Page 45

Who'd also gotten his nephew Tommy a job in Sheila's department.
Sheila hadn't seen Dawson or spoken with him since Tommy's arrival and subsequent decision to leave her for dead, and she didn't know how culpable Dawson might be in Tommy's actions.
"Dad," Sheila said quietly. "Did Dawson know? When he brought Tommy in?"
Gabriel was silent for a long moment. "Walk with me," he said finally.
Sheila exchanged looks with Finn before following her father into the hallway. They walked until they reached a quiet corner near the water cooler.
"Hank and I go way back," Gabriel said, his voice low. "Worked together when I was in Internal Affairs. He was one of the good ones—or I thought he was."
"But?"
"But he knew things, Sheila. About the corruption I was investigating. About what happened to your mother."
"So you're saying he's involved?"
Gabriel ran a hand through his silver hair. "I'm saying I need to talk to him. Find out if he brought Tommy in knowing what they planned, or if they used him too."
"I'll come with you."
"No." Gabriel's response was quick, definitive. "Hank won't talk if you're there. He's got too much pride, too much history with this department. But me?" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I'm just another retired cop who's seen too much."
Sheila felt that familiar twinge of suspicion. Her father asked to handle something alone, claiming it was for the best. Was he being honest or doing damage control—maybe even trying to protect Dawson?
"Dad—"
"I know what you're thinking," he said softly. "And I get why you might be suspicious. But this isn't about keeping secrets. This is about getting the truth from a man who might not give it if he feels cornered."
Sheila studied his face, looking for any sign of deception. "And you'll tell me everything he says?"
"Every word." He met her eyes steadily. "No more secrets, remember? But Hank... he was my friend once. Let me talk to him first. Give him a chance to explain himself."
The water cooler gurgled quietly. Down the hall, phones rang and voices murmured—the normal sounds of a sheriff's department at work. But nothing felt normal anymore. Not with Diana still missing, not with Tommy demanding immunity, not with decades of corruption finally starting to unravel.
"Okay," Sheila said finally. "Talk to him. But Dad?" She waited until he looked at her. "If he was involved in what happened to Mom..."
"Then he'll answer for it," Gabriel finished. "Just like everyone else who was part of this."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Diana huddled in the narrow passage, her back pressed against cold stone. Her watch said it was 8:47 AM, though time had become increasingly meaningless in the perpetual darkness. She'd been marking the hours on her arm with a pen salvaged from her pack, keeping track of how long she'd been down here.
Finding her pack had seemed like salvation at first. She'd come across it by accident, bumping into it where three tunnels converged. Everything was still there: her water, her emergency supplies, her tablet. Even her geological samples, carefully labeled and stored.
But the map. The damn map.
She traced her fingers over the notes written up and down her left arm, the ink slightly smeared from condensation on the tunnel walls. She'd started documenting everything after realizing the map had been altered. Subtle changes at first—a passage marked safe that led to a dangerous drop, a route that should have led to an exit but instead curved deeper into the mountain. By the time she'd understood what was happening, she'd already followed the false paths too far, lost her original bearing.
Her right arm held different notes: Blood cross—fresh when found. Green lights in darkness—night vision? Water source in NW tunnel—drinkable. Footsteps echo from multiple directions—acoustics or strategy?
She took another small sip from her water bottle, rationing what remained. The military-grade filter she kept in her pack had proved invaluable, allowing her to safely drink from the underground streams, but she had to be careful. Had to stay sharp. Had to keep documenting, keep thinking like a scientist even as exhaustion and fear clouded her mind.
Sitting in the darkness, she wondered whether her attacker had deliberately left the pack here for her to find it—and the altered map it contained. What kind of game was he playing? If he wanted her to die down here, he shouldn't have let her find her pack again.
Maybe he wants you alive, she thought. Maybe he's watching right now from the darkness, enjoying your misery. Drinking your suffering.
She shuddered and forced the thoughts aside. She couldn't let her imagination run wild—there were too many frightening possibilities.