Page 30 of Not This Night

“And the night before.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was here.” He answered with an almost apologetic shrug. “What time frame?”

“Late. Very late.

He shrugged again, the motion burrowing his broad shoulders deeper into his plaid shirt. "Couldn't tell ya. He usually leaves at midnight. That's when he checks in."

Rachel digested this, her gaze steady on the parole officer. "Midnight?" she echoed, her tone neutral. "Doesn't that seem a bit late for a meeting?"

"Scott's an odd one," he said, dismissing her query with a wave of his hand. "Always preferred the night. Said it helped him stay clear of trouble."

She contemplated this new information, piecing it together in her meticulously ordered mind.

"Did Scott mention Jenna Amos or Heather Sinclair to you? Ever?" she asked, her gaze fixed on Kelley.

"Didn’t need to," he said after a pause that seemed to stretch out for miles. "I knew ‘em. Like I said, I’m an old timer around here. Scott used to hang around with them when they were kids. They were part of his old crowd."

"Why didn't he tell us this?" Rachel muttered more to herself than him.

The old man shrugged once again, a gesture Rachel was beginning to associate with him rather than a nonchalant dismissal of her question.

"He didn't say anything about them lately?"

"Nah," Kelley shook his head, looking slightly puzzled now. "Haven't heard those names in years."

Rachel took a final sip of her coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. Her mind was whirling with thoughts and possibilities that she needed to sort through.

“What else can you tell me about Jenna and Heather?”

The parole officer leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing. "Knew 'em," he said curtly. "Close, once upon a time."

"Close how?" Rachel pressed.

"Teenagers." He shrugged. "Did what teenagers do. Made trouble together. Vandalism was their art of choice."

"Both girls?" Rachel picked up her mug again, the decaf long forgotten.

"Both," he confirmed, his eyes not leaving hers. "Scott had a way with people. Still does, I reckon."

Rachel absorbed the information, her brain ticking like the clock on the wall.

"Any recent contact?" she asked, her tone even.

The parole officer's face remained impassive. "Not that I've seen. But Scott's a private sort. Always was."

A flicker of hesitation shadowed Rachel's face. She leaned in, the chair creaking under her shift of weight. "His relationship with the victims," she said, voice steady but eyes betraying a sliver of doubt. "Scott was upfront about everything, except that. But you’re saying he was here late the last two nights? You vouch for his alibi last night?"

The parole officer's confidence seemed to swell as he matched her posture, leaning forward with an air of certainty. His hands clasped together, a fortress of assurance. "Absolutely," he said, the timbre of his voice resonating slightly off the walls. "I was with him until midnight. We met up in town. Didn't part ways till one in the morning."

"Like I said, those hours are... unconventional, for a meeting." Her observation hung between them, an unspoken question.

"And like I said, he’s a long-standing acquaintance." He waved it off, dismissive yet firm. "We operate on our own schedule."

Rachel's gaze sharpened, the doubt gnawing at her. "You're certain about those times?" she pressed, voice low, a hammer seeking a crack.

"Like I said, midnight," he reiterated.

The mountain of a man shrugged those massive shoulders again.

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