Page 82 of Her Wild Coast Promise

How can I do my job and not constantly be letting her down?

I stare at her text, frustrated. I could type out the long answer—being vague on details—regarding my long day. I could dodge, tell her I miss her and would love to spend the evening with her but duty is calling. I could ask her to meet me in the cafeteria downstairs for a quick bite between the interrogation of our two suspects and my shift at 19:00, but I’m not asking her to drive across town in this weather and I’m especially not going to ask that she bring me a meal. Even though I would delight in just seeing her.

Cora made it clear what she wants, and today has made it perfectly clear that I will never be able to give it to her. I won’t hold her back by stringing her along. She deserves so much more than that.

I push through the door and hurry through the lobby. Before stepping into the rain, I tap my reply and pocket my phone.

ChapterTwenty-Two

CORA

I stareat Seth’s reply, frowning.

I’m sorry

I set my phone down and make a cup of tea, then carry it up to my office. The house feels dark and still, like night is a heavy quilt dropping over us.

What happened to Seth’s promise to talk? All day I’ve been wondering what it means. He’s sorry? About what? I’m missing something.

I settle on my little couch and watch the rain slice against the window. My thoughts tumble and fall, like leaves dropping from the aspen trees in Penny Creek. I used to sit on our back porch and listen to them rattle in the afternoon wind.

My tea grows cold, but I’m too lost in thought to care. One thing is clear. No way am I letting another man break my heart.

It’s time to take life by the horns, even if I have to do it alone.

ChapterTwenty-Three

SETH

In Brian’s unit,Hunter and I have a quick huddle before heading down the hall to where Stoll and Walsh are being held in two adjacent interview rooms. The clerk buzzes us into Walsh’s room.

It’s a small box of a space with bright fluorescent lights high above and soundproof walls on all sides. Across the square white table sits Russel Walsh, handcuffed to a chain fixed to the center of the floor. Through the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, I know Brian is watching in another room.

I set a cold soda and a bag of Lay’s potato chips from the vending machine on Walsh’s side of the table.

Walsh doesn’t take them, but his gaze flicks sideways. By this point he’s been in custody for two hours and hasn’t consumed anything since that beer he ordered on the ferry.

Interviews are like a dance. Sometimes they’re graceful and sometimes you fumble around all night and leave with nothing, and sometimes, they spin out of control.

Hunter drops into the chair farthest away from the door, and I take the one closest. The room is warm on purpose. It’s designed to add an element of pressure. Everything is monitored via cameras and sensors in case something goes wrong or if a suspect tries to get violent.

Under the bright lights, Walsh’s skin has a pale hue that makes me think of termites. His pointed nose has several broken blood vessels flanking each side, leaving thin red lightning patterns across his cheeks. His dark brown eyes are hard and cold.

Hunter places a collection of papers on the desk and the stolen ID that was pulled off him when he was brought in and frisked before being escorted to the adjacent holding cell.

“That ID you had today has been linked to some pretty serious crimes,” Hunter says. “In case you weren’t aware.”

Walsh finally gets curious, or maybe the long silence is doing its job, because he glances at the papers before his gaze bounces back to the floor. Then he combs his hair behind his ear. There’s an unmistakable tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous.

Hunter crosses his arms, his eyes fixed on Walsh, who must be getting warm in his flannel and thick work pants. If we weren’t worried that the coat has a hidden pocket, we would have left it on him.

“One of those crimes almost got three people killed,” Hunter adds, his voice remarkably calm considering one of the people he’s mentioning is his baby sister, Lexie.

Walsh swallows, the slow bob of his Adam’s apple a sign that he’s parched.

The cold soda is sweating a ring of water onto the table. I try to convince him with my subliminal thoughts to crack the lid and drink. Most of our evidence against this guy is circumstantial. We need DNA.

“Where did you steal Kalle Jensen’s ID?” I ask. Starting with the small lies can sometimes lead us to the bigger ones.

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