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Hunter Smith sat with his hands flat on the metal table, staring at his reflection in the two-way mirror of the sheriff station's interrogation room.

"Walk us through it again," Sheila said, leaning against the wall while Tommy sat across from Hunter. "The camera equipment."

"I already told you—"

"Tell us again."

Hunter's jaw worked back and forth. "It's my equipment. I bought it."

"With a bartender's salary?" Tommy asked, leafing through the inventory list. "Let's see... Canon EOS R5 mirrorless camera body, retail price forty thousand dollars. Three L-series lenses totaling another fifteen thousand. A pro-grade flash system..." He looked up. "That's quite a hobby."

"I saved up."

"Show us the receipts," Sheila said.

Hunter's reflection stared back at him from the mirror. "I... lost them."

"Like you lost your portfolio?" Sheila pushed off from the wall and sat beside Tommy. "The one you were going to show us before you ran?"

"I panicked, okay?" Hunter's composure cracked slightly. "You were accusing me of... I don't even know what. Murder? Because I have camera equipment?"

"Nobody's accused you of anything yet," Tommy said quietly. "We just want to understand why a bartender has over fifty thousand dollars worth of professional gear in his locker. And why he ran when we asked about it."

Hunter's hands curled into fists on the table, then slowly relaxed. "I want a lawyer."

"Sure," Sheila said. "We can call one. But before we do..." She slid a photograph across the table. "Do you recognize this camera?"

Hunter barely glanced at it. "No."

"Really? Because it matches the serial number of one reported stolen from a guest's room three weeks ago." She slid another photo across. "And this lens? Reported missing last month."

Color drained from Hunter's face.

While Hunter was being processed and booked, Sheila and Tommy had been busy.

A quick check of resort incident reports revealed six separate complaints about missing camera equipment over the past four months.

They'd contacted each guest, obtained serial numbers and detailed descriptions.

Every single item in Hunter's locker matched something from those reports.

The resort had initially written off the incidents as guests misplacing their belongings or making false claims for insurance—until now.

"Here's what I think," Sheila continued. "I think you've been stealing from guests. High-end camera equipment is perfect—expensive, easily resold, and most tourists don't discover it's missing until they're back home. By then, it could be anywhere."

"I want a lawyer," Hunter repeated, but his voice had lost its edge.

"We're going to find out anyway," Tommy added. "We'll match every piece of equipment to theft reports. We'll trace your online sales. We'll talk to your buyers. The only question is whether you help us now or we figure it out without you."

Hunter's careful facade finally crumbled. "Okay! Okay." He buried his face in his hands. "I've been stealing stuff. Not just cameras. Laptops, tablets, anything I can flip quickly. I have a contact in Denver who buys the gear, no questions asked."

"And the memory cards we found?" Sheila pressed.

"Came with the cameras. I never even looked at them." He laughed bitterly. "Stupid to keep them, I know. But I figured they might be worth something to the owners. Personal photos and all that."

"Where were you two nights ago?" Tommy's question came sharp and sudden.

Hunter's head snapped up. "What?"

"Two nights ago."

"I was..." Hunter frowned. "I was at the Red Door. In town. It was my friend Mike's birthday. We were there until closing."

"The Red Door closes at two," Sheila said.

"Yeah, and then we went back to Mike's place. Played poker until sunrise. There were like eight people there. You can ask any of them."

"And last night?"

"Work. I closed the bar. You can check the schedules, the security cameras, whatever you want." Hunter leaned forward. "Listen, I know I messed up with the stealing. I know I'm in trouble for that. But I swear to God, I don't know anything about any murders."

Sheila studied him carefully. The desperation in his voice rang true, and the way he'd immediately offered up witnesses suggested he was telling the truth. A guilty person would have needed time to construct alibis. Hunter was giving them too many people to check, too many ways to verify his story.

The perfect evidence they'd thought they'd found was anything but perfect.

"Write it all down," she said, sliding a legal pad across the table. "Every theft, every fence, every buyer. Names, dates, items. Everything."

"What about..." Hunter gestured vaguely at himself.

"Write your statement," Tommy said, standing. "We'll be back."

Sheila and Tommy left the room. Tommy closed the interrogation room door behind them. "You buying it?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, yes." Sheila leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "He's too specific with the alibis. A guilty person would have been vaguer, given themselves more wiggle room."

