Chapter 22. Holly
Holly
After what felt like an interminable wait, a loud buzzer sounded near an imposing metal door. Tom Walker entered the waiting area of the Beauport Police Department and shot Holly a cold, reptilian stare.
“Holly Sinclair … let me guess, you found the girl, brought her back for a nice meal, and she walked off with your purse.” He gave her an unkind smile.
“No,” Holly said, crossing her arms. “I’m here to look at the evidence box from the investigation into my sister’s death.”
The words alone were enough to transport Holly back in time. The years between then and now folded in an instant. The sick flush of shame she’d carried out of Beauport filled her anew, as though she’d never left.
Anna shouldn’t have been alone that night. I should have been with her. Her death is my fault.
Walker would have growled if he could. “You called me out here for that?” Then he laughed, a grating sound that made her blood pressure surge.
She straightened, her resolve hardening. “Yes, Tom,” she said, purposely forgoing any formalities. “I need to take a look for myself.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?” Walker latched his hands to his hips, inches from his gun.
Holly noticed his chest swell as he tried to appear more intimidating. She’d expected pushback and had come prepared. “I won’t know what I’m looking for until I see it.”
“Are you implying that we didn’t do our job—that I didn’t do mine?” Heat radiated off him.
“I’m not implying anything, Officer Walker,” said Holly in a measured tone. “I’m simply asking for information about my family.”
Walker leaned back on his heels. His broad frame continued to block the entrance to the inner sanctum. He cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Holly,” he said. “Technically, the case is still open. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything to violate the integrity of the evidence. If there’s a development and something got mishandled, it could impede our ability to make an arrest.”
Holly eyed him with disgust. “This case is close to twenty years old. Is anyone actively working on it?”
Walker cocked an eyebrow. “Any open case is always an active investigation. And besides, the evidence box isn’t even here.
We keep older case files in an off-site storage area.
I couldn’t get to it even if I wanted to.
We’d need to contact the DA’s office first. There’s paperwork to file—bureaucracy, you know how that is—and there are no guarantees you’ll even get permission.
You’re better off letting bygones be bygones. ”
But Holly didn’t let it go. “Why is her death listed as undetermined? That alone means there’s more to investigate.”
Walker shrugged. “All that means—and I apologize for being tactless—is that your sister’s body wasn’t in good enough condition for the ME to determine what exactly killed her.
But let’s be honest, we all know it was the fire.
And there’s no evidence the fire was anything other than a tragic accident.
When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. Know what I mean?”
Holly craned her neck to meet Tommy Boy’s hard stare. “To my ears, you sound like a man with something to hide.”
Walker grinned as if he enjoyed being challenged. “I’m just doing my job and following protocol. You have an overactive writer’s imagination, Holly. Don’t let it get you into trouble.” The message rang loud and clear, a veiled threat from a shoddy small-town cop.
Holly turned to go. Tommy Boy wasn’t worth any more of her time. She’d find a way to work around him.
As she marched out of the station, her writer’s brain kicked into high gear.
She composed a list of “Unusual Ways to Die” in her head, with Tommy at the center of every mishap—shark attack, fall from a cliff, an incident with a hot frying pan.
Better still: an accidental firearm discharge into a very sensitive part of the male anatomy.