting you paint this place?” the smooth voice said.
“Yeah, it needs it.”
Kevin couldn’t see them, but he imagined Reese gesturing toward the gray paint. What was the color? Rocky Bluffs. A beat of satisfaction pulsed within Kevin. He’d remembered the color of the paint, a small-but-significant sign his memory was still healing.
“You can say that again. Oh! Hi, Major.”
