Page 143 of We Are All Guilty Here

Emmy looked at the old photocopier that was pushed against the wall. The ancient dot-matrix printer. The early 2000s Dell desktop. Everything a person would need to tamper with evidence before Bates stamping the faked documents and scanning them into the police server.

Blood dripped into Emmy’s eye. The gash in her forehead was still bleeding. She was in a daze when she stood up. Her mind was numb to the implications of what she’d found. She could only silently recite the facts. The phone number that appeared multiple times in Walton Huntsinger’s call logs belonged to Virgil. Wite-Out had been used to alter the number so that it could not be traced back to Virgil. None of the real evidence had been processed through the system. There were no stamps. No notations. The evidence had been sitting inside a box that only Virgil had access to.

Emmy was on autopilot when she pushed aside the boxes to clear a path to the first aid kit on the wall. She pried open the rusted door. The blood from her fingers left a streak on the white metal. No Band-Aids or bandages were inside, just sixteen hooks of the kind you’d hang keys on. Only, there were no keys inside the box. Each hook held a small, clear bag with pieces of jewelry inside. A thin silver bracelet with the initial K. A gold necklace with a cross. A Klutz friendship bracelet. A small Gryffindor badge. A pair of star-shaped earrings like you’d buy for a child who’d just gotten her ears pierced.

Trophies.

She reached for the old flip phone that rested in the bottom of the cabinet. Black with a mirrored front. Nearly an inch thick. The hinge was an elongated rectangle with a camera lens inside. Emmy flipped open the phone. Read the model number: Nokia N93i. She turned it over to look at the back. Saw the initials scratched into the plastic: C.B. She pried open the tiny door on the side. There was a blue miniSD card in the slot.

Emmy was breathless when she looked up at the ceiling. She didn’t see the stained tiles. She saw Virgil walking down Felixand Ruth Baker’s driveway two hours after Madison had been abducted. He was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Holding a handkerchief to the deep scratches on his arm. Warning them about the sticker bushes on the side of the house. Covering the three deep gouges that a fifteen-year-old girl’s fingernails had dug into his skin.

She saw Virgil sixteen hours later. Emmy had collapsed on the floor of the shed in Walton Huntsinger’s backyard. Gerald was holding her steady. Virgil was reaching down to offer his handkerchief. The cotton was wet. So was Virgil’s hair. He’d picked at his shirt collar. His uniform was stuck to him like cling film because his skin was still wet from dragging Cheyenne and Madison’s chained bodies to the middle of Millie’s pond.

She saw the photocopier. The computer. The altered call logs that hid Virgil’s constant communications with Walton Huntsinger on and around the Fourth of July. The Nokia flip phone. The girl’s jewelry. The trophies he’d taken off his other victims. The blatant way he’d hidden everything in plain sight inside the basement of his own home.

Twelve years ago, Virgil had been in charge of tracking down all of the electronic devices. They had taken him at his word when he’d told them the burners couldn’t be traced. The license plate scanners had come up with nothing. The cell tower data was useless. The man working the Hertz counter had remembered seeing Walton when he checked in the car. The mileage added up. Cheyenne’s donated laptop had been clean. Her burner phone had been sent to Quantico. The second burner that was found in her pocket was too waterlogged. There was no evidence that tied the girls to anyone but Adam Huntsinger.

Virgil had sat at the conference table listening to Jude lead the case against Madison and Cheyenne’s killer. He had offered to track down Dale Loudermilk’s prison contacts because he knew one particular name would appear on the list: Virgil Ingram, a white man working in a skilled position that required education and training. Whose job brought him into frequent contact with children. Who was married with kids of his own.

Emmy’s hand went to her mouth, but she couldn’t make a sound. The blood had stopped pumping through her heart. Theice water in her veins was frozen solid. She was stunned beyond reason. Every part of her life, every step of the way, Virgil had always been there. He was her father’s most trusted deputy. The man who’d taught Emmy how to be chief. The pedophile who had raped and killed Cheyenne Baker and Madison Dalrymple. The monster who had taken Paisley Walker.

The door slammed open.

Emmy jumped, dropping the phone, nearly tripping over the boxes. In an instant, she knew that there were no excuses to be made, no lies to tell, that would get her out of this situation. Virgil had seen her through the window, probably watched as she made each discovery. He held a pistol by his side. It looked like something out of a World War II movie. Ruger .22 rimfire. One-button takedown. Bolt-action. Drop-down mag.

Instinctively, Emmy tried to step back. Her boot thudded against the heavy box of call logs. She said the first thing she could think of. “Jude knows about Walton. She knows about you, too.”

Virgil grinned, but his eyes were a flat, menacing black. “She knows about Walton because I led her to his door, but you wouldn’t be alone in my basement right now if she knew about me.”

The coldness in his voice brought out a shiver. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was already out handling some business. Cole called to let me know you were dropping by.”

She knew what business he was handling. Paisley Walker was dead. It was only a matter of time before Virgil murdered Emmy, too.

“Gotta say baby girl, you would’ve made a good sheriff. Gerald would’ve been proud.”

Emmy should’ve been terrified, but a stillness had washed over her body. It was the same feeling she’d had on the road with her father. This time, Emmy held onto her senses. Her vision sharpened on Virgil. She slowly reached for her Glock. She felt the rough, plastic grip with her fingers.

He said, “Don’t.”

She wrapped her hand around the weapon. The safety strap was already hanging loose.

Virgil lifted the Ruger, pointed it squarely at her chest. “I said stop.”

Emmy gripped the gun, but kept it holstered. She did the calculations. From fifteen feet, the .22 caliber round would punch the hell out of her, but it wouldn’t penetrate her armored vest.

He seemed to make the same assessment. He raised the gun so that it was aimed at her head. “What you figured out, I want you to know you were right. I met Cheyenne at the outlet mall. I was working security for extra money to help Peggy set up the storefront.”

Emmy made herself shrug. “I don’t care.”

“You’re still going to listen.”

He waited for her to argue, but Emmy realized she needed time. “How long did it take to groom her?”

“It’s not grooming if you’re giving them what they want, and believe me, baby, Cheyenne Baker wanted to be fucked.” He studied her face, clearly hoping for a reaction. “She was a virgin our first time, but goddam, she knew what she was doing. Nothing was off the table. She never said no.”

Emmy’s hand had started to sweat around the Glock. She used her peripheral vision to take in her surroundings. Wall to her left. Barber chairs to her right. Nowhere to duck. Nowhere to hide.

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