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“Did she ever mention anyone unusual coming around? Anything strange in the last week or so?”

“Unusual? No." But inside I'm thinking you mean like a guy flashing fake credentials at my door? I smile sweetly. “No. Can’t say she did.”

He tilts his head, and for a second, just a flicker, I see it. The break in the mask. Something sharp, something calculating. He doesn’t seem to mind my not being complacent and just giving him whatever information he’s looking for. He doesn’t seem to like me noticing.

“Just doing a routine check,” he says smoothly. “She’s helping us with an ongoing investigation.”

I nod like that makes perfect sense, but I know it's bullshit. Sookie hated cops. She wouldn't have helped one if her life depended on it. Instead I ask, “What agency did you say you were with again?”

“City Homicide Task Force.”

Complete and utter bullshit. I know Galveston PD has been making a big deal of trying to save money and making their carbon footprint smaller, but I was pretty damn sure they didn't give out badges printed on recycled laminate.

I remember the mole on his jaw. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet mine. His accent was off—like he was faking local.

I sketch it out. Fast, loose, then tighter. Sharper. My hand remembers what my brain’s still catching up to. A jawline. Sloped brows. Scar near the temple. I shade in the shape of his mouth last, and when I’m done, my stomach flips.

Was this man in Sookie’s house the night before she died? I know he was in the neighborhood.

The Galveston PD station smells like old coffee and cheaper excuses. The receptionist barely looks up, already radiating the energy of someone deeply unimpressed with both her job and my presence. The air’s stale, thick with boredom and burnt caffeine, and I can practically taste the bureaucracy hanging in the walls like mold.

I walk in with purpose, holding my sketch like a talisman. The woman at the front desk watches me over her readers with the vague annoyance of someone who thought they'd made it to lunch without having to deal with a civilian. Her gaze drops to the paper in my hands like it might be contagious—or worse, important. I give her a tight smile. She doesn't return it.

“I need to speak to Detective Wilson. It’s urgent.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“Great, I’ll wait.”

“Ma’am...” she starts.

“Tell him Sutton Blake is here. Frank Blake’s daughter.”

That gets me a look. My dad is kind of famous, especially among cops. Suddenly the receptionist is giving me less attitude and a whole lot more cooperation.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting across from a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in three days. Bill Wilson used to play poker with my dad. He’s good people. At least he used to be.

“I don’t mean to interfere,” I say, sliding the sketch across his desk, “but this man came to her house the day before she was killed."

"How do you know the time of death?" he asks, suspiciously.

I roll my eyes, ignore the question, and redirect his attention to the sketch. "He was pretending to be a cop.”

Wilson studies it, face unreadable. “You sure?”

“Yes, I'm positive. I had a brief conversation with him and had a chance to study his fake badge.”

Wilson exhales through his nose, looks at the ceiling like it might save him. “We’ve got a lot of moving parts right now, Sutton. Burglary gone bad. It happens.”

“No, it doesn’t.” My voice sharpens, but I pull it back. “Not to Sookie. Not like this.”

He sets the sketch down like it’s suddenly radioactive, his fingers recoiling like it burned him. He adjusts his posture, barely perceptible—shoulders tense, chin dipping a fraction. He doesn't want to touch it. Doesn't want to be connected to whatever truth it might expose. And I know, without him saying a word, that he’s already thinking about how to bury it.

“I’ll log this and your observations into evidence, but you need to let us do our jobs.”

“I will." I say, thinking to myself, as long as you do them.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I push away from his desk. I know I’ve just poked something bigger than I can see, but I can’t back down now. I won’t. Even if it means stepping right into the deep end without knowing what’s waiting underneath.