Chapter 18
The junkyard sits at the edge of town like a place Echo Valley has tried to forget—rusted-out skeletons stacked three high, twisted doors hanging open like broken mouths, metal smell thick enough to taste.
Wind sweeps between rows of crushed cars, rattling loose parts and making the entire place sound like the walking dead.
The air is cold enough to sting when I inhale, metallic and sharp, scraping down my throat like a warning.
Crows sit on top of ruined dead things as if waiting for the next show.
It’s terrifying, if I’m being honest. But I step out of the car anyway.
Anton’s warning echoes in my head like a pulse: Someone knows you’re looking.
It’s a perfect thought to carry into a junkyard filled with blind corners.
My heartbeat thumps at my throat as I walk through decaying cars and toward the gated police-hold section. This isn’t the kind of place I’d choose for alone time.
But I’m not alone. Not really.
Anton must be here somewhere. Hidden. Watching.
When I came to Echo Valley, I thought the one positive thing about a small force was the chance to work alone. It seemed like a chance to prove and earn that I didn’t really get in LA. But now? I’m so happy I have Anton.
I don’t feel right about Ingram. He’s been sloppy with the death of a young woman, and that alone knocks him down a notch in my book.
But I can’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he admitted. That he saw something at the quarry and chose not to flag it, not to dig.
Maybe he missed the guardrail detail. Maybe he noticed it too late. Maybe it was easier to let it go than to reopen a case already stamped “accident.”
And now he wants to meet me here. Alone.
That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
I don’t have a place for people in my life that are dishonest.
I hope he comes clean. Is honest about any errors.
People make mistakes. I can work with that. I don’t forgive people who try to hide them.
And the question rises before I can stop it.
Why would he hide them?
The thought unsettles me immediately. I don’t have anything to support it. No motive. No proof. No reason to assume intent where negligence would explain everything just as easily.
Sloppy work doesn’t mean anything on its own. Even so, the thought doesn’t still me. Suddenly, I’m not only wanting cover over the shadows around me but for the one arriving, too.
I unlock the padlock and push through the creaky gate. Zoe’s wrecked Mazda Miata comes into view. Seeing it in person makes my stomach tighten. The entire front end looks like it folded in on itself, windshield shattered in a starburst, hood crushed.
She didn’t stand a chance in this tiny car. And for some reason, as I approach Zoe’s tomb, an overwhelming sense that I owe Zoe’s family more answers comes over me in waves.
If it was a suicide, if it was an accident, at least we’re certain. And if not, I hope whoever did this is punished.
I pull out my issued phone, switch to the camera app, and begin capturing every nook and cranny of what’s left of her car.
Angled shots of the front. Side impact. I squint at every dent, thinking it might hold a clue.
Every photo steadies me. Every procedural step pulls me closer to the version of myself I want to be.
But a silence presses close… Something creaks behind me…
My pulse jolts, and I whip around.
But it’s nothing but a sway of chains hanging from a salvaged engine.
Okay. Breathe. This place is a horror movie set, but I’m not the star.
Still… I unclip my water bottle and take a sip just to steady my hands. My mouth is dry.
My phone buzzes in my palm, and I jolt again.
I expect it to be Ingram announcing his presence, but it’s not.
Anton
Relax. I’ve got your back.
Relief floods me so hard, my knees go loose for half a second, and I glance around to see if I can catch even a glimpse of him. I don’t.
Another buzz.
Anton
I got you covered from all angles.
Wanting that coverage this badly scares me almost as much as the emptiness of this place—because when did I start needing him to steady me?
Still, my chest warms. Not because I need him, but…I want him. And because him covering me from all angles is an image that would make any woman heat up a few extra degrees.
It’s the smart thing to have said that Anton could come.
It’s true that I never expected someone to be at the quarry.
It could have been nothing, but I can’t let my pride make me stupid.
There’s something strange going on, and I landed myself in the middle of it.
I’m pregnant, and I’ll be damned if I’m the woman who’s too stupid to live.
I’m not here to prove I’m fearless. I’m here to prove I’m competent.
Anton being here and tucked away, I appreciate. I don’t want to be alone in isolated places after the quarry incident, and Ingram hardly feels like safe cover.
I tuck the phone away, but his reassurance lingers like a hand on my back.
I continue checking the car, the gouges around the wheels, the scoring on the tires and wear patterns… I crouch at the back end of the car, and damn. There is significant rear-end damage that wasn’t well documented.
This damage could have happened when she flew off the cliff edge. Depending on the velocity, the hood could have been tipped up, and the back could have hit. Unfortunately, the tire tracks didn’t provide enough data to analyze speed.
But wait…there’s also something else here on the bumper?
Taking my cell from my pocket again, I turn on the flashlight. There’s a faint scuff. It’s reddish… What’s that mark? Paint transfer?
A faint rustle scrapes through the maze of cars behind me—light, quick, too close. I freeze, breath locked in my chest, pulse kicking hard.
Then a blur shoots out from under a chassis. A cat darts across the gravel after a mouse, tail high like it owns the whole damn scrapyard. It stops to hiss at me before bouncing off again.
Just Echo Valley’s feral-cat Mafia doing their thing.
But my heart doesn’t recalibrate because just then, footsteps approach behind me.
I rise and turn toward the sound, hand instinctively drifting toward my hip.
Then I see him. For a split second, copper hits my tongue—the kind of instinctive fear that comes from being startled in a place where anything could be hiding.
It’s just Ingram. Calm. Casual. Not a single ounce of tension in his stance.
He gives me a quick wave. “Johnson,” he calls in a friendly tone. “Hope you didn’t wait long.”
This is not the man I’ve started to build up as a point of friction.
He approaches the car. “Sorry, I’m running late. Got stuck with the K-9 unit in San Jose. You should come check out the dogs sometime.”