"I'll start checking the alibis out."

"Eight people at a poker game?" Sheila shook her head. "If even half of them confirm his story, that's more than enough reasonable doubt."

"Sheila!" Star bounded up to them, practically bouncing. "Is he the killer? Did he confess? I heard him yelling about something!"

Sheila caught Tommy hiding a smile. "What happened to staying in the break room?" she asked.

"I got bored. Besides, Tommy said I could get a soda from the machine out here." Star turned to Tommy. "So? Is he the murderer?"

"That's not really appropriate to discuss," Tommy began, but his stern expression softened at Star's crestfallen look. "But I can tell you that solving cases isn't like TV. It's mostly long hours of checking facts and following leads that don't pan out."

"But you caught him! He ran and everything!"

"We caught a thief," Sheila corrected. "Nothing more."

"Yet," Star added hopefully. "You'll get the real killer."

Sheila studied Star, surprised by this optimism. What had happened to Star's earlier belligerence? She seemed excited, happy. Why? Because she was interested in detective work, or because Sheila was including her?

Or both?

"Sheriff Stone?" A uniformed deputy appeared at the end of the hall. "Morton's lawyer is getting pretty insistent about that meeting."

Sheila checked her watch. They'd kept the lawyer waiting for hours. "Tell him we'll be right there." She turned to Star. "This time, you actually stay in the break room. I mean it."

"But—"

"No buts. This is serious."

Star's shoulders slumped. "Fine. Can I at least get another soda?"

Tommy dug in his pocket and pulled out some change. "Here you go. Watch out for the sugar crash."

"You don't have to bribe her," Sheila said as they walked toward the conference room.

"Not a bribe. Just trying to make a rough day a little easier."

Sheila gave Tommy an appreciative glance.

Even though Star wasn't Sheila's biological child, she nevertheless felt a maternal protectiveness toward the young girl—which was part of the reason she'd been so upset about finding out about Jake.

It also meant she had a soft spot for anyone showing Star kindness.

The lawyer waiting for them was younger than Sheila had expected. He wore an expensive suit that seemed at odds with his boyish face. "Mr. Messing," he said, extending his hand. "Thank you for finally meeting with me."

"Sheriff Stone. This is Deputy Forster."

"Now," Messing said as he settled into a chair, "about the evidence you have against my client."

"We're not here to discuss our evidence."

"No?" Messing smiled. "Then why are we here?"

"You requested this meeting."

"Indeed I did." He opened his briefcase and removed a folder. "Because I need to know what evidence you think you have before I prove it's all worthless."

"That's not how this works."

"Actually, it is. Because my client has an alibi.

A rock-solid alibi that makes any evidence you might have completely irrelevant.

" He slid a document across the table. "Mr. Morton is enrolled in an intensive outpatient program at Clearview Recovery Center.

During the day, he's permitted to maintain his work schedule and community obligations, including his Sierra Club activities.

But every evening, he checks in at 7 PM for mandatory group therapy, individual counseling, and overnight monitoring.

He hasn't missed a single night in the past thirty-two days. "

The paperwork was meticulous: check-in logs, counselor signatures, security camera stills showing Morton entering the facility each evening. Most importantly, there were detailed records for the nights of both murders.

"You can verify everything," Messing continued.

"Call the facility. Check their security footage.

Interview the staff and other patients. My client was securely in the facility from 7 PM until 7 AM the past two nights—which, if I'm not mistaken, clears him of both murders, as it's my understanding that the murders took place sometime during the night. "

Tommy clenched his jaw, a subtle sign of frustration. "And the harassment complaints?" he asked.

"Mr. Morton doesn't deny his inappropriate behavior toward students. That's precisely why he entered the program—to address those issues, among others. But he categorically denies any involvement in these murders, and I've just handed you proof that he couldn't possibly have committed them."

Sheila studied the paperwork, looking for holes, inconsistencies, anything. But the details were too specific, too verifiable.

"Now," Messing said as he closed his briefcase, "unless you have any evidence that somehow contradicts these facts, I expect my client to be released immediately."

Before Sheila could respond, commotion erupted in the hallway. Raised voices, hurried footsteps.

The door burst open. Officer Martinez stood there, slightly out of breath. "Sheriff? Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone here about a skier who was at Mountain Peak Resort this morning. Says he missed a morning meeting and isn't answering his phone."