CHAPTER SIX
The drive to the Thornton home was eerie as Kate watched deeply familiar streets pass by from the passenger seat.
She knew these streets by heart, had driven or walked them countless times over the past few years.
Now she was navigating them to reach a murder scene, and the wrongness of that settled into her chest like a weight.
Sloane drove in silence, her attention fixed on the road. Kate appreciated that. There was nothing to say yet, not until they saw what they were dealing with. The getting-to-know-you conversation could wait.
They turned onto Birchwood Lane, and Kate felt her stomach tighten.
She'd and Michael had walked down this street just two days ago, Michael trying to get the hang of his little kick scooter while giving names to each and every dog they passed.
Now, patrol cars lined the curb, and yellow crime scene tape cordoned off one of the houses halfway down the block.
Sloane parked behind one of the patrol cars in front of the Thornton house and turned off the engine. She looked at Kate, her expression neutral but attentive.
"Just to be clear," Kate said before Sloane could speak, "you're running point on this. I'm here for support, nothing more."
"I understand."
"I mean it. This is your investigation. I'm just here to help if you need it. If you see me overstepping that, don’t be afraid to speak up.”
Sloane nodded. "I appreciate that. And I appreciate you coming with me." Kate wasn’t too sure, but the comment seemed a little forced. Maybe even sarcastic. Or maybe she was just being paranoid. Oh, this is going to go just great, she thought.
They got out of the car and walked toward the house.
The morning sun was bright and warm, completely at odds with what waited inside.
Kate felt the familiar tension building in her shoulders, the automatic shift into investigator mode, even though she was supposed to be stepping back from all of this.
A uniformed officer stood by the front door. He looked young, probably about the same age as Sloane. He straightened when he saw them approaching.
Sloane showed her credentials. "Agent Erica Sloane, FBI. This is Kate Wise, retired FBI.”
The officer checked their IDs and nodded. "Good, good. Detective Morrison is inside with the forensics team. The husband is in the living room."
"Thank you," Sloane said.
The officer opened the door and stepped aside to let them enter. The house was quiet except for the muted sounds of people working in another room. Kate could smell coffee, faint and old.
The living room was to the right. Kate saw James Thornton immediately.
He sat on the couch with his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched forward in a posture of complete devastation.
He wore jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, and his feet were bare.
His hair stood up in places like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked up when they entered. His eyes found Kate first, and there was a flicker of recognition there.
They'd met a handful of times at neighborhood gatherings, exchanged pleasantries in passing.
But his gaze was glassy and distant, his pupils slightly dilated.
She figured someone had probably given him a sedative to help with the shock.
Kate felt a surge of sympathy for him. Whatever had happened here, James had lost his wife in the most terrible way possible. She could see it in every line of his body, in the way he seemed to be barely holding himself together.
She expected Sloane to approach him, to offer condolences, and begin asking the initial questions that would help establish a timeline and context.
That was standard procedure. You talked to the spouse first, got their statement while everything was still fresh, and while they could talk, gathering the information that would help guide the investigation.
But Sloane didn't move toward James. She only glanced at him briefly, seemed to assess the situation in an instant, and then turned away.
"I'm going to take a look at the scene," Sloane said, her voice low enough that James probably couldn't hear.
Kate blinked, caught off guard. Before she could respond, Sloane was already moving, walking out of the living room and down the hallway toward where the forensics team was working. Kate watched her go, feeling a spike of concern that she tried to suppress.
It wasn't her investigation. Sloane was in charge. If this was how she wanted to handle it, that was her call to make.
But Kate felt strongly that it was the wrong call.
Meanwhile, James Thornton sat on the couch in front of her, destroyed by grief and shock.
She wondered how it must have appeared to him that an FBI agent who should have been offering him support and gathering his statement had just walked past him without a word.
No introduction, no condolences, no acknowledgment of what he was going through.
Kate stood in the entrance to the living room, caught between wanting to respect Sloane's authority and feeling like someone needed to at least acknowledge James's presence. The man had just lost his wife. He'd found her body, for God’s sake. And Sloane had barely looked at him.
Maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe Sloane had some strategy that Kate wasn't seeing yet. But from where Kate stood, it looked sloppy. More than that, it looked uncaring.
She thought about following Sloane, about pulling her aside and suggesting they take a different approach. But that would be overstepping. Kate had made it clear this was Sloane's investigation, and she needed to let her run it.
Even if she was running it wrong.
Kate remained where she was, aware of James's presence behind her, aware of the sounds coming from deeper in the house where Sloane was presumably examining the crime scene.
The situation felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the murder itself and everything to do with how it was being handled.
This was supposed to be Sloane's moment to prove herself, to show she could lead an investigation. Instead, she'd just walked past a grieving husband without so much as a word of acknowledgment.
Kate hoped Sloane knew what she was doing. Because from where Kate stood, it didn't look promising at all.