Chapter 4
Laurel settled into the passenger seat of Walter’s brand-new Volkswagen Tiguan and reached forward to turn on the seat heater. The small city of Elk Hollow was about twenty-six miles from Genesis Valley, closer to Everett. It would take them around forty minutes, give or take.
Walter flipped on the windshield wipers as a spring rain began to slash across the glass. “I know. Tyler and I aren’t close. Never have been.”
Okay. That was something she needed to unpack, as Huck would say. “Tell me about Tyler.”
“He’s actually my half brother,” Walter said.
“My father died from an aneurysm just after I turned five. So it was just me and my mom through all of my childhood. I went to college and she fell in love and got remarried my sophomore year. Then Tyler came along the next year. He was a surprise. Her new husband didn’t really want me around, to be honest.”
Laurel watched a logging truck slow down up ahead. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Walter said, lips twitching at the corners. “Maybe he had this idea of a perfect family, and some twenty-year-old stepson, who was honestly only fifteen years younger than him, didn’t exactly fit the mold.”
So his mother had married a younger man. Interesting.
“Then I graduated, joined the FBI, got married, started my own life. I don’t know . . . we didn’t even spend holidays together.” He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting his weight like the conversation itched somewhere under his skin.
They had never discussed his ex-wife in any meaningful way.
When Walter joined her team, he’d been newly divorced and drinking more than was professionally acceptable.
Since then, his behavior had stabilized.
He showed no current indicators of emotional volatility or impaired judgment.
There was no need to revisit the subject unless it became operationally relevant. “Please continue,” she said.
He hit his blinker and shifted into the left lane to pass a truck.
“That’s about it. I mean, we’ve seen each other through the years a little bit, but honestly, the kid turned into this conspiracy nut—anti-government, anti-FBI.
Last time we were even in the same vicinity, we got into an argument.
It made my mother miserable, and we were both supposed to be there to comfort her.
She’d just been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. ”
Laurel turned toward him. “I’m so sorry to hear that. When was this?”
“Three years ago.” He exhaled slowly. “I’d like to say that’s when things started going downhill with my wife and me, but our problems had started long before that. I guess I’m just not that good at interpersonal relationships.”
Laurel disagreed. Walter was easy to be around, easy to work with. He’d embedded himself into her team like he’d always belonged there. Huck’s crew had taken to him just as quickly. Maybe romantic relationships were different, or maybe Walter simply didn’t give himself enough credit.
“Sometimes family is . . . difficult,” she offered, aware that it was a thin and inadequate truth.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Difficult. Yeah. You’re exactly right.”
“You haven’t seen your half brother for three years?”
Walter sighed. “Nope. After our big argument, we just saw each other once at her funeral. Didn’t even talk.”
That sounded sad. “I’m sorry, Walter.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes I catch his podcast just to see what he’s up to.”
“Podcast?”
“Yeah. It’s called Eyes Open with Tyler Griggs. He mostly talks about conspiracy theories. Deep-state stuff, chemtrails, shadow governments. He’s always chasing something weird. It’s been a while since I tuned in, though.”
Laurel raised an eyebrow. “Yet he lives in Elk Hollow?”
Red crept up Walter’s neck, the flush sharp against the gray sky filtering through the windshield.
“Apparently. I didn’t know. I thought he was still down in San Diego, where my mom lived.
According to the woman who called me, he moved to Seattle, then Everett, and now out to Elk Hollow. Cheaper rent, less overhead. Figures.”
Laurel stared out the window, watching the rain trace diagonal lines down the glass.
Empathy didn’t come naturally to her. But grief?
That she understood. Not just the sorrow, but the awkward fractures it left in its wake.
She could picture Walter at that funeral, standing across a gravesite from someone who shared his blood but not his life.
She considered offering platitudes but didn’t know which one to choose. She disliked platitudes. She liked facts. And the fact was, Walter had shown up. That counted.
She remained quiet and shifted her attention away from him. Creating more space sometimes led to greater clarity than pressing for answers. Proximity and silence often produced results that direct inquiry disrupted. Huck had proven that more than once.
