Page 19 of Silencing Stolen Whispers (Kinsley Aspen #2)

Shane Levick

July

T he elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing Shane inside the metal box as it began its ascent to the fourth floor.

He had never been a huge fan of small spaces, but he could handle the nineteen seconds it took for the doors to open.

Of course, that was without any other stops on the second and third floors.

Rather than the typical new-age tunes with wind chimes and synthesizers intended to calm anxious minds, a powerful classical concerto now blared from the speakers above.

Shane had observed the switch earlier that year, suggesting that someone had likely voiced their dissatisfaction with the annoying, obscure music.

Unfortunately, the trembling strings and sharp brass staccatos weren’t much better.

In fact, the irritating tempo made his jaw clench.

He despised the involuntary response. The music reminded him too much of his father, and he didn’t want the weekend to be overshadowed by unpleasant recollections of his childhood.

Shane focused on the changing red neon numbers above the door, hoping to distract himself from the rolling timpani that punctuated each musical phrase.

His father had loved classical music, particularly pieces like this one—chaotic, demanding attention, and filling every corner of their small house in Grand Forks.

The louder the better.

The more complex the superior.

The third movement swelled, and Shane's heartbeat quickened against his will. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides as a memory surfaced—his father conducting along with invisible musicians, scotch glass in hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Those nights had always ended the same way—with the scotch bottle empty and something broken. A glass. A plate. Sometimes his mother's spirit. Other times, when his father decided on a new target, Shane’s face.

The elevator jolted slightly as it reached the fourth floor, mercifully cutting off Shostakovich.

The composer had momentarily transported Shane back twenty years, and now his mood was ruined.

He straightened his shoulders and stretched his neck to remove some of the tension as the elevator doors slid open.

Alex Lanen stood on the other side.

The detective was balancing a stack of manila folders in one hand with his electronic tablet on top while carrying a cup of coffee in the other. He wore his usual business suit, though this time around he had opted for a green tie.

Shane was more comfortable in denim and a plain t-shirt, but to each his own.

“Levick,” Alex greeted him with a nod. “Thompson must be in a good mood if he signed off on more overtime. Kinsley and I are working the Scriven case today, logging in more hours.”

Shane stepped to the side, making room for Alex to enter the elevator.

“Just stopping by to grab my flag football belt for tomorrow. Left it on my desk yesterday.” By this time, Shane had stepped entirely out of the elevator.

“Speaking of which, Wally was looking for you yesterday when you were in interrogation. Something about the raffle ticket funds. Said you were supposed to turn them in already.”

“Shit,” Alex muttered, stepping forward and using his elbow to keep the elevator doors from closing. “I gave my money to Kinsley. She put the envelope in her purse.”

Shane nodded, the mention of Kinsley's name causing a familiar tightness in his chest. He had managed to keep their interaction in the break room yesterday professional, despite the awkward conversation about him dating the new veterinarian in town.

“Good luck with the case,” Shane said as he began to walk down the hallway. He hadn’t even made it to the glass partition separating the corridor from the bullpen when he heard Alex call his name. “Yeah?”

“Kinsley drove out to the campus for a follow-up interview.” Alex was now using his back to keep the elevator doors open. “She stored her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk. The money is inside a white envelope. You can’t miss it. If you can run it over to Wally, we’d owe you one.”

“No problem.”

Shane wasn’t even sure Alex had heard his reply. He had already stepped back inside, letting the elevator doors close.

Seven years in vice and not once had he gone through a colleague's desk, much less the personal belongings of a woman he'd once loved. Still loved, if he was being honest with himself, but Kinsley had made her decision.

She hadn’t seen a future with him, and he had done his best to move on.

Shane navigated through the mostly empty bullpen. He reached his desk, the flag football belt right on top. Sunday proved to be difficult. The reason had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with bringing Chloe.

Had he made a mistake inviting her when Kinsley would be within feet of them? She had been the one to call things off, and he couldn’t put his personal life on hold forever, no matter how difficult a test that presented.

Kinsley had captured his heart years ago without even trying.

It had been her laugh that first drew him in—genuine and full-throated, never the polite chuckle most women offered at work.

The way she leaned forward when interested in what someone was saying, as if physically pulling their words closer.

How her blue eyes sparked when she connected two pieces of evidence.

It was a moment of pure clarity that transformed her entire face.

She was all sharp edges and soft centers, along with a contradiction that he had never fully understood before she severed whatever they had been building.

Their conversation in the break room yesterday replayed in his mind.

She had gone out of her way to maintain a professional distance between them, remaining near the counter while he had remained near the fridge.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she had been the first to bring Chloe into the conversation.

Kinsley was never one to hide from difficult situations.

