Page 106 of Swept for Forever
I pressed my lips, then revealed, “No. And I don’t plan to.”
Autumn’s body pulled taut, and I gave her a slight squeeze, a silent message that said:I’ve got this.
I added, “How old is that kid anyway? Sixteen?”
Granger laughed. “Twenty-four, but yeah. Looks like he’s still waitin’ on his letter from Mickey Mouse Club.”
Autumn and I smiled at each other.
“Look, Granger. I’m not saying the guy’s dirty, but he’s got an attitude,” I said. “I was a lawyer long enough to know that cops with an attitude are almost always a liability.”
“Here’s hoping my attitude hasn’t landed me in Dominic Powell’s bad book,” he quipped.
“You’re a good Buffaloberrian,” I replied, then pressed forward. “So, this deputy, Boone, the one handling Deborah Sinclair’s case. How is he?”
“They call him Old Hound Boone.”
I let the name settle, considering. That told me a lot.
“Can I trust him?”
Granger made a low sound, the kind of noise a man makes when he’s weighing his words.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “We went through the academy together, same year. Boone’s a straight shooter. If there’s more to this, he’ll listen.”
That was all I needed.
“Then that’s where we’re going next,” I said.
“You heading back to the sheriff’s office now?”
“The sooner, the better.”
Granger let out a grunt. “Hold up. Let me call first, make sure he’s there. Give me a second.”
A few moments passed, then Granger came back.
“He’s in. Just one thing. Don’t mention the fact that his initials match his nickname. Owen Henry.”
Old Hound. Owen Henry. Who cared? I just needed him on our side. Because we had a hell of a mess to clean up.
Back in Hamilton,Deputy Owen Boone was waiting for us. His uniform sat comfortably on him, not stiff and pressed like Whitaker’s. This was a man who had worn the badge long enough to understand the difference between what’s written in the books and how the job really worked.
They called him Old Hound, and it fit. He had the kind of eyes that had seen it all, the kind that could read a man like a roadmap. I just hoped Boone wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions. Because a guy like him, once he locked onto something, didn’t let go.
Boone nodded as we approached. “Deputy Granger told me you’ve got information.”
I nodded back. “This is Autumn Jones.”
He motioned to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
I sat beside Autumn, keeping my posture loose. Relaxed, but ready. Boone looked solid, but I’d been in enough law enforcement offices to know that even the good ones could turn when things got complicated.
“Miss Jones was at the Blodgett Pass trail on June second,” I said, watching him carefully. “That’s a few days after Deborah Sinclair disappeared.”
He didn’t move. No tell, no reaction. Just a measured breath as he processed the information.
Finally, he said, “Okay, Miss Jones. Walk me through it.”
