Page 117 of The Darkest Chase

“Uh,” Henri says. “Chief? Everything okay? Lookin’ a touch rough there, sir.”

For a second, tired irritation flashes over Bowden’s face before he gives us his familiar ‘aw, shucks’ smile.

“Had a bit of a tiff with the missus,” he says. “Forgot one of our anniversaries. Worst thing is, I don’t even know which one. First date, getting married, six months? I dunno.” His grin feels a little too fake. “Janelle put me out and told me I could find somewhere else to sleep until I wised up, so I did.”

Lucas grimaces. “Damn, man. I’d say you shoulda checked into a hotel, but…”

“Yeah. I wasn’t too welcome in my own establishment.” Bowden slaps his thigh and lets out a little guffaw. “No worries. She’ll forgive me by dinner, and I’ll be back in my own bed by midnight. Ain’t the first time. My lady’s one hell of a spitfire when she wants to be.”

Janelle Bowden.

Our version of Martha Stewart Lite.

She’s got a backbone, sure, but I’d never call her a spitfire.

And considering our conversation yesterday, I don’t believe the chief’s story about why he got put out for a hot minute.

Still, I hold my tongue, just watching him.

I don’t miss how Rolf tenses under my hand, and how intently he’s watching the chief, too.

Maybe he’s just picking up my own nerves. Or maybe he senses something more in that mind reader way dogs have.

Because there’s something off about the chief.

I can see it in how his gaze sweeps the room, looking flat above his goofy smile, checking to make sure we’re buying his load of crap.

How he stops as he meets my eyes—and his own harden before he moves on.

The edge of his mask is starting to peel.

The kindly old chief he pretends to be, well on his way to retirement, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I can’t quite see what’s under that mask just yet.

But as he shrugs with another self-deprecating laugh and shuffles into the bathroom, I can’t shake it.

I need to have another heart-to-heart with Janelle Bowden.

Before I have that talk, I need to have one last look at our crime scene before the rain hits.

The once-bright morning sky has turned into a brooding wall of clouds. I walk Rolf back home so I can change. Standard-issue uniform shoes aren’t the best for hiking the hills.

Half an hour later, we’re setting out again, slipping through trees that have the cool smell of an oncoming storm. The leaves turn up, showing their silvery undersides in the wind.

Rolf throws back a curious look for about the tenth time.

“What? I’m not thinking about her that much.” His ears perk and I sigh. “Okay, dammit. Only a little—and you’re taking that secret to the grave, old man.”

We make good time, despite my mind drifting back to the hottest sex of my life with Talia Grey.

Soon, we break off the trail, about where the guys left police tape tied to a few trees as a marker. We spill out across the grassy slope leading up to the edge of the cliff.

Evidence markers are everywhere, the footsteps the same.

Nothing’s been disturbed.

Slowly, I make my way to the spot where Brian Newcomb would have fallen and look down at the cliff while Rolf leans against my leg.

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