Chapter 30
WALKER
Last night was the best sleep I’ve ever had, and that is not a good thing. Even with Santiago’s snoring, which is so loud it’s like he’s actively trying to wake the dead, I had a good, deep sleep.
At some point in the night, Blake turned over, facing me, and tucked her head beneath my chin. The position felt so natural, it was as if we’d been sleeping like this for years.
She trusted me to keep her safe.
That’s the problem.
I can’t.
Last night at the motel proved that.
I’m too attached. I’m too close to all of this.
Not just the investigation.
Too close to her.
But I can’t seem to backpedal. There’s no going back to the way things were.
Somewhere over the last few weeks, the line between my role as sheriff and something else disappeared, and I don’t remember crossing it.
Maybe…
The line never existed.
Blake doesn’t know I’m standing in the doorway of the multipurpose room, watching her work.
Good.
She’s been in here poring over photos of her motel room for hours. She’s almost completely recreated her murder wall.
I think.
I’ve been in law enforcement for almost thirty years, and even I can’t make heads or tails of her complex web. So I doubt the person in her room last night was able to either.
She has printouts of the photos Ridge took spread out across the conference table, as she sits cross-legged in a computer chair with an open sketchbook in her lap.
Pens, pencils, highlighters, and other writing utensils are scattered all around her on the floor, the table, and her lap.
A pile of processed snack foods rests on the chair next to her.
Neon sticky notes in a plethora of colors are covered in her handwriting and placed indiscriminately all over the place.
Whatever system she has set up only makes sense to her.
Blake scribbles on another sticky note, rips it from the pad, and slaps it down on one of the photos. A determined wrinkle seems to be permanently etched between her brows.
The pink eraser at the end of a number two pencil is on the receiving end of her frustration as she chews it to bits. I’d bet my next pack of cigarettes that she doesn’t even realize she has the habit.
The multipurpose room isn’t much to look at, and in all honesty, it doesn’t get much use. Blake could move in here, and none of us would notice.
The beige walls are a few shades darker than the rest of the station due to the lack of natural light in here. Blake appears to be content to work among the scratched-up whiteboards, fluorescent lights, and cramped filing cabinets.
Blake’s head snaps up, pointing right at me. “I survived many years without a babysitter.”
Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, my eyebrows lift. “Funny. I think Levi, Santiago, and I can say the same.”
“And you all are still alive because of it,” she returns in a cheeky tone.
“And you can say the same thing,” I retort.
She gives me her signature you’re-annoying-me look. “You’re impossible.”
My palms make a slight upturn in response. She can be irritated with me all she wants, but at the end of the day, if she’s safe, I’ll happily take her ire.
Blake returns to her sketching and note-taking for a few moments. Even the crease between her brows makes a comeback, but it’s not long before she’s circled to irritation again. “I can’t focus with you hovering like that.”
Arching a brow, my head falls forward an inch in consternation. “I’m all the way over here. You have every office supply we have in the station besides a stapler, plus food,” I emphasize my pointing by nodding toward the pretzels, chips, and other snacks. “What more do you need?”
Blake drops her arms onto the table. “Space.”
The amount of time I’ve been standing here without her notice could be considered creepy, and I understand her need for room. No one likes it when people hover.
Pushing off the frame, I point my index finger at her. “Fine, but I’m not leaving the building.”
Leaving the door wide open, I head back for my office located right next to the meeting room.
Blake wants space, so I’m giving it to her. She deserves that at the very least.
Hell, she deserves a whole hell of a lot more than I’ve been giving her lately.
I let my door remain wide open as well, and I tell myself it’s not because I want to be able to see if Blake leaves the other room.
Collapsing into my desk chair, I kick my feet up and rest them on top of the desk. My office is exactly the way I left it this morning.
Incident reports are stacked neatly in a tray on the corner of my desk. My department radio charges next to my computer monitor. My coffee next to the keyboard is in the same place, but it’s long since gone cold. A heap of case files waiting for signatures sit neatly in the center of my desk.
The stark contrast between my office and the absolute chaos that Blake has turned the conference room into is drastic.
Flipping open one of the case files, I attempt to focus, but after rereading the same section several times, I still don’t know what it says. I swipe a pen from the top right drawer and jot down my signature. A brief review lets me know that I signed the wrong line.
So much for productivity.
