He had tried reasoning with the first man who brought him there.
He had tried demanding to see a lawyer.
He had even tried shouting until his throat hurt.
None of it had worked.
The man had listened without expression, then told him that everything would be easier if Marcus stopped asking questions.
Now the footsteps were returning.
Marcus stood immediately.
He recognized the rhythm.
Three slow steps, a pause, then two more.
The door opened.
Aaron Pike entered carrying a small paper bag and a bottle of water. He placed both on the desk without speaking.
Marcus looked at the bag.
“What is it?”
“Food.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway.”
Marcus remained where he was.
Pike studied him for a moment before taking a chair beside the desk.
The deputy was in his early forties, with a broad face, graying hair, and an expression that could appear friendly when he wanted something. Marcus remembered seeing him at his father's funeral. Pike had stood near the back of the church, offered a brief handshake, and told the family that Michael Reed had been a good man.
At the time, Marcus had believed him.
Now he was not sure he had ever understood what a good man looked like.
“Where am I?” Marcus asked.
Pike ignored the question.
“Your father left you something.”
He placed a black notebook on the desk.
Marcus stopped breathing for a moment.
He recognized the notebook immediately. Its cover had a small tear near the bottom corner, and the edges of several pages were stained from years of use.
It had belonged to his father.
Marcus had spent months searching for it after Michael's death. He had looked through the garage, the storage room, and every box of paperwork his mother had kept.
The notebook had never appeared.
“How did you get that?” Marcus asked.
Pike leaned back.
“That isn't important.”
“It belonged to my father.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find it?”
Pike looked toward the door.
“Your father was involved in things he didn't fully understand.”
Marcus felt anger rising through his exhaustion.
“My father was a deputy sheriff.”
“That doesn't mean he understood everything happening inside the department.”
“He knew enough to write things down.”
For the first time, Pike's expression changed.
It was subtle, but Marcus noticed.
A tightening around the mouth.
A brief narrowing of the eyes.
“You've been reading his notes,” Pike said.
Marcus did not answer.
“Who have you shown them to?”
“Nobody.”
Pike gave him a skeptical look.
“Then why did you contact the federal government?”
Marcus felt his stomach tighten.
He had not told anyone in the sheriff's department that he had contacted a federal prosecutor.
He had sent the message from a library computer and used a temporary email address. He had followed the instructions carefully, believing that those precautions would protect him.
Yet Pike knew.
Marcus forced himself to remain still.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Don't insult me.”
“I'm not.”
Pike opened the notebook.
Several pages had been marked with narrow strips of paper. He turned to one of them and placed his finger beneath a handwritten entry.
“Tell me what this means.”
Marcus glanced at the page.
He recognized his father's handwriting immediately.
The entry contained a date, a vehicle identification number, and a short sentence.
Transfer authorized after midnight. No receiving signature. Harlan says the original must disappear.
Marcus had read that sentence dozens of times.
He had never understood what it meant.
“I don't know,” he said.
Pike studied his face.
“You expect me to believe your father wrote something like this and never explained it to you?”
“He wrote in that notebook for years. I didn't read everything.”
“That's convenient.”
“It's the truth.”
Pike closed the notebook.
“Your father was a decent officer. He believed the department could be fixed from the inside. He thought that if he documented every mistake, someone would eventually do the right thing.”
He shook his head.
“That was his problem.”
Marcus stared at him.
“What happened to my father?”
Pike's expression hardened.
“Your father died in a highway accident.”
“That's what the report says.”
“Because that's what happened.”
“Then why are you keeping me here?”
The question hung between them.
Pike looked down at the notebook.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to decide what to say.
Finally, he stood.
“Eat your food. Someone will speak with you later.”
Marcus stepped toward him.
“Wait.”
Pike stopped at the door.
“Did my father know he was going to die?”
The deputy's hand tightened around the door handle.
Marcus watched him carefully.
“Did he tell you he was afraid?”
Pike turned halfway.
“Your father was afraid of a lot of things.”
“Was he afraid of you?”
Pike's face changed.
For one brief moment, Marcus saw something that looked almost like shame.
Then it disappeared.
“You should stop asking questions about things you don't understand.”
The door closed.
The lock turned.
Marcus remained standing in the center of the room.
He looked at the paper bag on the desk, then at the notebook.
He had been frightened before Pike arrived.