Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
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.”
The medicine cabinet door hung open. The mirror had been shattered, with jagged remnants still clinging to the edges. A few shards had fallen into the sink and across the counter. All three vanity drawers had been removed and placed on the floor near the tub. The contents—personal items, toiletries, over-the-counter medications—had been dumped into the sink basin. A plastic cup lay on its side near the faucet.