Page 59 of Distress Signal

Lane swore creatively, then mumbled something about being grateful he’d at least been informed of the note before several months had passed this time.

“Where are you?” he asked me.

“In front of the barbershop.”

“We’ll be right over.”

Less than five minutes later, my brother rounded the corner a block away, a small squad of deputies following in his footsteps like eager little ducks trailing after their mother. I would’ve laughed at the sight if the situation didn’t seem so dire.

Lane approached us, his hands already encased in nitrile gloves.

“Where is it?” Reagan pointed into the car, and Lane asked, “Anyone but you touch it?”

“You mean other than the sick fucker who left it there?” I said with a snort.

“No,” Reagan told Lane.

Pinching the corner between two fingers, Lane pulled it out of the vehicle and held it in front of his face. His deputies gathered at his back, reading over his shoulders.

“Looks like standard printer paper,” he mused. “Nothing remarkable about it at all.”

“Other than the fact that it’s a fucking taunt,” I ground out.

Reagan elbowed me, and I snapped my mouth shut.

“We’ll get it up to Boise,” he told Reagan, turning to one of the deputies who held out an evidence bag. Lane tucked the note inside, open, smoothing the crease down the center once he sealed it in. He handed it back to the deputy who, with a dismissive nod from Lane, turned and went back to the department.

“I’ve got an FBI friend at the field office who I know will want to help,” Lane continued. “I’m also sending her your sister’s journals. She’s got some background in profiling, so I’ll let her take a look and see if anything pops.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re going to need to take the wiper too,” Lane said, nodding at one of the other deputies, who stepped forward with a larger bag, popped the wiper off, and sealed it away. “There’s a hardware store up there on the corner?—”

I cut him off. “I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to—” Reagan started, but Lane interjected.

“Fine.” To his remaining guys, he said, “You guys can go. I’ll be back in a bit.”

They dutifully trotted away, and I wondered why the fuck so many of them had come out in the first place.

Likely to get a peek at the freak show, which annoyed the shit out of me.

“We have to find this fucker,” I gritted out to my brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he retorted, swiping a hand down his face—which he only did when he was stressed to the max and needed to throw his fist into something. “This is my fucking jurisdiction, Finn.Mytown. And now I’ve got another fucking crazy on my hands.”

My brother only let his carefully constructed, do-gooder sheriff’s demeanor slip when he was around people he trusted.

I wasn’t surprised it fell around me, but I was that he let it go so easily in front of Reagan.

His attention locked on her, and he said, “I’m sorry for earlier. I was out of line.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t anything I haven’t asked myself a million times in the last month.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked Reagan, then turned to Lane. “What did you say to her?”

“If she wants to tell you, she can,” my brother said, stepping away, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Fuck!” His abrupt and rather loud shout drew the attention of several people nearby, including glares from a number of families with small children. “I can’t believe this is happening again.”