Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Fishing Cabin outside Livingston
Sam was gritty-eyed, exhausted, and starving, but she’d finally tracked down the police officer who should have taken the report on Gerald Harrington’s suicide.
He’d retired a few years ago to this very rustic fishing cabin. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of him by phone or email, but not wanting to give up today without feeling like she’d made some progress, she’d gone with the address.
Maybe he’d be willing to talk. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d remember the case. Maybe he wouldn’t. But Sam simply couldn’t go back to the office until she’d exhausted every option.
She eyed the sky. The sun was setting, and it’d be dark soon. Nate should be sitting outside Michael Hyatt’s house surveilling.
She wished they were both home, and that was plain weird, because she loved her job and had never wished she were at home instead.
Love did all sorts of weird shit to a person.
There were no lights outside the cabin, and with the mountains and trees, everything seemed darker as she inched her car up the gravel drive.
Dread pooled in her gut, but she pushed it away and focused on being aware and alert. As she got out of her stopped car, she kept her hand on her weapon. Just in case.
She might have left, come back tomorrow during daylight, but she could see a light shining from one of the windows. It gave off some … weird shadows, but one definitely looked like a person. So she walked up to the front door.
Eyeing the dark around her, she lifted her non-gun hand and rapped on the door.
Nothing happened. There wasn’t a peep. Just the whistles and creaks of a spring night in the middle of nowhere.
Beyond creepy.
She knocked a few more times and got nothing. Uneasy, she moved down the length of the house to get a peek into the window with the light.
It took a minute to register what she saw. Something hanging from a rafter. The shape of a body. The faint swing.
What little was in her stomach threatened to emerge, but she whirled away from the sight and ruthlessly forced it down, forced herself to breathe.
Jesus. She closed her eyes, swallowed again. Okay. Okay. What did she do now? She sucked in a tight breath, willed herself to calm.
She pulled out her phone, hated that her fingers shook as she dialed 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
Sam rattled off the address of the fishing cabin, focusing on each word, and resting her free hand on the butt of her gun as the dark felt like it was creeping in.
“I’ve found a dead body.”