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“They sent Deputy Rayland,” Kenna said. “The kid barely needs to shave.”
“I’m not sure it would be legal for him to be a cop…”
“You know what I mean.” She felt her lips curl up. “He reminds me way too much of that cop in Hatchet. The one who overdosed.”
“You’ve met a disproportionate number of police officers who have lost their lives.”
“It’s the life I chose.”
He made a noise that sounded like disagreement. “I’m not sure that’s entirely true. You don’t control attacks, threats, or the actions of the bad guys you’re chasing.”
Kenna knew that was true—to an extent. If she didn’t show up places and stir the proverbial pot, things wouldn’t get better. People would still be victimized. But things also wouldn’t get worse first. “I should go help him, just in case there’s an ambush or some kind of altercation.”
“I’ll stay on. Put your earbuds in.”
“I didn’t take them out.” Kenna pocketed her phone and keys, then pulled on her gloves. She had a weapon on her, but winter clothing made easy reach not so easy. “Rayland!” She jogged over, avoiding the patches of ice.
“Hey.” He lifted his chin. “Thirteen?”
“That’s right.”
They squared up on the door, avoiding getting shot through it if whoever was inside opened fire. If there even was anyone inside.
Rayland pounded his fist on the door. “Sheriff’s department! Open up!”
Chapter Thirteen
The door swung inward.
Kenna held out a hand, stopping Rayland from entering. “How about I go first, and you back me up?”
He swung around to her, gearing up to argue.
“Because if the department loses another deputy to injury, that’s a problem. They need you healthy and working. That makes you more valuable than me right now.” She waited for his expression to shift with understanding and then turned to the door. She didn’t go inside, but instead looked all around the frame of the door.
Just in case.
“I’m surprised it was unlocked,” she said. “About as much as I’m surprised it didn’t explode in our faces when you knocked.”
“Then why’d you let me knock, what with me being so valuable and all?” There was a note of humor in his tone.
“Rescuer safety first.”
He snorted. So did Jax, through her earbuds.
Kenna stepped in. The room was somewhat cramped andsmelled faintly of cigarettes, though it had probably been years since anyone was allowed to smoke in here.
Stan Tilley had a military-style duffel bag on the floor at the end of the bed. A plastic sided crate the size of a long rifle. Another smaller plastic crate on a chair.
Newspaper on the nightstand—actually more than one. She counted three, one local and one from Chicago plus a national publication. Who read the newspaper these days? Though, she didn’t have an online subscription to anything either.
Rayland searched the bathroom. She heard the shower curtain swipe back and held her breath for a second. He didn’t indicate anything untoward in there.
Kenna looked in the nightstand drawers before moving to the bed, but Stan Tilley had nothing stashed under the pillow or the mattress.
Quietly, so Rayland might not hear, she said, “Could you hear him?”
“Enough,” Jax said. “I can’t now, though. He’s not by you?”