Page 34 of Silent Smile

Mick's facade cracked a little. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting between Sheila and Finn. "Look, I told you—"

"Let me be clear," Sheila interrupted, taking a step forward. "Impeding a police investigation is a serious offense. If you're lying to us—"

"Alright, alright!" Mick held up his hands in surrender, his shoulders sagging. "He's here. He But if this is about that thing with the flowers—"

"It isn't," Sheila said.

Mick sighed. "Okay. Whatever it is, he just wants to be left alone, alright?"

"We get it, Mick," Finn said. "We're not here to cause trouble. We just need to clear some things up with Jason. That's all."

Mick looked between them, clearly undecided. Sheila could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

After a moment's hesitation, Mick nodded. "Fine. Come in. But... go easy on him, alright? He's not much of a conversationalist."

Sheila and Finn followed Mick into the house. Mismatched furniture filled the living room, and the walls were covered in posters of national parks and rock bands. A bookshelf in the corner caught Sheila's eye—it was filled with books on geology, park management, and, interestingly, several volumes on Native American history and culture.

"Nice place," Finn said, his eyes scanning the room. "You been here long?"

Mick shrugged. "Couple of years. It's not much, but it's home."

"Where's Jason?" Sheila asked.

"Upstairs," Mick said, gesturing toward a narrow staircase. "Probably still asleep."

As if on cue, they heard movement from above. Floorboards creaked, and a door opened. A moment later, Jason Hawke descended the stairs. He was tall and lean, with long hair tiedback in a ponytail and a scruffy beard. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, as if he'd fallen asleep in his clothes.

"What's going on?" he asked, his gaze moving from Mick to the officers. His voice was calm, but Sheila noticed his hands were clenched at his sides.

"Mr. Hawke," she began, "I'm Sheriff Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your time at Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park."

A shadow passed over Hawke's face. "That was months ago. What's this about?"

Sheila leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Mr. Hawke, can you tell us about your work at the park? What were your primary duties?"

Hawke shrugged, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. "Standard ranger stuff. Led tours, maintained trails, enforced park rules. Nothing exciting."

"I heard you had a particular interest in the cultural aspects of the park," Finn said. "Native American history and such."

A flicker of something—annoyance? worry?—crossed Hawke's face. "It was part of the job. Tourists eat that stuff up."

Sheila nodded, her eyes never leaving Hawke's face. "And your whereabouts over the past few days? Specifically, the past couple of nights?"

Hawke didn't miss a beat. "Well, two nights ago—Tuesday, I mean—I was at the Rusty Nail from about 8 PM until closing. The bartender, Jake, can vouch for me. We got to talking about the Dodgers game."

"The Rusty Nail," Sheila repeated, making a note. "And after closing?"

"Crashed at my buddy Dave's place," Hawke continued smoothly. "He lives above the laundromat on Main Street. We stayed up late playing video games. I didn't get home until noon the next day."

Finn raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a detailed account, Mr. Hawke."

Hawke shrugged again, but Sheila noticed a bead of sweat forming on his temple. "What can I say? It was a memorable night. The Dodgers lost in extra innings."

It was interesting how such an event could act like a monument, reminding you that you were once there. Just like Sheila remembered exactly where she was when her dad called and shared the news about Mom: in her college dorm, straining to hear over the voices of her friends gathered to play a party game.

"And where have you been since then?" Sheila asked.

Hawke shrugged. "Here. I ordered pizza, tipped the delivery guy a little extra, and watched a pay-per-view." He glanced at Mick. "Mick was here, too."

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