I toss the file back on top of the pile and rise to my feet. Fiddling with the blinds over the one window in my office, I make note of the dust. Retrieving a napkin from another drawer, I give the horizontal slats a quick wipe and chuck the napkin into the trash.
Pacing the length of my office, my mind finally does what I’ve been trying to avoid.
Think.
There was someone in Blake’s room, someone who means her harm.
I hate that there’s nothing I can do about that now. All I can do is work the case.
The lock was broken, which means that the person doesn’t know how to pick locks. From the canvas Tessa and Ridge performed last night, no one heard the person breaking into the room, nor did anyone hear Bear barking like a rabid dog.
Hard to believe, but it is what it is.
Then Bear was trapped in the bathroom and attacked the person. The full DNA report will likely take months, but I greased a few palms this morning to get a Forensic DNA Phenotyping report. That one won’t take as long and will at least help us narrow down the search.
Blake could’ve returned to Moose Gap Lodge while the person was still inside.
I don’t let myself finish the thought. I don’t have to.
My imagination does it for me anyway, causing my mouth to twist wryly as every muscle in my body contracts.
I should have put one of my deputies outside her room. I should’ve made her move into Santiago’s house sooner.
Blake would’ve laughed in my face, but I have no qualms about kidnapping to ensure Blake’s safety.
My radio crackles from where it’s plugged in, ripping me from my apprehensive pondering.
Jo laughs at something in the lobby. She’s probably on the phone.
The ancient printer in the bullpen rattles as it spits out a file. That thing could be heard from a mile away.
Closing my eyes, I do my best to focus, but I find myself listening for Blake.
Is she thirsty?
Does she have a headache from being in that room for so long?
Should I get her to take a break?
My fingers massage my brow ridge as I ridicule myself for acting like this—obsessed. Checking the clock on the wall, I discover that only five minutes have passed.
Just.
Five.
I wait for the five minutes to turn into six before I lose the argument with myself and find a reason to go back to Blake.
Whipping up a coffee in the little breakroom, I search for anything I can add to it. I fill half of the mug with milk and the other half with drip coffee. I send a thank-you to the deity upstairs when I find a can of extra-creamy whipped cream and cinnamon in the cabinet.
At the station, we pretend Tessa is the reason we have all the things for a latte, but it’s me. Although I’m not the one who supplies the mugs. That’s Jolene. A fact that is made apparent when I get a look at the words on the mug in my hand as I take it to Blake.
Chaos Coordinator.
Nothing says, “I’m not thinking about you,” quite like this mug.
Entering the room, I find Blake in the exact same position she was in when I left.
“I figured this might help,” I say by way of announcing my presence as I carefully find a spot to set down the mug.
“You’re an angel.” Blake snatches the coffee from my hands and takes a gulp, a smile brightening her face. “Oh, sweet bean juice.” She takes another look at the ceramic cup. “Did you make this?”
Unwilling to answer, I ask a question of my own and pull out the empty chair opposite her. “How’s it going?”
Blake lets out an aggravated groan so loud there’s no mistaking that she’s ready to throw a chair through a window.
“That bad?” I keep my hands in my lap so as not to disturb
She smacks her fists on the table as she scowls at all the papers. “I know every paper, picture, and Post-it that was moved. I marked them with these little yellow stickers.” She holds up a full sheet of bright yellow circular stickers, shaking it around as if it personally offended her.
Leaning back in my seat, I get comfortable and cross my arms. “That’s a start.”
She waves her hand over her hard work. “But I did all of that hours ago. Nothing else makes sense. None of it.”
“Want to talk it out?” I suggest.
Blake falls back in her own chair, sighing up at the ceiling. “I guess it couldn’t hurt, unless my brain explodes.”
“Drama queen.”
She sits up, giving me the same scowl that she gave the table. “Overbearing oaf.”
Cuing the discussion, I start. “Santiago mentioned you thought the Debt Collector and your stalker could be connected.”
Blake nods in confirmation. “The more I look at it, the more I think they may be working together.” She holds up one of the photographs containing a yellow sticker. “My intruder—”
“You mean attacker,” I correct.
“Intruder,” Blake persists, widening her eyes, “moved the Silver Pines flier next to my stuff on the Debt Collector.”
A detail we all noticed last night.
Sitting up, I point to the photo in her hand. “What do you think that has to do with the texts?”