Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Robbie?” Jon’s mouth gapes with disbelief. “But the kid is so quiet.”
“Being quiet doesn’t mean he can’t be angry or hold a grudge about losing his job. Even more so if he’s worked hard and earned his place, only to be let go as soon as the convict comes home. No offense,” I add after a beat.
“Some taken,” Logan says dryly.
“We found three other spots where the fence had been tampered with, and all three were parts that Logan had worked on. It’s as if someone’s trying to make him look incompetent.”
“Like I can’t build a fence or remember to close a gate,” Logan adds, glaring knowingly at his brother-in-law.
“Now that you mention it, Mak did say Robbie’s seemed unusually quiet these last weeks,” Holt says.
Silence hangs in the apartment as they digest my theory.
“Well, hell! I just wrote him a shining recommendation letter!” Jon blurts.
“There’s nothing here to tie Robbie to it.” I wave a hand at the computer and the nearby staples. We won’t find prints on any of them, not when they sat in the snow. “But I’d say it’s a good hunch. Our best bet is to see if he’ll admit to it.”
“As if he would,” Jon scoffs.
“He might. People with a conscience can get really uncomfortable when they sit with their sins long enough.”
Holt scratches his cheek in thought. “I guess I’ll give him a call tomorrow—”
“No. I’ll have a chat with him.” I’m better at getting confessions out of people. “What I need you to do is file a police report. Don’t mention Robbie. Just include the facts.”
Jon groans. “Is that really necessary—”
“Yes. Forget the wolves getting in. If your herd gets out, people could get seriously hurt and you could be held liable.” These animals are not like the wandering cows that my officers wrangle off the roads. They’ll run you right over just to get away. “But if you’ve reported it and something bad happens, at least it shows you weren’t ignoring the problem.” And Robbie, if he’s the culprit, will be fucked.
“We’ll do it first thing in the morning.” Holt nods. “Thank you, Emery, for your help.”
I check my watch. “I should head home. Isla’s game is about to start—”
“You can put it on here, can’t you?” Logan nods toward his television.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. I’m leaving, anyway.” Jon collects his laptop. “Gotta help put the kids to bed.”
I press my lips to hide my smile. Jon’s version of “helping put the kids to bed” is lying down next to Egan with Goodnight Moon and promptly falling asleep.
“I’m gonna head back too. It was a long day.” Holt crouches to give Duke a pat. After conducting a leisurely sniff investigation around Logan’s apartment, the dog found a warm spot by the woodstove. He looks content to stay there for the night. “See you in the mornin’, Logan.” He gives his son a look that could mean so many things, and then he disappears down the stairs after Jon, pulling the door shut after him.
Logan eases off his stool with a stretch that lifts the hem of his T-shirt, revealing the taut skin across his belly. I swear, he chose those pants to torture me. “Hungry? Thirsty?” He angles for his fridge.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” I’m far from it. I’m more nervous now than I ever have been in the dozens of dangerous situations I’ve faced in all my years on the force. Because in this situation, I’m walking into it knowing I’m a goner.
He pulls out a water jug.
“You finally have food,” I note. Shelves of fresh produce, yogurt, salads. The last time I was here, there was only a six-pack of beer.
“I’m getting a paycheck now.” He pours himself a glass. “And I swore, once I got out, I’d never eat anything that comes out of a can again.”
“Wow. You’re like a real grown-up.”
“I’m trying. Grew this beard and everything.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” I keep my expression even.
A slow smile stretches across his face. “Bullshit. You’ve been dying to say something all day.”
I laugh. “Maybe.”
He smooths his hand over his jaw. “I always wondered what I’d look like with one.”
“And?”
“I think I like it.” He pauses. “This guy in the cell next to me was obsessed with Chris Stapleton. You know, that singer?”
“Yeah, I know the one.”
“He wanted to be him, sang his songs out loud until other inmates would yell at him to shut up. Kind of looked like him too, based on what I saw of the guy on TV. He had this big beard that he had a medical exemption for. Got away with it until the guards caught him hiding benzos in it. The prison barber chopped it off, sending him into a deep depression.”
“Is this your way of telling me you plan on growing a big, hairy beard?”