“No problem.”
He combs his fingers through his auburn hair. “I took another look at some details you brought forward after you spoke with the chief,” he continues, scratching his cheek. “I was wrong to sign this all off.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
He shrugs sheepishly. “I never noticed the bolts. I was so focused on the crash evidence, getting in and out of that damn quarry, which was not an easy task… I’m embarrassed to not have noticed them. Guess sleepless nights with my new baby are getting to me.”
Yeah, maybe the baby explains the blurry photos, too.
Am I going to lose my edge when the baby comes?
The junkyard wind whistles through a row of broken doors. My unease softens, not completely, but enough that my heartbeat calms from sprint to jog. And I’m relieved Ingram isn’t pissed at me. It’s better if we’re all on the same page around here.
“I wracked my brain during one of said sleepless nights,” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“Pulled over a guy the week after Zoe’s crash,” he says.
“Out-of-towner. Driving a beat-up red pickup. He had front-end damage I casually asked him about, but said he had the car in drive instead of reverse.” He hands me the slip.
“Didn’t think too much then, but with you keeping the case open, I came here for a second look.
Come, this is what I wanted you to see.”
He crouches down near the bumper, and I join him. He points to an impact site. “Here. I didn’t even notice at the time, but I swear this is paint transfer.”
He shines his cell flashlight on the paint I noticed a moment ago.
It’s not intense and obvious, but I noticed it myself a few minutes ago.
I can see how it got missed, especially with so many other things to document about this vehicle, but there it is.
Super faint, red paint, almost pink, it’s so light.
“I let the guy off with a warning.” He hands me the paper. “But I pulled my bodycam images so you could track him down. See if there’s a match with the vehicle he was driving.”
A spark lights in my chest. Not hope. But direction.
“You were right not to close this,” he says, exhaling. “I guess I was sloppy. I hope it’s nothing. The thought of foul play here in our little town doesn’t sit well, but…I’m really glad you followed your gut.” He points to the paper in my hand. “It could lead to something.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound professional and not like someone who desperately needed a reason to believe she wasn’t imagining everything.
He nods. “I have to get back out on the highway. Speed-trap duty.”
I roll my eyes. “My favorite.”
“Isn’t it everyone’s?” he adds with a friendly sarcasm.
Lighter because…I wasn’t wrong. Heavier because…this just got more complicated.
I watch Ingram weave back through the twisted metal until the last edge of his uniform disappears behind a row of crumpled sedans. The junkyard settles again—wind hissing through broken doors, the skeletons of cars groaning softly in the sun.
Only when I'm sure he’s gone do I pull out my phone.
Me
Coast’s clear. You can step out of the shadows now, Batman.
A beat.
Then another.
Then, finally, Anton appears between the twisted metal rows, shoulders broad, eyes sweeping the yard before finding me.
For half a second, relief softens his whole face before he tucks it away like it’s something he shouldn't show. He thinks I won’t notice his worry.
But I always notice him.
“Took you long enough,” I tease, though the truth is my chest loosens the second he’s in full view.
He stops in front of me, glancing at the paper in my hand. “All good?”
I nod. “Yeah. It was…normal. Surprisingly normal.”
“Normal?” He raises a brow. “That’s not the word I’d use for a junkyard meeting with a guy who signed off on a suspicious death.” His jaw tics. “What’d he show you?”
I hand him the slip.
“Guy in a red pickup,” I say. “Fresh front-end damage that might match the color of potential paint transfer on Zoe’s bumper.”
Anton exhales a low, thoughtful breath. “Could be something.”
“Or nothing,” I counter.
“Or nothing,” he echoes.
I nod, feeling that subtle, quiet click of being on the same page. “I’ll have to find this guy somehow. I’m not sure how easy it will be with just facial recognition.”
“You’ll find him.” Anton folds the paper, presses it back into my palm. “And if you decide to go knocking on that door,” he teases softly, “you’d better invite me to lurk again.”
My skin buzzes with electricity.
I try to play it cool. “You’re disturbingly good at lurking, you know. I can’t tell if I should be turned on or terrified.”
I shouldn’t be flirting. But damn, it feels right.
Apparently, he agrees. “Turned on.”
Heat punches low in my body. My fingers drift to my hair, smoothing curls that don’t need smoothing.
He watches every flicker of my composure slipping.
Does this man know what he’s doing to me? I shouldn’t feel like this with a friend. Maybe I need to come clean about that.
But not now. You’re here to work.
I lift the slip of paper. “Okay,” I say, more certain now. “I have two hours before clocking off to surf the internet and see if I can find out who the mystery man is.”
Anton nods decisively.
The wind cuts between us, lifting a strand of my curls, and he reaches out without thinking—tucking it gently behind my ear. The touch is small. Barely anything.
But it hits deep.
“I’d better go,” I murmur, lifting the paper again.
Anton’s eyes stay on mine a moment longer than necessary. “Text me if you need to go anywhere.”
The way Anton speaks to me—with some kind of respect I’ve never received before. He doesn’t order. He doesn’t challenge.
He promises partnership.
“I will,” I say.
My chest warms at the words—not because I need him hovering but because standing here in this graveyard of metal, it feels good to have someone who cares whether I walk back out.
“Thanks for being here,” I say quietly.
He shifts back half a step, giving me space again, as if he knows I need to reclaim my professional ground.
His gaze softens in a way that should be illegal. “Anytime, honey.”
I head for the exit, Anton falling in behind me without comment.
The junkyard groans—metal shifting, wind scraping through hollow frames—like the place itself is uneasy.
I don’t look back. I don’t have to.
I know I’m safe.
So I don’t understand why, when the next breeze brushes the back of my neck, it feels like cold breath from somewhere that has eyes.