Page 59 of In the Dark of the Past

My throat felt tight. “Why the eyes?” I asked.

He swallowed. “Means somebody’s watching.” He gave a humorless half-smile. “Means somebody already knows what you did.”

“And the number seven we’ve seen?” I said.

He hesitated. “Seven families,” he whispered. “That’s what Kline said. Seven families helped. Seven problems solved. A…a quota, I guess. Every cycle.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak for a second.

Seven.

I pushed back from the table. “All right, Darren. I think we’re done for now,” I said. “You did the right thing coming clean. Sit tight. I’ll have Linton or Torres bring you some water and something to eat.”

He blinked at me like he didn’t quite understand what the “right thing” meant anymore.

“Sheriff?”

“Yeah?” I turned back to him.

“If I… If I write something for my kids, can you make sure they get it?”

My chest squeezed. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I can do that.”

River met me in the hallway between interrogation and observation. The second the door shut behind me, the façade cracked. Her eyes were too bright, her lashes clumped with unshed tears. Her mouth was pressed into a hard line, as if she let it soften, she’d shatter.

“You okay?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

She let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t broken in half. “My definition of okay has gotten complicated lately.”

“Fair.”

She scrubbed at her face, furious with herself. “They buried her like a dog,” she said, voice shaking. “Somewhere out in the woods where nobody would find her. And then the town called her crazy and moved on.”

“Yeah,” I said. There’s no point sugarcoating it. “They did.”

Her gaze snapped to mine. “You believe him.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” I repeated. “I do.”

Something in her posture shifted. It didn’t turn softer. But it was sharper. More focused.

“Then we go get her,” she said.

I nodded. “Yeah. We do.”

Getting a warrant on late notice and after-hours for an unmarked grave out on county land was a pain in the ass, even on a good day. This was not a good day.

The on-call judge tried to push it to morning, and the county DA’s office—Sean’s office—dragged their feet on signing off, wanting “clarification” on whether this was connected to any other cases, whether there was enough probable cause to disturb potential private property, whether an anonymous tip—which as far as I knew didn’t exist—could be corroborated, and about a million other stupid-ass things.

I told them to read the goddamn transcript.

River paced the hallway like a caged thing while I argued over speakerphone. Atlas leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw ticking. Torres and Linton fetched coffee and stayed out of the way, the way smart rookies do when the air starts to crackle. I didn’t know where Vale was. And honestly, that was probably for the best.

Finally, Sean’s voice came over the line, tight and controlled. “You have your warrant, Sheriff. Don’t screw it up.”

I hung up without answering.