Page 40 of Last Seen

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sheriff efficiently and not very gently turns Halley around and slaps handcuffs on her. The metal bites into her wrists, and she feels the external claustrophobia settle into her body. She has to breathe squarely so she doesn’t start struggling.

He kicks her legs apart.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s called a search. You carrying any weapons I need to know about?”

Shit. Shit!

“In my purse. It’s registered.”

“Oh-ho,” he says, expertly, impersonally running his hands down her sides, her legs, her shoulders, her back. The violation is hard to take even though there is nothing lewd in his touch.

“Turn around.”

“I told you, there’s a personal-protection weapon in my purse. That’s all.”

He whips her around to face him, finishes his pat-down. He thoroughly searches the car, then her bag, confiscating the gun. Steps back, one meaty hand again resting on his Glock. “What brings you to Brockville with a weapon in your purse. Expecting trouble?”

“I think I should call a lawyer.”

“Don’t do that. We’re just talking.”

“No such thing when you’re wearing handcuffs.”

“Listen to me. I can make your life very difficult.”

She doesn’t say anything, and he curses under his breath. She decides to gamble.

“My friend was murdered last night. I’m just being cautious.”

“Murdered where?”

“Marchburg, Virginia.”

“You know it’s illegal to transport weapons across state lines that aren’t properly secured. I’d think you of all people would know that, Miss James. You’re taking an awful big risk right now.”

“How do you know so much about me, Sheriff?”

He shuffles his feet again. “Might have gotten a call from your friend Baird Early. He was concerned enough to ask me to keep an eye on you.”

Halley relaxes a touch. This is a show.

“And the handcuffs?”

“Weapons trafficking is something we take rather seriously, Miss James.”

“As I said, it’s for protection. I’m not planning to sell it.”

“I’ll make that determination. Let’s go to my place and have a chat, shall we? You can leave the keys, one of my deputies will bring the car.”

“Great. Fine. Take off the handcuffs, though. Please?”

He says nothing, and doesn’t make a move toward the handcuff key, just leads her to his truck.

It’s an Escalade, a huge black beast. He settles her uncomfortably in the back seat, buckles her in, and gets behind the wheel.

There is a thick plexiglass-screen cage between them, and she can’t hear him talking on the radio, just sees the handset go up to his mouth.

This is outrageous. She has to keep her head and not let her frustration get the better of her here, or she’s going to end up in a cell. Maybe she is anyway. Maybe he’s actually going to charge her.

She needs a lawyer.

She needs Theo.

A swell of emotion rises, and she fights back the tears. She is not behaving like a grown-ass woman right now. She doesn’t need a man to come save her. An ATF agent, though? That could help.

Just ... chill. You’ve done nothing wrong. Not really. Early probably told him to take you in and keep an eye on you. Interfering is one of his superpowers.

That makes her feel better, and she adjusts herself as comfortably as she can.

The ride isn’t long. She spots the sign to the hamlet of Somer, and the practicalities of town living start showing themselves.

The Montessori school, the mechanic, an architect’s office, the hair salon, a huge fire station, and next to it, a state-of-the-art, modern black-and-cedar police station.

It looks like something out of a design magazine, elegantly lurching into the hill.

The sheriff pulls in, drives around to the back, and parks in the spot closest to the back door. He hauls her out and marches her inside, still wordless.

The station is spotless. And somewhat deserted.

He takes her to a booking station and, thankfully, past it.

She breathes another little sigh of relief.

There’s a glass door to a fully equipped crime lab down the hall, which is surprising considering the size of the place.

She would assume any samples they have would go straight to the state lab, but no, they have a whole setup here.

The bullpen is full of brand-new desks with monitors and printers that look like they’ve gotten almost no use.

As if the entire station were built for a whole crew of cops but no one ever came but the cleaning people.

They are clearly well funded.

Sound and fury, she thinks. How much crime can there really be around here to justify this setup?

The sheriff’s office is as pristine as the rest of the station.

His desk is free of papers, holding only a sleek black phone, an iMac, and a leather blotter with a gold pen lined up like a smart soldier.

He sits her in a chair facing him, finally takes the cuff off her left wrist, and attaches her right to a small ring on the chair she’s in.

It looks custom made, like it should be in some killer’s basement instead of out in the open in the sheriff’s office.

There’s something almost worse about having one hand free and one chained to the chair.

He takes his seat, which is slightly higher than hers so he can look down at her, pulls out a brand-new legal notepad from the drawer, and unposts his pen, a clearly expensive masterpiece of black and gold.

He looks at it, buffs the edge as if removing a fingerprint, then trains his gaze on her.

