Page 22 of Depraved Truths

“Jane gave me a description, but we don’t have much to go on,” Marshall says. “Tessa, are you sure you locked the door and set the alarm?”

Yes, dumbass.

“Pretty sure,” I answer meekly, playing the fragile woman for now. I need them gone so I can check theindoor cameras.

They question me for another thirty minutes, and once I get everyone out of the house, I head into the library, access the safe room and enter the code and thumbprint ID. I keep everything in there from guns to knives to pharmaceuticals to my favorite hardback book collection.What? My books need to be safe too. Everything is secure.

I grab up my laptop to view the indoor cameras, and my jaw drops as I open the program and check the footage. My heart pounds. The video glitched for eleven minutes. The intruder used a key.

No one had a key.

Not even Bryce.

A chill runs down my spine.

I call Bryce to fill him in as my home alarm chimes—someone is pulling into my driveway.

Chapter 18

Asmug grin spreads across my face as I relive my date with Tessa. It was a date, whether she wants to admit it or not. The more time I spend with her, the more I want to learn everything about her.

Following behind Tessa as far as I can, the urge to keep going almost overpowers my need to make this next important stop. A long-overdue stop.

Turning onto Main Street, I drive toward the police station. It’s been months since I’ve heard from Sheriff Randall about the investigation into my sister’s death. My anger rises with each passing day, week, month, and year, and it’s becoming harder to control.

Walking through the police station’s front door, the familiar bell rings. I nod to Millie, who’s been at the front desk for as long as I can remember, and she offers a pleasant smile, but I can't help but see the pity in her eyes. “Good afternoon, Eli. Did you come to see the Sheriff?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is he available?”

Millie nods and makes the call from her desk phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Within seconds, Sheriff Randall emerges from his office, and motions for me to come in.

“Eli, how are you doing?” he asks, shaking my hand. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable, son.”

The room is unchanged after all these years. Framed pictures cover the walls—many featuring him, other law enforcement officers, politicians, and even one showing him with Matthew McConaughey during a movie shoot in Georgia a few years back. Several photos litter his desk, all of them showing his wife and sons at various stages of their lives. Speaking of which, I need to talk to him about Wilson.

“Sheriff, I wanted to get an update on the investigation.”

“Eli, you know as much as I do. After all these years we continue to hit nothing but brick walls, and more than anything we want to give you and your parents closure and get justice for Paisley.”

My jaw tightens. “I have nothing but respect for this office, but the disappearances of underage girls in neighboring towns can’t be a coincidence. There has to be a connection between those girls and my sister. They have to be related somehow.”

My hand balls into a fist as the heat of frustration builds inside me. “Have you explored neighboring states? Consider contacting the FBI?” I grit out.

He bristles at my insinuation that he doesn’t know how to do his job. “We’ve already requested assistance from the FBI, but they rejected our inquiry, and we’ve pursued every lead they would’ve offered.”

It’s no secret that the federal and local governments have a long-standing history of inability to work together. It’s not that they don’t trust each other, it’s essentially a dick-measuring contest between the two.

This Saturday would’ve been Paisley’s twenty-fourth birthday. “It’s been a decade since my sister was abducted, sexually assaulted, mutilated, and killed. How would you feel if it were your own sister or daughter?”

The Sheriff’s face betrays a hint of shame. “I can’t comprehend the pain you’ve been through since your sister’s death,” he says with a heavy sigh. “We’re still determined to find the person who took her life.”

I can tell this conversation is going nowhere, and there’s no use in arguing with him further. It’s time I start looking into things myself. My father hired a private investigator a year or two after Paisley’s death, but even he didn’t uncover anything.

I can’t shake the possibility of never knowing what happened. I refuse to.

Having nothing more to say, I shove off my chair, mumbling my thanks as I head for the door. Halfway there, I remember Wilson, but as I turn to give the sheriff an earful over his son, I hear Millie’s voice over the intercom. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Sheriff, but there’s been an incident. Reports of a 10-62 in progress at 27 Deer Point Road. Marshall and Ethan have already arrived and secured the scene.”

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