Page 82 of Walking Away

“I’ll keep my hands to myself,” Scout said, eyes flinty.

“Five minutes,” she allowed. “And Sheriff—you walk out when I say.”

Scout shut the door softly. He didn’t sit right away. He dragged the chair back three inches, legs screeching, then sat wide and loose.

“You ain’t even loyal enough to be a rat,” Scout said. “You’re a mop. Errand boy.”

Evan’s mouth curled. “Name-calling? That your angle?”

“No. Just truth. Jason won’t stand next to you in court. He’ll put a hand on your shoulder and let the door shut.”

“Jason keeps his promises,” Evan said too fast.

“Most sociopaths do—until they don’t.” Scout leaned forward, voice low. “If that girl dies, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never sleep through a night again. And if she lives, I’ll be the one looking you in the eye at sentencing.”

Evan laughed once. “You can’t do anything to me in here.”

“You’re right,” Scout said. He stood and moved to the door.

“Hey,” Evan called. “You even know how many roads run off Ridge Bluff? How many cabins tucked so deep your dog won’t catch a breeze?”

Scout didn’t answer. He left, door closing quietly—but not before giving one last, steady look at the cuffs on Evan’s wrists. A reminder. And a promise.

Tessa went in next, calm shadow. She sat close, opened a folder, clicked her pen. The red light came back on.

“Mr. Cole,” she said, “you think we’re here to make you talk. We’re not. We’re here to give you a choice.”

Evan laced his fingers. “That right?”

“Here’s what we have.” Her tone was flat, precise. “Deputy Wilson saw you shove Isabel Moreno off a cliff. She survived. That’s attempted murder. In your truck we found a recorder with hours of Caitlin West’s conversations—photos of her cottage, her museum, her walking hand-in-hand with Sheriff Scott. The digital trail ties them to Jason West. And we have texts between you and Jason discussing logistics.”

She met his eyes. “That’s stalking, breaking and entering, conspiracy, and attempted murder. We don’t need you to admit it. We already know.”

The smirk flickered.

“Your choice is simple,” Tessa said. “Stay silent—thirty years, maybe life. Or talk, and the DA will consider accessory instead of attempted murder. You won’t walk, but you won’t die inside either.”

Evan studied her. “I want it in writing.”

“You don’t make the box,” she said. “The ADA does.”

“I don’t talk until paper hits the table.”

Tessa stood. “I’ll make a call.”

Minutes later, Assistant District Attorney Rhea Lancaster strode in—boots matching her suit, copper hair twisted up with a pencil stuck through it. She carried a leather folio and a fountain pen the color of a fresh bruise.

“Somebody said paper,” she drawled.

Scout arched a brow. Burke felt something tighten in his chest, a small release that almost felt like hope. Rhea Lancaster didn’t waste time—or words.

She wrote fast, sharp. “Mr. Cole gets a proffer—‘queen for a day.’ You tell the truth, and your statements can’t be used against you later except to impeach you if you lie under oath. No promise of sentence, but contingent on Caitlin West’s safe recovery—attempted murder reduces to assault, conspiracy to accessory. Testify truthfully later, or the deal burns. Protective-custody recommendation noted.”

She looked up. “Sheriff, that itch your badge?”

“I want Caitlin alive,” Burke said quietly.

“Good answer.” She signed and slid the page across.