Page 115 of Flint’s Strike

My thoughts start to wander as the last of the traffic falls away. I’m here, but I’m also sitting across from Eliot, listening to him recount the worst day of his life.

He truly believes Zack’s death is his fault. For seven years, he’s carried the guilt of something he believes he could have prevented.

I run through the facts he shared with me. Zack. Great instincts. Smart. Experienced. On the other side of the building. Doing what he’d been trained to do.

Stop. He didn’t ask you to investigate a crime. He asked you to listen.

God, I wish I could do more than that. Listening feels like the least useful thing I can do. I chase answers. I find what other people miss. I build cases.

Sitting next to someone while they hurt? Knowing I can’t make it better? That’s⁠—

“You’re doing it again,” Nate says.

I blink, and the city has largely fallen away. Long stretches of pasture and live oaks are broken up by the occasional farmhouse set back from the road, and not much else.

“What?”

“Trying to find the answer before you’ve figured out the question.”

I open my mouth to tell him he’s wrong, then close it again. Because telling him he’s right would definitely be a mistake.

The live oaks disappear, replaced by pine trees.

“Lost Pines,” Nate murmurs, almost to himself. Then, because he’s Nate, he grins. “Did you know the entire state used to be covered in Loblolly pine? But the climate dried out after the last ice age, and everything but this thirteen-mile stretch died off. The sandy soil kept them alive.”

“You have random facts locked and loaded at all times, don’t you?”

“Everyone should. You never know when you might need to defuse a tense situation with trivia. Remind me to tell you about the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist sometime.”

I groan, and take the turn onto a dirt road. Potholes rattle my teeth, and for the first time since we left the station, Nate might be happy we’re not in his Impala.

Five miles later, I’m questioning the integrity of my suspension as I park in a clearing of hard-packed dirt next to an old F-150.

“He could be armed.” My hand finds my gun for a moment. “Scared.”

“Yup.” Nate rests his right hand on his gun, grabbing the door handle with his left. “Calm approach unless he decides to be…difficult.”

I keep my eyes on the front window. The curtain ripples, a shadow passing behind it for a brief moment.

Three feet to my right, Nate sweeps his gaze over the old wooden planks. “If we fall through that floor, I’m blaming you.” His voice isn’t much more than a whisper, too quiet for Kessler—or anyone else inside—to hear.

“One time. One time,” I hiss.

“Mr. Kessler?” I climb the three steps up to the door slowly, hoping not to spook him. “I’m Captain Elmore, and this is Captain Hardison with the Texas Rangers. Can we ask you a few questions?”

A board creaks inside, followed by the metallic thunk of the lock. The door opens a crack, stopped by a thick chain an inch below eye-level.

Charlie looks older than his file photo. Grayer. His cheeks are thinner, and exhaustion has settled beneath his eyes. He darts a gaze from me to Nate, then to his truck.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, his voice cracking.

I keep my tone gentle, my expression calm. “Okay. We’re not here to arrest you. We have some questions, and we think you can help us answer them.”

He blinks at me, and rubs a hand over his jaw. Several days’ worth of stubble rasp against his fingers.

“Can we come in?” Nate asks. “Get out of the sun? Just to talk.”

Kessler doesn’t answer. He’s studying us. Nate slouches a little, doing his best to appear non-threatening. I offer Charlie the barest hint of a smile.