Page 18

Sheila gripped the steering wheel tighter as she navigated the winding mountain road, stealing glances at Star, who sat slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring resolutely out the window. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk screamed.

"You can't keep me prisoner forever," Star muttered, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since leaving the house. "As soon as you drop me at home, I'm out of there."

"That's exactly why you're not going home." Sheila kept her voice steady, practiced. It was the same tone she used when interviewing difficult witnesses. "You're coming to work with me."

Star's head snapped around. "What? No way. I'm not spending all day watching you push papers around and boss people."

"Then bring a book." Sheila softened her tone slightly. "Star, I can't trust you not to run right back to Jake, and I can't do my job if I'm worried about where you are and what you're doing. This isn't a punishment. It's—" She paused, searching for the right words. "It's protection."

"Protection?" Star's laugh was bitter. "From what? Living my life? Having friends?"

"From making choices you can't take back.

" The words hung heavy in the air between them.

Sheila thought about her own teenage years, imagining all the trouble she might've gotten into if she hadn't had someone to look out for her.

But Natalie had always been there, helping her out of trouble when she got in over her head.

Star didn't have an older sister. But she did have Sheila.

Sheila's phone buzzed, and she pressed the button on her steering wheel to answer through the car's speakers. "Sheriff Stone."

"Hey, boss." Tommy's voice filled the car. "Just thought I'd check in, see how things are going."

Sheila paused. It was odd for a subordinate to call to check in with her as if she needed to give a report to him. Then again, he was a rookie—he was still figuring out how this all worked.

"Anything to report on Morton?" she asked.

"Not really," Tommy said. "Still talking with his lawyer, no timetable for when they'll be ready to include us."

Sheila sighed, disappointed but not entirely surprised.

This complicated things. Should they devote their resources to proving Morton's guilt or to investigating other potential suspects?

If Morton was their guy, then they had less than forty-eight hours to make a solid case against him before he walked.

But if he wasn't, spending all their time on him would give the real killer the freedom to act with impunity.

"There's something else you should know, though," Tommy said. "The resort administrators have been talking about requesting FBI assistance."

Sheila's jaw tightened. The competitive part of her, the part that had compelled her through so many kickboxing matches, bristled at the suggestion. But the rational part of her mind whispered that fresh eyes might not be the worst thing.

"Has anyone spoken with you directly about it?" she asked.

"No, I just overheard them discussing it."

Something wasn't fitting. "Wait," Sheila said. "How'd you overhear that conversation if you're at the station?"

A pause.

"Did you go back to the resort?" Sheila asked.

"Yeah," Tommy said slowly. "This is Ground Zero, figured I should look around, see if I can learn anything. Besides, I asked a friend at the station to text me if anything happens with Morton."

Sheila thought about this. He wasn't doing what she'd told him to do, but then again, perhaps his instincts were right.

"We'll meet you at the resort, then," she said. "Sit tight."

"One last thing. I also overheard something else—something very interesting about an employee here."

"Seems like you've been doing a lot of eavesdropping," Sheila said, raising an eyebrow. Star sighed, exasperated by the conversation, and threw her head back against the cushion.

"I keep my ear to the ground," Tommy said. "Anyway, one of the maintenance guys, Fred Whitaker, mentioned seeing some professional camera equipment in one of the employee lockers last week."

Sheila was silent, pondering whether this was important or not.

"Was it Greenwald's missing camera?" she asked.

"He doesn't know—he didn't look that closely. Doesn't remember which locker, either, so maybe it's nothing."

The road curved sharply, and Star grabbed the door handle, knuckles white. Sheila slowed down, remembering she had precious cargo beside her.

"Want me to start checking lockers?" Tommy asked. He sounded almost eager.

"No, wait for me to get there," she said. "And Tommy? Let's keep the FBI discussion quiet for now. I want to see what shakes loose in the next twenty-four hours."

After she hung up, the silence crept back in. Through her peripheral vision, she could see Star picking at a loose thread on her jeans. She still looked tense, but not quite as tense as earlier.

"You really think that guy did it?" Star finally asked. "The guy you arrested?"

Sheila considered the question carefully. "I think we have evidence that points to him. But in this job, you learn that evidence can lie almost as easily as people can."

"Then why'd you arrest him?"

"Because sometimes you have to act on the evidence you have, even if your gut tells you there might be more to the story.

" Sheila turned onto the main road leading to the station.

"It's like when I grounded you. The evidence—you sneaking out, lying about where you were—pointed to one conclusion.

But my gut tells me there's more going on with you than just typical teenage rebellion. "

Star twisted in her seat to face the window, but not before Sheila caught the tremor in her chin. "You don't know anything about me."

"Maybe not," Sheila admitted. "But I know what it looks like when someone's running from something instead of toward something."

"That's rich, coming from you." Star's voice cracked slightly. "All you do is run. To work, to crime scenes, to wherever else you can find to avoid being home."

The accusation hit harder than Sheila would have expected. She opened her mouth to defend herself, then closed it again. How many times had she used work as an escape? How many dinners had she missed, how many conversations had she cut short because duty called?

