Kimberly Van Meter - The Killer You Know

“I’d like to take Dr. Lyons’s suggestion for a little time off.”

Oppenshaw’s jaw tensed. “Fortuitous timing,” she commented drily. “You previously declined therapeutic time off.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Bullshit. You want to go chase down this case.”

He remained silent, knowing his boss’s hands were tied.

The last case had left everyone on the team shaken. And if the Bureau doc had suggested some leave, it was her duty to sign off on it.

It was the kinder, gentler Bureau.

And Silas was going to take full advantage.

Because there was nothing that would keep Silas from investigating that case in Port Orion.

Oppenshaw swore under her breath, conceding the inevitable but she had some stipulations of her own. “You go to Port Orion, you go without your badge. You’re not going to use your federal status to open doors. If you go for anything more than a visit home to walk down Memory Lane, then you’re doing it completely off-books.”

Silas leaned forward. “My brother’s killer went free. His death shattered my family. The strain of a failed investigation ruined my parents’ marriage. If there’s even a slim chance that this case is connected, I’ll do whatever I have to do to chase it down. You’re right—I’m biased. No one wants to solve my brother’s cold case more than me. I was supposed to be watching him. He died because of me. You think that doesn’t stick with me every single damn day?”

Oppenshaw held his stare for a long moment then exhaled in irritation. She wasn’t known for being a pushover but Silas was one of her best team members.

“All right. I’ll give you a few days to go up there, check things out. You can take your credentials but you’re not to step on the local investigation unless you find something that warrants federal jurisdiction. If you don’t find anything, you come home. Got it?”

Silas nodded, knowing that was the best offer he was going to get. “I’m taking the first flight out.”

“Keep me informed. I want to know every move you make. This has the potential to blow up in our faces. You know local authorities don’t take kindly to the FBI poking their nose where it’s not justified and I don’t need that kind of grief right now.”

Silas agreed, thanked Oppenshaw and left.

His mind was already moving, already preparing to face his childhood home. Unlike his brothers, he hadn’t been back. Although no one blamed him for Spencer’s death, Silas blamed himself.

And the guilt was a familiar weight on his shoulders.

If he could finally find justice for Spencer, nothing would stop him.

He owed Spencer that.

Solving his brother’s murder wasn’t going to bring Spencer back...but it might make it easier for Silas to look in the mirror every day.

At least he hoped.

Silas’s worst fear was that, win or lose, he would carry his little brother on his back until the day he died.

Because nothing could erase the shame of letting your family down in such a grievous way.

There was no “I’m sorry” deep enough to change the fact that Spencer was dead because Silas had ditched him that summer day twenty years ago.

* * *

Quinn Jackson held her notebook and clutched her pen tightly so as not to betray the shaking in her fingers.

This was her big break.

Finally.

This was the kind of story that she’d dreamed about, the kind that made careers, with the potential to take her away from Point Orion and on to something bigger. Maybe even out of Washington State altogether.

The New York Times was probably a stretch but she liked to aim big.

But the pressure to make something happen—and keep the story fresh without the bigger news outlets scooping her—was immense.

“Can you tell us about the victim?” Quinn asked, angling for a better spot in front of the sheriff as he addressed the throng of reporters crowding the station. “How did she die? Preliminary reports say that the victim is Rhia Daniels, a junior at Point Orion High. Can you confirm this information?”

Sheriff Lester Mankins scowled at Quinn’s question but read from a prepared statement. “At 0600 hours this morning, the body of a young girl was found in Seminole Creek. Cause of death has not been determined. We will release the identity of the victim after the next of kin has been notified. That’ll be all.”

Quinn frowned at the sparse information but waited for the television reporters to file out before chasing after the sheriff, catching him before he disappeared behind the security door.

He started talking before she could. “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, Quinn Jackson. I gave you all the information I’m going to.”

“C’mon, Lester, you have to give me something that the others don’t have. I’m trying to make a career move here. Bigger news outlets don’t want to see a portfolio filled with potluck dinners, Little League pictures and city council squabbles about cobblestones. I need something big and this is the biggest thing since...well, in a very long time and you know it.”

Lester had known her her entire life. He was a good friend of her uncle Leo’s and, thus, a frequent visitor to her uncle’s place.

And right now that connection was her ticket to information no one else had.

Unless Lester continued to be a stick in the mud.

Lester fixed a stern stare on her. “Quinn...a girl is dead. As much as I want to help you find your way to bigger and better things, we have to remain cognizant of the fact that a young lady isn’t going home to her family. Forgive me if your ambition is going to have to take a backseat.”

Okay, so that wasn’t entirely out of line but Quinn couldn’t let a setback derail her. That was not what the professionals did.

“I’m sorry, that was terrible of me. I really want justice for this poor girl. I mean, someone snuffed out her life and the local press can help put some pressure on. Just one nugget, Lester. Please? Just one.”

“No,” he answered before closing the door behind him.

She stared, unable to believe that Lester had stonewalled her like that. Quinn chewed the inside of her cheek, a habit she’d picked up in grade school when she was confounded, and wondered what was so special about this case that Lester couldn’t give her a tiny tidbit of information, separate from the boilerplate he was giving everyone else.

Well, he hadn’t denied that it was Rhia Daniels. So she’d start there. But first...she wanted to see the crime scene.

Seminole Creek was a tributary to the inlet and a popular swimming hole with the locals—in the summer.

It wasn’t exactly swimming weather right now.

Quinn wound her scarf more snugly around her neck and burrowed into it. The wind pushing off the water of Puget Sound made for some brisk air. It was the kind of damp that dug into your bones and stayed there.

The weather was one reason Quinn was ready for a change of scenery. Washington was so wet and melancholy. Sure, it was green and “pretty” but for people with Seasonal Affective Disorder, it was the pits.

Quinn didn’t have SAD, but that was beside the point. It was a real problem for some people. And just because she didn’t have SAD, didn’t mean she enjoyed the constant rain. There was more to life than galoshes and rain jackets.

And the smell of fish...yuck. Not a fan.

I know, I know, how can I live on the coast and gag at the smell of fish?

Because Quinn suspected, in a past life, she’d been more of an arid desert kind of dweller because a dry heat didn’t bother her at all.

However, high humidity...made her lungs seize.

She climbed into her Jeep and made her way to Seminole Creek. News vans passed her on the road going the opposite direction and she was glad. She didn’t want to share any clues she might pick up with the bigger outlets.