Page 44 of Dirty Cowboy

He sighs, shaking his head. “How’s Fred doing? He hasn’t visited in years. Mister big-city forgot the good old days on the farm?”

I chuckle. “No, he just retired a few years ago. He’s finishing his third round of chemo now.”

The Sheriff’s smile fades. “Damn. I’m sorry to hear that. Please give him my best.”

“I will.”

Simon sets down his coffee mug. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I’m interested in anything you have on John Huntz.”

The mood shifts instantly. Grandpa and the Sheriff exchange a look, the kind that carries more weight than words.

Simon exhales, rubbing his jaw. “John Huntz shook this town awake almost three decades ago, on November 16th, at four in the morning, the day after Harvest Fest. Eric and Annabelle were lucky to come out alive.”

A gust of wind howls outside, rattling the door.

“Do you have anything in the evidence room?” I ask.

Simon gestures toward a plain wooden door. “Let’s take a look. But I’ll tell you now, we never found much. That bastard’s still walking free because there wasn’t enough to hold him.”

As we step into the back room, I brace myself for a wall of neatly stacked case files.

Instead, I’m met with three dusty boxes.

Three.

For over two hundred years of crime in Lords Valley.

Grandpa clears his throat. “It’s a peaceful town.”

I blink. “Three boxes? That’s it?”

The Sheriff shrugs. “Evidence from all crimes in Lords Valley.”

Unbelievable.

“You won’t find much on Huntz.”

A soft voice pulls my attention to the doorway.

A woman stands there, her long brunette hair pulled back and held with a yellow hair clip. Her pale skin contrasts against the deep blue of her skirt, and there’s something guarded in her expression.

“Hello, Misty,” Grandpa greets, removing his hat.

“Mr. Waters.” She nods before glancing at me.

“This is Emma Silver,” Grandpa says. “Eric’s fiancée. Maybe you can show her what she’s looking for?”

Misty’s eyes flick to mine. “You’re looking for Huntz?”

I nod. “Have you seen him?”

She adjusts the clip in her hair, her fingers fidgeting. “He picks up his mail sometimes. That’s all.”

I don’t buy it.

Time to find out what Misty isn’t saying. She strides toward the shelving unit, her movements precise and controlled. She pulls a folder from one of the three evidence boxes, flipping through its contents with an unreadable expression.

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