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FORTY-ONE

SHERIFF HUDSON

Olson walks through the open door of my office carrying a package in her hands. She sets it down on my desk and takes a seat, staring at me without saying a word.

I eye the box, wrapped in craft paper and a single piece of twine tied into a bow at the top. “What’s this? Did you get me a present? Is it a cut of Wagyu!?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no. It was slipped into the station’s drop box. Front desk handed it to me on my way in.” She lets out a sigh and asks, “Have we heard anything back on Scott Summers?”

“BCI is taking it over from here,” I say, studying the box on all sides, now wondering what its contents could be. The station has an anonymous drop box for people to leave any illicit drugs and prescriptions they find and want to turn in, but they’re never packaged like this.

“Well, is there anything else we can do?”

“Not really at this point. They’ve put out an APB on Summers, and his photo has been circulated to all police stations in the surrounding states. I’ll continue to be in contact with them, in case there’s anything we can help with. But right now, we’ve got our hands full as it is.”

There’s no address on the package, just the words Attn: Sheriff Hudson scrawled across the top in black Sharpie.

“Should I be worried about opening this?” I arch my brow. My cop brain goes into overdrive with the possibilities of all the nasty things that could be in it. Anthrax, a pipe bomb, something worse.

“I had the guys run it through the X-ray scanner. I know what it is, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Huh?” A look of confusion takes over my face. “You know what it is, but you don’t know what it is?”

“I know what the object is, but I don’t know why it’s in there, what makes it special, or why it’s been sent to you.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued, Olson. Would you like to do the honors?” I push the box toward her, all smiles.

“Nope.” She pushes it back. “I brought it to you for a reason.”

I nod, snap on a pair of gloves, and pull at the twine. The bow unravels easily. I slip my knife from my utility belt, flick it open, and carefully cut into the package. Inside the box is a cloth bag with a note tied around it. I unfold it and read the words out loud.

“‘This belongs to Sarah Morgan. Test the blood, and you’ll find out what it was last used for.’”

Olson and I exchange a confused look as I reach my hand into the bag and slowly pull out the object inside of it. It’s a knife with a six-inch blade, covered in what appears to be dried blood.

“What the hell?” Olson gets to her feet, taking a closer look.

I slip it back into the bag and put the bag in the box, sliding it to her. “Get this knife to the lab ASAP.”

She nods, collects the box, and heads for the door.

No matter what I do, the past seems to keep haunting me, chasing me into a corner I can’t get out of.

Before Olson exits my office, she pauses and looks back at me. “What do you think this means?”

“It could mean nothing. It could mean everything.”