Anal-retentive sheriff, she thinks, imagining him on a Saturday Night Live skit, and has to bite back the laugh.

She doesn’t feel any merriment when he starts to speak.

“You’re being held until we clear up some things.”

“Then, again ... I need a lawyer.”

He huffs an impatient sigh.

“You know a woman named Chowdhury?”

She shrugs. “Lawyer.”

“Stop being an idiot. I’m trying to protect you.”

His imperious tone pisses her off. She puts up her chin. She will not be intimidated by this man, even if she’s chained like a dog to a stake.

“Prove it. Take off the handcuff.”

He moves so quickly she almost flinches, and then she’s free. She leaps to her feet and goes to the opposite side of the office. Watching her, he sits behind the desk and picks up the pen again.

“Now. Dr. Chowdhury?”

“She was my sister’s therapist in Boston. She came to my house yesterday morning and ...” Gave me a letter from my sister, which you’re going to find when you dig through my bag again, but she decides to hold this back for now.

“And?”

“Told me she thought my sister’s disappearance from Brockville wasn’t taken as seriously as she would have liked. A theme I’ve now heard from several people.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes. Her name is Catriona Handon. People called her Cat. She was a student at the retreat here, studying writing under Tammy Boone, and went missing fifteen years ago. As I understand it, you were well aware of her disappearance. Investigated briefly and found nothing. I was actually going to come talk to you in the morning about the case.”

He visibly relaxes. She comes back to the chair, ignoring the metal rings and the handcuffs dangling from the side like props in some bizarre bondage game. He is like an eagle on a branch scanning for a snack; no move she makes goes unnoticed.

Finally, he drops the pen and leans back in the chair. “Hmm. Missing is an interesting word.”

“You don’t think she went missing?”

“Let’s stick with Chowdhury. She’s the one I’m concerned about now.”

“Why?”

“I’m asking the questions here, Miss James. Don’t make me regret letting you loose.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t make me regret not having counsel present for this chat.”

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth so briefly she thinks she imagined it.

With a sigh, she says, “I spoke to the doctor for a grand total of thirty minutes, tops. She came to my house uninvited and drove off into the rain. I know nothing more than that. I’m here about my sister, Sheriff.

The doctor didn’t give me anything concrete to go on. ”

The sheriff is handsome in an eerie way, and when he furrows his brow, she sees even more echoes of his younger brother, Noah the chef, in his face. There’s an openness to Noah, though, a joyfulness that the sheriff is clearly missing.

There is something else about him that feels familiar, but she can’t put her finger on it. His eyes, maybe. They are dark and fathomless. Like a snake’s.

The eyes. That’s it. The sheriff reminds her of the man in the bar, the stranger who talked to her.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

She didn’t know then, and still doesn’t, why she should have remembered him.

But now, looking into another set of dark eyes just as bottomless, and feeling the chill rush through her body, she realizes she’s in deeper trouble than she thought.

She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t be talking to him.

She should have left this alone. She needs to get out of here, and fast.

But she has to know. Leaving things alone is not her forte. Curiosity killed the cat.

Curiosity killed Cat, her mind provides. Or at least got her into a lot of trouble. Go careful.

“You have a lot of brothers, don’t you? Are there any pictures of all of you around here?”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see ... Listen, a stranger came to my hometown, spoke to me, and then my friend was murdered. He looks a bit like you, actually. Chief Early will have the artist rendering that you can see. Maybe you’ll know him.”

The sheriff’s face is hard to decipher. She tries again.

“How much did Early tell you about what was going on? Did he mention Cat?”

Cameron leans back and raises a brow, rocking in his designer chair, but doesn’t answer. She knows this tactic, and vows to keep her mouth shut from this moment on. He can’t be trusted. This she knows deep in her soul.

He watches her. She doesn’t look away.

The staring contest has gone on for a few moments when she hears a voice calling.

“Cameron? Cam? Where the hell are you?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the sheriff mutters.

The chef from the pizza place appears in the doorway.

“What do you want, Noah?”

“I hear you arrested the girl.”

“The girl has a name,” Halley says.

“Halley,” Noah replies. “I know. Cam. What are you doing?”

“Leave. Noah. This isn’t your business.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Go back to flouring your pans, little brother. I have real work to do.”

“Oh, fuck off, Cam.”

So there is no love lost between the Brockton brothers. Interesting.

“Would you shut it?” the sheriff growls. “This is a murder suspect and I’m in the middle of an interrogation.”

“A murder suspect?” Halley gasps. “Who am I supposed to have murdered?”

They both turn to look at her, and the sheriff runs a hand across his face as if he’s tired, the first bit of humanity she’s seen out of him.

“Dr. Jana Chowdhury. She’s dead.”