Chapter Eight
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Ryker stood at the digital board in the cold case room, arms crossed, eyes on the pinned photos and evidence files like he could will them into forming a clear picture. He heard Emma behind him, rustling through a folder.
They’d cut Charlotte loose, for now. She’d stormed out with her usual flair, still pale, still shaken from the text. But until they could prove anything one way or the other, she was just another unstable variable in a case that already felt like a live wire.
“We’ll have Colvin in soon,” Emma said, glancing at the wall clock. “Might not get much of a break between now and then.”
Ryker nodded. “Let’s use the time.”
The message to Charlotte was still fresh in his mind, seared in bold white text on that glowing screen.
Watch your six, baby sis. It was the signature, Ethan’s, and it had landed like a match in dry brush.
Now, they needed some answers to go along with all the questions the text and everything else had triggered.
Too bad those answers weren’t pouring in as fast as the questions were.
Ryker picked up his phone and checked for updates. And frowned. There was one, but it fell into that category of no help whatsoever.
“Burner phone was used to send the text to Charlotte,” he said, adding the info to the board. “No name, no history, no GPS. It’s a dead end.”
Emma sighed, but he could tell it was exactly what she’d been expecting. If Ethan had indeed sent the text, why make it easy for them to track him? Ditto for someone who could be posing as Ethan.
“Griff’s working the traffic cams near Charlotte’s place,” Ryker added. “There’s one at the intersection by her street. He wants to see if anyone shows up around the time she claims she blacked out. Could be someone slipping in, drugging the wine, taking the blood.”
“She said it was the last of the bottle,” Emma muttered. “And she threw it away.”
“Convenient,” Ryker said. “Too much time has passed to test her for anything now.”
Silence hung between them for a moment. “Think she’s telling the truth?” Emma asked.
Ryker rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still on the board. “I don’t know. It’s possible. The whole using-her-own-blood thing, it’s too theatrical. Why frame someone with their own DNA?”
“Unless it’s reverse psychology,” Emma offered. “Make it look too obvious, so we think she’s innocent.”
“Or maybe she’s just enjoying the game,” Ryker said. “Taunting us. Feeding us pieces she wants us to chase.”
Emma was quiet for a beat. “She looked rattled when she got that text.”
“Yeah,” Ryker said. “She did.” He looked at Emma. “Or she’s one hell of an actress.”
Emma stood, her movements slow and tense, and she moved to his side, just inches from his arm. She stared at the board, her gaze catching on the crime scene photos from the oil field. The twisted metal. The blurred, lifeless form that had once been Lionel Ruiz.
She made a frustrated sound low in her throat, one that twisted something deep in Ryker’s gut. Then she opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but stopped herself.
Didn’t matter. He already knew.
“You were about to apologize,” Ryker said quietly, his voice more gravel than breath. “For something that’s not your fault, weren’t you?”
Emma gave him a side glance, resigned. “I was.”
He turned to face her fully, letting the weight of his stare settle between them. “You remember what I said I’d do the next time you did that?”
A flicker of something passed through her eyes, heat, hesitation, defiance. “Yeah,” she murmured.
Ryker didn’t move. Didn’t lean in to initiate a kiss.
But Emma did.
She closed the distance without warning, hands catching lightly at the sides of his jacket as she rose onto her toes and kissed him. Not tentative. Not testing.
Hot.
Fast.
Hungry.
Her mouth met his with a jolt of heat that stole his breath and short-circuited every plan he’d had for taking it slow. She tasted like coffee and sugar and pure fire, and his hands instinctively caught her waist, holding her there, grounding them both.
It lasted longer than it should’ve. But not nearly long enough.
When she pulled back, her eyes were darker, her breath shallow. Ryker blinked, stunned, heart hammering in a way he hadn’t felt since combat.
“Well,” he said, voice rough. “Guess that counts as my apology, too.”
Ryker’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the haze Emma’s kiss had left in his head. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. A text from Jesse.
Dr. Colvin’s here. Interview Room Three.
Ryker straightened, forcing his pulse to settle. That kiss had flipped a switch inside him, hell, maybe tripped a circuit, but now wasn’t the time to let it spiral.
Emma was already moving, all business again, and he followed her out of the cold case room, the distance between them physically reset, even if the air still buzzed with leftover heat. They walked down the hall to Interview Room Three, and Ryker opened the door.