How many times had she made excuses not to come home because she didn't want to deal with the complicated emotions brought up by being around the people she loved?

"You're right," she said finally. "I do run to work. But right now, I'm running toward you, not away from you. Even if you don't want me to."

Star let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Stop pretending you care. You're only doing this because you have to. Because nobody else would take me."

Sheila pulled into her reserved spot at the station, killed the engine, but didn't move to get out. "Is that what you think? That you're some kind of obligation?"

"Aren't I?" Star's voice was barely a whisper. "You didn't want kids—if you did, you would've settled down years ago. You only took me in because—" She stopped abruptly, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Because what?" Sheila pressed, turning to face her ward.

But Star's walls were already back up, her face a mask of practiced indifference. "Whatever. Can we just go inside? If I have to spend the day watching you play cop, I don't want to do it sitting in this car."

Sheila recognized the deflection for what it was—she used the same technique herself often enough.

Part of her wanted to push harder, to force the conversation past this breaking point to whatever truth lay beneath.

But fifteen years of investigative work had taught her that some revelations couldn't be forced.

Sometimes, you had to wait for the evidence to surface on its own.

She reached for her phone and car keys. "Alright. But this conversation isn't over, Star. Whether you believe it or not, I'm not giving up on you."

"Yeah," Star muttered, yanking open her door. "That's what they all say."

As Sheila was getting out, she suddenly remembered that she'd promised to visit Finn at the hospital that very morning. Inwardly cursing her forgetfulness, she sent him a quick, apologetic text. She hoped he would understand, given everything on her plate right now.

The resort's administrative building sat separate from the main lodge, a three-story structure of glass and stone that caught the morning light like a prism.

Sheila led Star through the employee entrance, badges clipped to their outer layers—Sheila's gold shield on her belt, and a hastily printed visitor's pass hanging from Star's hoodie.

"Listen carefully," Sheila said, stopping in the corridor. "You can sit in the office or in the break room. There are vending machines if you get hungry, and the wifi password is posted by the coffee maker. But you do not leave this building without me. Understood?"

Star rolled her eyes. "What happened to probable cause?"

"Don't start." Sheila fixed her with a stern look. "This isn't a game."

They found Tommy waiting by the employee locker room. His face clouded with confusion at the sight of Star.

"This is Star," Sheila told him. "She's with me. Star, this is Deputy Forster."

"Tommy," he corrected automatically, then gestured toward the locker room. "About those lockers—"

"Star, break room's two doors down on the left," Sheila interrupted. "Get yourself settled."

"But I want to—"

"Now."

Star huffed but trudged down the hallway, her boots squeaking against the polished floor.

"She your kid or something?" Tommy raised an eyebrow.

"Long story. Where are these lockers?"

The employee locker room was institutional beige, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Two rows of metal lockers lined the walls, their blue paint chipped and worn. Tommy led her to the back row.

"Fred says it was definitely one of these eight," he said, tapping the end locker. "But without knowing which one..."

"Who has the keys?"

"Michael, the facilities manager. But he won't open them without a warrant. Says it's resort policy."

Sheila ran her fingers along the locker seams, thinking out loud.

"We have a witness who saw professional camera equipment stored in an employee locker.

We have two victims killed and posed, one of whom was photographed using a high-end camera.

We have reason to believe the evidence of a capital crime may be contained within these lockers and a credible risk that such evidence could be removed or destroyed while we wait for a warrant. "

"Still need probable cause specific to these lockers," Tommy pointed out.

"The witness narrowed it to these eight.

That's specific enough given the totality of circumstances.

" She pulled out her phone, quickly typing notes.

"I'm documenting my reasoning. We can't wait on a warrant—if there's evidence here, the killer could remove it the moment they realize Morton's been arrested. "

She pulled a small tool from her jacket pocket—the kind used to pop trunk locks during welfare checks—and went to work on the first locker. It opened with a soft click.

Empty except for a jacket and some protein bars.

"Sheila?" Star's voice made them both jump. She stood in the doorway, holding up her phone. "The wifi—" She stopped. "Wait a minute. Are you breaking into those lockers?"

"We're looking for evidence," Sheila said.

Star shoved her phone into her pocket. "You can just do that on a whim?"

"Not a whim," Sheila said patiently. "I don't have time to discuss the legal ramifications right now, okay? If you'll just go back to the breakroom—"

Star bounced on her toes, eyes bright with barely contained excitement. "This is so cool."

"This is law enforcement," Sheila said, moving to the next locker. "Based on probable cause and exigent circumstances." The second locker contained only a gym bag.

The third was empty.

The fourth...

Sheila's breath caught. Professional camera equipment filled the locker: multiple lenses, a high-end flash system, and a camera body that had to be worth thousands. But it was the small box tucked behind the gear that intrigued her.

Memory cards. Dozens of them.

An employee jacket hung on the wall. The initials H.S. were stitched into it.

"I think we'd better find out who this H. S. is," she said.

"And where they've been the past two nights," Tommy added.