Shane approached her desk, noticing the yellow legal pad with her neat handwriting, a half-empty coffee mug with a caramel-colored ring at the bottom, and a framed photo of her with her family at what appeared to be a family cabin.

The bottom drawer slid open smoothly, revealing her red leather purse.

Technically, it was a shade between red and pink.

He never understood the importance of distinguishing colors, but he had been corrected by many women that “sunset blush” and “strawberry daiquiri” were vastly different on the color wheel.

The leather was soft and well-worn, similar to the purse that Chloe carried around with her, though hers had decorative tassels and a pattern of small perforations along the edge.

Chloe, with her easy laughter and uncomplicated affection.

Chloe, who didn't carry the weight of something unspoken behind her eyes.

Shane shook his head, dismissing the comparison. Chloe was good for him. Safe. Present. His relationship with Kinsley had been intense but fleeting. A shooting star that burned out too quickly.

He leaned down and unzipped the main compartment of Kinsley's purse.

He moved aside her wallet, a small cosmetic bag, and various other personal items.No white envelope.

What he did find was a fork, one blue sock, and a wrapped lone granola bar that he was certain had been at the bottom of her purse for years. It was now as flat as a pancake.

Shane set his flag football belt on her desk before lifting the bottomless purse out of the drawer. How she found anything inside of it was beyond his comprehension. He moved the contents around once more before noticing the zippered inner pocket.

He hesitated before opening it, his discomfort at going through her personal items growing with each passing second. Alex’s words came back to him about Wally’s ire, and Shane sighed in resignation.

Alex was right.

Wally would be impossible to deal with if he didn’t get his raffle money.

Shane unzipped the pocket and slid his fingers in between the two rows of plastic teeth. He spotted the corner of a square envelope right away.

“There you are,” Shane muttered to himself.

Once he had the envelope in hand, he was surprised to find the material flat. Had Alex and Kinsley deposited the cash and written a check instead? Wanting to confirm that the contents were the raffle funds, he flipped over the envelope and peered inside.

There was no check.

No dollar bills.

Instead, a single sentence written in block letters stared back at him on cardstock paper. He read the statement three times.

I KNOW YOU KILLED CALVIN GANTZ.

He continued to stare at the words in horror, convinced he must have misunderstood them somehow. Yet the sentence stayed the same, and Shane suddenly fought the urge to sit down.

Calvin Gantz.

The Fallbrook Killer.

The man who had been acquitted of murdering three women despite overwhelming evidence, thanks to a technical error that had rendered key evidence inadmissible.

The man who had disappeared almost two years ago, his absence barely noticed at first, before becoming the subject of quiet speculation among law enforcement.

The man whose case had coincided with Kinsley's sudden withdrawal from Shane, and her abrupt decision to end their relationship.

He began to connect dots that he never imagined existed in the first place. George Aspen had been Gantz's defense attorney, and the acquittal had devastated the department. Hell, it had almost ruined Kinsley’s relationship with her father.

And then Gantz had simply... vanished.

No credit card activity, no cell phone pings, nothing.

It was as if Gantz had been erased from history.

What Shane held in his hand wasn’t some random threat. It was a very specific claim that aligned too perfectly with the timeline of their breakup. His lungs suddenly struggled to inhale oxygen.

The elevator dinged in the distance, jarring Shane back to reality.

He quickly returned the card to its envelope and slipped it back into the inner pocket, zipping it closed with fingers that didn't feel like his own.

He carefully arranged the purse to look undisturbed, not wanting Kinsley to have the slightest suspicion that he had been through her personal belongings.

As Shane was about to return her purse to its rightful place, he spotted another envelope at the bottom of the drawer. Kinsley must have taken out the raffle money with the intention of running it over to the morgue.

Shane hesitated before deciding to leave it where it was. It was better to make an excuse to Alex than risk Kinsley noticing both envelopes had been disturbed. Once the drawer was closed, Shane remained near her desk for a moment, unable to slow his thoughts.

Had Kinsley actually killed Calvin Gantz?

Could she have tracked him down and—what?

Shot him?

Stabbed him?

Was Kinsley capable of murdering someone in cold blood?

Everyone in the department…in town…was aware that Gantz hadn't been seen in years. There had even been an investigation when a distant cousin called the station and made a claim about being unable to reach him.

Shane’s chest tightened with an emotion he couldn’t name.

Fear. Horror. Disgust. It was far too complex for him to sort through, and the implications were staggering.

If the accusation was unfounded, it implied that someone was harassing Kinsley, and she hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

Considering her independent nature, the possibility wasn't unlikely.

However, if there was any truth to the claim, then the note was a threat. Could she be in some sort of danger? Why wouldn't the individual simply turn her in if there was evidence to support such an allegation?

But most of all…why would anyone allow her to be judge, jury, and executioner?

“What the hell did you do, Kin?”