Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Of course it is. He’s a felon with a serious record tied to the death of two police officers, and you’re a female detachment commander with an entire station of hardworking people who actually respect you, which is not an easy feat. It’d be colossally stupid to start something up with him again. Reputation shattering, probably career ending … gosh, I can’t even imagine all the ways you’d fuck yourself over. But you’re not stupid. Neither is Logan.” He watches me closely.
Where is he going with this? “Why are you so interested in him again?”
“I’m not.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t pursue him as a suspect because I wasn’t going to waste valuable time building a case against the wrong guy, and I believed him when he said he wasn’t anywhere near Holly that night.”
Because I know he was with you, Terry doesn’t need to say. His shrewd gaze says as much. He wants me to know that he’s figured that part out, but that he has no interest in torpedoing me.
I bury my anxiety for now. “Have you gone to update the Monroe family yet?”
“I was about to do that.” He stands and stretches. “Figured you might want to come with me?”
It’s the last thing I want to do. Telling parents that we’ve shifted to the wait-and-see stage for finding their missing child never goes well, and rightfully so.
I grab my keys. “I’ll follow you there.” And then I have to get home so I can break this news to my daughter.
The unmistakable scent of snack bar french fries hits me as I step inside the Cold River Arena. There’s already a herd of people hovering around the open window, impatiently waiting for their orders as the teenage girl working the counter scrambles.
All these years later and nothing has changed. The exterior walls are clad with metal siding; the narrow halls to the change rooms stink of stale sweat. Championship banners from as far back as the ’70s hang from the open rafters, though there are some new ones displayed from recent years. The wooden bleacher-style stands that I sat in to cheer on Isla during her games are the very same ones I sat in while cheering for Logan. Our initials are still engraved in them.
The only upgrade this place has seen in recent times is for a scoreboard three years ago. Dillon’s big dream is to build a shiny new facility, and he’s been busy tapping shoulders looking for funding.
I haven’t stepped inside Cold River’s arena since Isla’s season ended in March, and now I’m technically here as a parent from the visiting team. But I know most of these people, and they descend on me like the paparazzi on a scandalized celebrity.
“Emery! It’s so good to see you again!”
“How’s Isla liking her new team?”
“So, what’s going on with Holly Monroe’s case?”
“Who do you think took her?”
“Do you think she’s alive?”
I expected as much, which is why I waited until after the puck drop to sneak in. Clearly, I didn’t wait long enough. After a few smiles and nods and standard scripted answers, I manage to slip through the doors to the rink in time to see Isla lose a puck draw.
The stands are packed. Also not a surprise, given it’s a Friday night in November and families are looking for something free to do.
I spot Dillon halfway up on the visitors’ side, and my stomach tenses. I don’t normally go out of my way to avoid him at our daughter’s games, but the last thing I can handle is Mayor Sanders tonight, especially after the gut-wrenching conversation I had with Holly’s parents earlier. Thankfully, he hasn’t noticed me yet, too busy yelling plays at Isla that she can’t hear—and, even if she could, she’d ignore.
Donna sees me, though, and offers a delayed wave.
I respond with a nod—our standard “Let’s be civil for the children’s sake.” At least with her and Tanner here, Dillon’s less likely to hunt me down. Still, I’m not in the mood for conversation, and if I go up into those stands, that’s all it’ll be.
I veer to the left and around the various small clusters of dads who also prefer watching at ice level, aiming for the far end of the rink. It’s the perfect hiding spot.
That’s where I find Logan leaning against the glass.
I stop dead, startled. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at me for an unnaturally long time.
I repeat myself. “What are you—”
“Watching the game.” Intense eyes drag down over my winter coat and boots. It’s been weeks since I saw him. A thick layer of stubble coats his jaw. Is he growing a beard or is he lazy? Either way, it works on him. Dillon tried to grow a beard several times, but it always came in patchy.