after she left the house. They met doingsome barhopping up in Cleveland and had started hanging out a little. Sheriff Bell is putting two of his men with the Cleveland Robbery-Homicide team. They’ve got a pretty good group working it.”
Uneasiness roiled in Nick’s belly and that alone pissed him off. He shouldn’t be feeling it. At this advanced stage of this particular weekend, he shouldn’t be feeling anything. And yet, after two days of deliberate self-destruction, he’d identified the music in his ass as his phone, formulated coherent sentences, and felt something in his chest that bordered on true emotion.
Not acceptable. It was Saturday night. He still had thirty-six more hours before he was back on duty.
“Sheriff,” Jensen said, and a chair creaked in his ear. Nick recognized it as the one at the front desk at the station. “There’s a request here for you to check something for a case pending in Florida. It came in yesterday but you were gone already so Valeria left it on your desk. She was afraid to call you.”
“Smart woman.”
“And now there’s someone here insisting that you follow up on it. She says it’s urgent. It’s about Jack Calloway.”
A thread of interest threatened to unravel but Nick squelched it. There wasn’t one fucking thing that happened in Hopewell, Ohio that couldn’t wait.
“Will she still be there Monday?”
Jensen hesitated. “Uh, well, sir, I imagine so. She’s booked at the Red Roof Inn.”
“Well, good. That’s just when I’ll be home.”
“Monday?”
Erin bunched her fists on the desk, wincing at echoes of pain in her body. It was nine o’clock at night, and this cherub-faced deputy named Jensen hadspent the past two hours taking her through her story, writing down notes, and reading the online reports related to Justin. Finally, he’d deemed her situation significant enough to phone the almighty, not-to-be-disturbed sheriff.
For all the good it did
, she thought, looking around at the sheriff’s office. Not exactly a paragon of high-tech law enforcement: a lobby with a couple of large wooden desks and some file cabinets, a set of holding cells down one hallway, a handful of offices Erin couldn’t see, and a mysterious miasma of odors. A second deputy had gone searching for someone to open the courthouse across the street on a Saturday night, ostensibly to dig up details about the restraining order against her. Erin had been left to try to convince Deputy Jensen that Huggins should be behind bars and not her.
“Let me talk to him. Call him again,” she said.
“Look, Mis—” he caught himself, “Doctor. Technically, I could have you in lockup. Jack wants you charged with trespassing, at the least. I don’t think you want Sheriff Mann coming back here until the judge gets a chance to look at the restraining order.”
“The judge,” she snapped. “The one who’s deer hunting?”
“Judge Watkins always goes deer hunting the week after Oktoberfest ends, ever since I was a kid. He’ll be back M—”
“Monday,” she chorused. She’d heard it all already and dread clawed through her breast. In the hours left before then, how much could John Huggins do? Pack up and get away? If he vanished again, what would that mean for Justin?
Erin closed her eyes. She knew what it meant.
The printer against the wall started spitting out pages again and Jensen got up to collect them. “I’m doing what the sheriff would do, anyway—gathering the information on your brother’s case. By the time he gets back, I’ll have everything ready for him.”
She cursed and rubbed her face, winced. She’d forgotten the scrape. She scrubbed at it again, this time with a nail.
“Oh, damn it,” she said, looking at her finger. “I’m bleeding.”
Jensen was up in a heartbeat, looking at the side of her face. “Hold on,” he said, and started down the hall. Erin felt a pang of guilt. This was a kid, probably living out some childhood fantasy of
Uneasiness roiled in Nick’s belly and that alone pissed him off. He shouldn’t be feeling it. At this advanced stage of this particular weekend, he shouldn’t be feeling anything. And yet, after two days of deliberate self-destruction, he’d identified the music in his ass as his phone, formulated coherent sentences, and felt something in his chest that bordered on true emotion.
Not acceptable. It was Saturday night. He still had thirty-six more hours before he was back on duty.
“Sheriff,” Jensen said, and a chair creaked in his ear. Nick recognized it as the one at the front desk at the station. “There’s a request here for you to check something for a case pending in Florida. It came in yesterday but you were gone already so Valeria left it on your desk. She was afraid to call you.”
“Smart woman.”
“And now there’s someone here insisting that you follow up on it. She says it’s urgent. It’s about Jack Calloway.”
A thread of interest threatened to unravel but Nick squelched it. There wasn’t one fucking thing that happened in Hopewell, Ohio that couldn’t wait.
“Will she still be there Monday?”
Jensen hesitated. “Uh, well, sir, I imagine so. She’s booked at the Red Roof Inn.”
“Well, good. That’s just when I’ll be home.”
“Monday?”
Erin bunched her fists on the desk, wincing at echoes of pain in her body. It was nine o’clock at night, and this cherub-faced deputy named Jensen hadspent the past two hours taking her through her story, writing down notes, and reading the online reports related to Justin. Finally, he’d deemed her situation significant enough to phone the almighty, not-to-be-disturbed sheriff.
For all the good it did
, she thought, looking around at the sheriff’s office. Not exactly a paragon of high-tech law enforcement: a lobby with a couple of large wooden desks and some file cabinets, a set of holding cells down one hallway, a handful of offices Erin couldn’t see, and a mysterious miasma of odors. A second deputy had gone searching for someone to open the courthouse across the street on a Saturday night, ostensibly to dig up details about the restraining order against her. Erin had been left to try to convince Deputy Jensen that Huggins should be behind bars and not her.
“Let me talk to him. Call him again,” she said.
“Look, Mis—” he caught himself, “Doctor. Technically, I could have you in lockup. Jack wants you charged with trespassing, at the least. I don’t think you want Sheriff Mann coming back here until the judge gets a chance to look at the restraining order.”
“The judge,” she snapped. “The one who’s deer hunting?”
“Judge Watkins always goes deer hunting the week after Oktoberfest ends, ever since I was a kid. He’ll be back M—”
“Monday,” she chorused. She’d heard it all already and dread clawed through her breast. In the hours left before then, how much could John Huggins do? Pack up and get away? If he vanished again, what would that mean for Justin?
Erin closed her eyes. She knew what it meant.
The printer against the wall started spitting out pages again and Jensen got up to collect them. “I’m doing what the sheriff would do, anyway—gathering the information on your brother’s case. By the time he gets back, I’ll have everything ready for him.”
She cursed and rubbed her face, winced. She’d forgotten the scrape. She scrubbed at it again, this time with a nail.
“Oh, damn it,” she said, looking at her finger. “I’m bleeding.”
Jensen was up in a heartbeat, looking at the side of her face. “Hold on,” he said, and started down the hall. Erin felt a pang of guilt. This was a kid, probably living out some childhood fantasy of
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