Dr. Maris Colvin sat alone at the table, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture impeccable. She was dressed in a charcoal-gray blazer over a pale blue blouse, hair pulled back into a smooth, professional twist. She looked calm. Controlled. Maybe too controlled.
The doctor matched the images from the wedding reception exactly, same sharp cheekbones, same elegant bearing.
In those photos, she’d looked almost reverent when her eyes had been on Ethan, like she was watching something she worshipped.
That same poise was here now, but there was no warmth in her face, no flicker of the woman who’d glared at Ethan like she wanted him dead.
She didn’t rise when they entered, just looked up with the cool politeness of someone who had nothing to prove. No lawyer. No fiery outbursts like Charlotte.
Just still water.
And Ryker had seen enough to know, still water could run deep. And dangerous.
Ryker kept his expression neutral as he stepped inside the room and gently closed the door behind Emma. “Dr. Colvin,” he said, his tone professional but not overly stiff. “I’m Deputy Ryker Caldwell, this is Deputy Emma Bonetti. We appreciate you coming in voluntarily.”
She gave a small nod, no smile. Her face was unreadable, perfectly composed.
Ryker crossed to the recorder on the wall, clicked it on, and spoke clearly for the record.
“Interview with Dr. Maris Colvin, conducted by Deputies Caldwell and Bonetti. Time is 9:03 a.m. at the Outlaw Ridge Police Department. Interview Room Three. Subject is not under arrest and is participating voluntarily.”
He returned to the table and sat across from her. “Standard procedure,” he said. “I’ll be reading you your rights.”
Dr. Colvin gave no indication she objected, or cared. Her expression didn’t so much as twitch. No protest, no confusion, no curiosity.
He read through the Miranda warning in his steady, clipped voice, watching her for any sign of reaction.
There wasn’t one. Nothing in her face shifted.
But Ryker couldn’t help but wonder if the tightness in her hands, or the way she kept her eyes pinned straight ahead, was the only indication of how much she hated being read her rights.
For a moment, silence lingered. Then she spoke, her voice calm and measured. “I’m not sure how I can help you. I haven’t heard from Ethan in four years.”
Emma’s voice broke the stillness, calm but direct.
“When was the last time you saw Ethan, Dr. Colvin?”
The woman didn’t blink. “At the wedding reception,” she replied. “Shortly before he disappeared.”
Ryker leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers on the table in front of him. “And why were you at that reception? Was it part of your regular therapeutic routine to crash personal events?”
There was the slightest hitch in her posture, barely noticeable, but he saw it.
“I wasn’t there as a guest,” she said after a pause. “Ethan had stopped attending his counseling sessions. Without notice. I was concerned.”
“So you tracked him to a wedding?” Ryker asked, letting just enough incredulity edge into his voice.
The doctor’s mouth tightened. Just for a second. That mask of composure cracked, only a hairline fracture, but it was there.
“I recalled him saying he would be attending. I went because I was worried. He’d been… volatile during our last few sessions.”
“Seems above and beyond,” Ryker said smoothly. “Most therapists send a check-in phone call or text. Not many go mingling with the punch and cake.”
Her gaze flicked to his, cool and direct, and there was just the faintest glimmer of irritation in her eyes.
“I was very worried about Ethan,” she said, voice clipped.
Emma stepped in then, her tone neutral but sharp enough to draw blood. “How so? Did you think he might harm himself, or someone else?”
Dr. Colvin’s jaw twitched. “I prefer not to answer that.”
Ryker raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because that falls under patient-doctor confidentiality,” she said. “Ethan is officially listed as missing. He hasn’t been declared dead and won’t be for another three years. That means unless you have a warrant or Ethan’s consent, I’m not obligated to discuss the details of his sessions.”
Ryker nodded slowly, letting the silence draw out a beat longer than necessary. But in that space, one thing was clear. He was pretty sure she wasn’t just hiding behind her ethics.
She was hiding something.
Ryker reached into the folder and carefully slid out the three printed photos Charlotte had given them, each one carefully labeled, timestamped, and damning in its own quiet way.
He eased them across the table, one by one, until they sat neatly in front of Dr. Colvin.
The doctor’s composure didn’t crack completely, but her reaction was unmistakable. Her shoulders tensed. Her lips pressed into a tighter line. And in her eyes, just for a flicker, was something between dread and annoyance.
She looked at the photos but didn’t touch them.