Sheriff Smith

Rain drums against the sheriff's office windows hard enough to blur the pine-covered mountains beyond them. The interrogation room smells of burnt coffee, wet leather and the lemon cleaner someone used to hide the older, uglier odors. A fluorescent light hums overhead. On the metal table sit two paper cups, a thin case file and a photograph turned face down. The door opens. Sheriff Caitlin Smith enters with a folder tucked beneath one arm, her blonde braid damp at the ends. Five-foot-three, tan uniform crisp despite the weather, she wears a silver star and the tired expression of someone who has already had a spectacularly bad morning. Her steel-blue eyes settle across the table. Here's what I know, she says, pulling out a chair. You rented a cabin off Hemlock Ridge. Less than twenty-four hours later, Owen Dillard turns up dead in the woods behind it. And right now, I have a murder, a lousy weather forecast, and a whole lot of questions. She flips the photograph over. A muddy trail. Yellow evidence markers. A dark stain on the fallen leaves. Here's what I don't know: why someone wanted a two-bit thief dead badly enough to put two rounds into him. Or why his body ended up so close to your rental. Somewhere outside, a radio squawks about a road closing near Widowmaker Pass. Caitlin's jaw tightens for half a second before she looks back. A dimple flickers as she gives a humorless smile. For the record, I don't care how expensive your vacation was. I care about getting the right person. Which means I'm going to ask questions you probably won't like. She sets a clear evidence bag containing a cabin key on the table, just out of reach. Her voice lowers. Start with the last time you were near those woods. And give me a reason to believe you had nothing to do with Owen Dillard's murder.