Page 35 of Silent Smile

Mick nodded gravely. "That's right."

Sheila leaned back, taking this all in. The alibi was perfect—too perfect. It was as if Hawke had been expecting this question, had rehearsed his response. But why?

She made a mental note to verify both alibis, but her gut told her something was off. It was too neat, too prepared. She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on a framed photo of Hawke in his park ranger uniform, standing proudly in front of the dunes.

"You must miss it," she said, nodding toward the photo. "The park, I mean."

A flicker of emotion crossed Hawke's face. It was gone too quickly for Sheila to be sure what it had been. "It was just a job," he said flatly.

"Really?" Finn asked. "Because from what we heard, you were pretty passionate about it. Especially the cultural aspects."

Hawke's jaw tightened. "Look, I made a mistake. I paid for it. I lost my job, my reputation. What more do you want from me?"

"The truth, Mr. Hawke," Sheila said quietly. "That's all we're after."

The tension in the room was palpable. Mick shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Hawke and the officers. Hawke himself seemed to be struggling with some internal battle.

"I told you the truth, okay?" he finally said. "My story's not going to change just because you don't like it."

Story,Sheila thought.Yes, that's exactly what it is.

Sheila cleared her throat and rose. "I understand, Mr. Hawke. We're just trying to get to the bottom of what's going on in the park, that's all."

"By implying I had something to do with murdering those two hikers," he muttered.

"You didn't know either of them by any chance, did you?" Finn asked. "Amanda Weller, Carl Donovan?"

Hawke shook his head. "Heard their names on the news. That's it."

Having exhausted their immediate questions, Sheila and Finn prepared to leave. As they stepped out onto the front porch, Finn turned to Sheila.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

Sheila waited until they were in their vehicle before responding. "I don't buy it, Finn. That alibi was too perfect, too ready. It's like he knew exactly what we were going to ask."

Finn nodded slowly. "You think he's involved?"

"I think he's guilty of something," Sheila said, her eyes narrowing as she looked back at the house. "We just need to figure out what. Did you notice how defensive he got when we mentioned the cultural aspects of his job?"

"I'll look into the alibi, see if it holds water," Finn said.

"Maybe it will. But I've got a funny feeling it's not going to tell the full story."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The predawn darkness cloaked Sage's car, which was parked discreetly down the street from Hawke's house. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, watched intently as Sheriff Stone's SUV pulled away. The taillights faded into the distance, leaving the street in silence once more.

Sage's fingers drummed softly on the steering wheel, a steady rhythm matching his heartbeat. He waited, patient as the desert itself. Minutes ticked by, and finally, the lights in Hawke's house winked out.

A smile played at the corners of Sage's mouth. Hawke and his roommate had likely retreated to their beds, drained from their earlier confrontation with the police.

The sky was beginning to lighten, the stars fading as a pale blue crept across the horizon. Sage knew his window of opportunity was narrow. He opened the car door, stepping out into the cool morning air. His boots made no sound on the pavement as he surveyed the quiet street.

Houses were just beginning to stir. A woman in a bathrobe shuffled to her mailbox, yawning widely. An elderly man walked a small, yappy dog, the animal's nails clicking on the sidewalk. Sage stood motionless, blending into the shadows, waiting for the moment to act.

When he was sure nobody was looking in his direction, he moved to the trunk of his car. The lid opened silently, well-oiled hinges doing their job. Inside, partially wrapped in an old blanket, lay a shovel. Sage's hand closed around the familiar wooden handle, lifting it carefully. In the growing light, he could just make out a dark stain on the blade—dried blood, a memento of his sacred work.

The weight of the shovel in his hands filled Sage with a sense of purpose. This was his calling, his duty to the ancient spirits of the dunes. And now, it was time to ensure that duty remained undetected.

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