Page 74 of Claimed By the Deputies

He follows me inside the house. As soon as we set foot in the hallway, the smell of blood hits me like a hammer in the chest. I exchange quick glances with the crime scene techs buzzing around. A sense of grief lingers here. Someone we all cared about was killed. This wasn’t some lesser-known townie. Not a drug addict or a girl who slipped through the cracks of a flawed system. This was Timothy Jackson, a man who devoted his life to doing good, to helping those drug addicts and girls who do what they have to do to survive.

“Mitch and Tyler are with Danica right now,” Lucas tells me as he checks his incoming messages. “The grief counselor is also present. Danica is obviously devastated.”

“Poor Dani.” I can’t even imagine her level of grief.

The sight of blood as I approach the kitchen stops me in my tracks.

So much blood.

On the kitchen table sits a bowl of milk and cereal. Cheerios. His favorite. I blink back tears as I carefully move around the scene, making mental notes of the crime tags while Gary bags the shell casing.

“He was having coffee and breakfast,” I mutter, my eyes darting everywhere.

Every single detail pops out. Every trace of the violence that occurred here screaming at me. For the first time in a while, I feel the kind of startling clarity that lets me read through the very fabric of the universe. I haven’t been this sharp in what feels like ages, but I welcome the rush. I welcome the speed with which my eyes, my nose, and my ears pick up on absolutely everything. Every drop of blood. Every footprint. Every strand of hair. Every streak of gunpowder residue.

Tim is with me.

The side door leads into the garden. It’s unlocked.

“Was that unlocked when the deputies got here?” I ask, pointing at the door.

Gary nods once. “Yes. Closed but unlocked. We dusted for fingerprints, hoping to find a match. Everything will be put on a rush to the lab.”

“What about the driveway?”

“What about it?”

“Any traces of gas or motor oil? Skid marks of any kind?” I ask. “There’s a hint of leather, smoke, and motor oil here.” I pause near Tim’s bloodied chair. “Not just gunpowder residue.”

Lucas gives me a curious look. “Leather and motor oil?”

“And sweat,” I add, pointing to the top of the chair at a gray smudge on whitewashed wood. “The killer touched the chair, right there. How was Tim seated when they found him?”

Gary exhales sharply, reluctant to answer. He looks at Lucas, who nods. “Sitting up, head tilted backward.”

“And the gunshot?”

“He was shot in the back of the head.” He pauses. “But whiplash doesn’t account for it, not from that angle. Whoever killed Tim made sure he’d be sitting. The blood pool on the table accounts for him collapsing onto it after he was shot.”

Nausea unfurls in the back of my throat and I look away. “Dammit.”

“Are you okay? We can step out.” Lucas is quick to reach my side.

“No, I’m okay. I can do this.” I take a deep breath, inhaling another whiff of motor oil. I look down. “You photographed that boot print, right?”

“Yes,” Gary replies.

“You should be able to lift some dirt samples, too.”

“Already made a note of it. I’m just wrapping up the fingerprint dusting first.”

As I turn around to face the unfinished breakfast again, I swallow my tears before delivering my conclusion. “Heavysmoker. Leather jacket. Motor oil on his boots. We all know he’s probably a Silver Stallion, but a faulty motorcycle that’s leaking oil might help narrow down the search.”

“Shit,” Lucas gasps, looking at his phone. “Sherry’s boyfriend.”

“What about Sherry’s boyfriend?” I ask in a low voice.

Hers is the last name I was expecting to hear, but my interest is piqued, and so is Gary’s. We both stare at Lucas, eyes wide and mouths agape as we wait for his response.

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