Curious, she pulled out her phone and searched for Tyler Griggs, keeping the volume off.
There he was. His podcast popped up almost instantly, and she skimmed through the recent episode titles: “The Shadow Beneath Homeland Security”; “Operation Indigo Fog: What They’re Not Telling You”; “The Census Chip Agenda”; and “FEMA Zones and the Quiet Takeover.”
She clicked through the site and located a photo of Tyler.
He appeared to be approximately twenty-five years old, with sandy blond hair that curled loosely around his ears.
His brown eyes matched Walter’s in both shape and color, but beyond that there were no strong physical similarities.
The twenty-year age difference accounted for most of the distinction.
She continued reviewing the site. Tyler demonstrated a categorical distrust of governmental systems. He framed institutional authority as inherently corrupt and adversarial.
His podcast content referenced surveillance programs, climate manipulation, falsified public records, and consumer-level tracking mechanisms. The repetition across episodes indicated a fixed ideological structure rather than impulsive speculation.
Outside, the rain continued in steady vertical sheets, obscuring long sight lines and muffling ambient sound.
Walter pulled the Tiguan to the curb in front of a light gray six-plex, the kind of structure built for functionality rather than aesthetics.
Darker gray shutters framed each window.
A small strip of patchy lawn separated the building from the sidewalk, and the neighborhood looked older but maintained.
Several houses nearby had security signs staked into the ground without visible camera systems to support them.
Across the street, in a small yellow painted home, a curtain shifted. A silhouette moved behind a set of vinyl blinds and paused. The slats closed again without further movement.
Walter glanced at his phone, then up at the building. “Okay,” he said. “This is it. Bottom floor.”
Laurel unbuckled and stepped out. Rain collected quickly in shallow dips along the narrow brick walkway leading to the building.
The surface had poor drainage, and slick patches had already formed.
She avoided a larger puddle and moved toward the row of exterior doors.
Each unit bore a black, stenciled letter, A through F, applied with a template and no apparent concern for symmetry.
Walter approached Door A and knocked.
“Who’s there?” a woman called from inside.
“Agent Walter Smudgeon. You called me.” His voice rose just enough to carry.
The door opened a few inches, but the chain remained latched. A young woman peered out. She looked to be in her early twenties, with long red hair and pale blue eyes. “Badge?”
Walter frowned slightly but reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Here.” He slid it through the gap, the door held tight by the chain.
She took her time examining it. The door shut again, followed by the metallic rattle of the chain being unhooked. A moment later, she fully opened it. “Hi. Come in. I haven’t touched anything.”
Walter stepped inside first. “You’re Sandra?”
“Yes. Sandra Plankton. Thank you for coming.” The redhead pushed back a strand of her hair.
Laurel followed, her boots leaving a faint trail of water on the entry tile.
The apartment measured under eight hundred square feet and showed signs of violence.
A living room led to a kitchen, separated only by a bar with two overturned stools.
The leather sofa had been cut along a central seam, and its internal padding had been pulled out and scattered across the floor.
One lamp was broken. A second had been knocked over but remained intact.
A large television lay flattened with a fractured screen and visible impact points along the lower edge.
Walter stiffened. “You’re sure no one else is here?”
“I’m sure,” Sandra said. “I checked every room.”
Laurel glanced at Sandra again. She showed no visible injuries.
Her pale green sweater had a small snag at the hem, and the denim of her jeans showed patterning from repeated wear.
The braid over her shoulder lacked tension and consistency, indicating it had been secured without the use of a mirror.
She wore no makeup or visible jewelry. Her appearance suggested minimal preparation rather than deliberate presentation.
Laurel walked through the space with measured steps, hands in her coat pockets. “The scene shows signs of both a fight and a methodical search.”
“Shit,” Walter muttered.
Laurel stepped into the hallway. The carpet underfoot suffered from long-term wear, especially in the center. A bathroom stood at the end, door open, and she moved that way. “Sandra? Did you go through anything in here?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
“No,” Sandra said from just behind her. “I looked in, but I didn’t touch anything.”