Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Walter sucked in air. “Just drops, though. No spray.”
Sandra paled. “You’re in the FBI. You can find him, right?”
Walter blanched. “I’ll help as much as I can, but this isn’t an FBI case.” He angled his head and strode back into the living room, moving toward the door. He zeroed in on the bottom of the door. “More blood. Just drops, but definitely blood.”
Laurel nodded. “It’s time to call in the local police.”
Chapter 5
Walter Smudgeon had his fair share of regrets from this lifetime. One was probably not getting to know his kid brother any better than he had. Sure, Tyler’s dad didn’t like Walter and never had, but Walter could have made more of an effort. The fact that the kid hated the government made that even more difficult, and Walter’s job with the FBI only cemented the divide.
He stood in the rain outside the squat, gray six-plex as two local police officers conducted a quick search of Tyler’s apartment. The building looked neglected, its paint cracked and peeling, the gutters sagging under the weight of wet leaves.
Sandra hovered near Laurel, half behind the shorter woman, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. The kid looked young . . . and lost.
Laurel remained still, her gaze calm and steady, unbothered by the rain soaking into her thick hair.
Walter didn’t know what he’d do without Laurel Snow. She’d given him a second chance at life, first by offering him a place on her team, and then by refusing to let him give up after he’d gotten himself shot. His chest still ached sometimes, a dull, persistent reminder of mistakes made and lessons learned. But he was alive, and that was because of her.
He had wanted to ask her on the drive over how she was doing, but Laurel was even worse than he was talking about feelings after the miscarriage. Plus, his mind had been locked on Tyler, the kid’s disappearance gnawing at him even before he’d arrived at the apartment.
The officers emerged from the apartment, their boots thudding against the uneven cement. Rain plastered their hair to their heads, droplets clinging to their jackets. Officer Jillian Jackson, a stocky brunette with pale green eyes and a sharp jawline, crossed her arms as she approached. Her partner, Officer Diaz, stood at least six-five, his frame lean and stretched, like he hadn’t quite filled out his height. He had cropped close black hair and dark eyes that gave nothing away.
Both cops glanced at Sandra before making their way over to Walter.
“You called it in?” Diaz asked.
“You know I did.” Walter looked up the four or five inches to the younger officer’s face. The man was seriously tall, built like a basketball player, and his expression held a flat neutrality. Walter took out his badge, the flash of metal catching what little light seeped through the overcast sky. “FBI.”
Diaz’s eyebrows rose. “Why is the FBI here?”
Walter held his gaze. “Tyler Griggs is my brother.” The words tasted strange in his mouth. Raw. Like he hadn’t said them out loud in years.
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother?”
“Half brother,” Walter corrected. “He hasn’t been answering his phone, and his apartment looks like it’s been tossed.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Officer Jackson said. She glanced toward the open door of Tyler’s unit. “The place looks like somebody tore it apart, probably looking for something specific.”
“Or Tyler staged the break-in,” Diaz added, his gaze fixed on the doorway. “This could be a stunt. We know he’s into conspiracy theories, and maybe he’s trying to gain notoriety.”
Walter kept his face neutral, but the idea clicked too easily. Tyler loved attention. Drawing an audience to whatever theory he’d latched onto that week would’ve been a temptation for him. A dramatic break-in might fit his agenda. But it didn’t explain the blood.
“Any idea where he might be?” Jackson asked, her focus shifting to Sandra.
Sandra shook her head, her voice tight. “No. He’s not answering my calls. He should be home. We were supposed to record a new podcast today.”
“About what?” Walter studied Sandra’s face.
She appeared exhausted with her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes. “All I know is that Tyler was on to something big. He said he had enough to go national with this one.”
Of course. He’d probably found evidence that the government had not only hidden the existence of Bigfoot but created him in the first place. Walter sighed. “You must have more details than that?”
“I don’t,” she whispered.
Diaz folded his arms. “If this isn’t your case, Agent, you might want to step back and let us handle it.”
Walter didn’t flinch. “Fine. As long as you’re handling it.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened. Diaz’s expression didn’t change. Walter caught the edge of irritation in the air, but it didn’t bother him.
Laurel remained silent, her attention locked on the officers. Walter knew that look. She was studying them, measuring their responses, and cataloging every inconsistency. The rain continued to fall, the rhythmic patter against the pavement the only sound for several long seconds.