Page 93 of The Lonely Road

A man in uniform walks up to us as soon as we get out of the Wrangler.

“Taya.”

I go through my memory files and identify him.

Deputy Sheriff Wiley Buchanan.

And now I know that he has the measured delivery of a man who has given bad news enough times to know the delivery matters. “Mac asked me to wait for you and have you do a walk-through.”

“How bad is it inside?”

“I’ll walk you through. Don’t touch anything—forensics has been through, but I want you to see it with me. You’ll know better than I will what’s missing.”

He nods at me. I return the greeting. “Deputy Buchannan.”

He holds his hand out. I shake it.

“Mason Brooks.”

He lifts the tape. She goes in.

“You want me with you?” I ask.

She shakes her head and gives me a tight smile. “I’m good.”

I stay close to the doorway. This is hers to see. I don’t need to be in the middle of it.

The office has been turned inside out.

The desk is overturned. The chair is on its side. Both of the filing cabinet drawers are pulled open, one yanked so hard it’s bent at the rail. Papers are across the floor—not scattered randomly, pulled. Deliberately, quickly, in a hurry but not blind. Someone knew what they were doing.

Taya moves through it slowly.

She rights nothing.

She doesn’t pick anything up.

She just walks the perimeter of the room, her eyes moving across everything—taking inventory, building a picture.

“The computer’s still here,” she remarks. “Printer. The petty cash tin in the desk drawer—I can see it from here, the drawer’s open.” She looks at it. “Still there.”

“We noticed that,” Wiley says.

She moves to the filing cabinets.

“These were gone through in order,” she says, reading the drawers. “A through F, G through M—” she stops. “These are out.” She crouches beside a stack of files on the floor, not touching them, reading the tabs. Her voice changes. “The Whitman file. The Morrison easement. The Parson estate.” She stands up. “All north valley properties. All connected to water rights or land use.”

“You’re sure nothing was taken?” Wiley says.

“I can’t tell yet. I need to go through everything properly.”

Her gaze shifts to the wall, and I sense her relief when she sees her grandmother’s beadwork exactly where it should be.

She reaches out and touches it, like it gives her something steady—maybe it does. “Whoever was here—they weren’t robbing the place. They were reading it. Looking for something specific.”

“What do you think they were looking for?”

She’s quiet for a moment.