“His department placed me in a cell without identifying a lawful basis for doing so. I believe that is a matter for investigators to examine.”
“My client acted under circumstances that remain unclear.”
“Then your client should welcome a careful examination of those circumstances.”
The attorney glanced toward the sheriff.
Harlan stood near the front desk, speaking to another officer. His expression was composed again, but his shoulders were stiff.
The attorney lowered his voice.
“You understand that public allegations can damage reputations even when they prove unfounded.”
“I do.”
“Your office has not yet established that Sheriff Harlan committed a crime.”
“Correct.”
“Then perhaps we should avoid language that suggests otherwise.”
Evelyn held his gaze.
“I have not accused him of a crime in public. I have identified records that require preservation and questions that require answers. If your client wants to protect his reputation, the best course is to cooperate with a lawful investigation.”
The attorney nodded stiffly.
“I will convey your position.”
As he walked away, Walsh leaned closer.
“You have a remarkable ability to remain calm when people try to intimidate you.”
Evelyn looked at her.
“I used to think staying calm meant showing people they couldn't frighten me.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it means refusing to let their fear determine my next decision.”
Walsh considered that for a moment.
Then an investigator hurried into the corridor carrying a tablet.
“Agent Walsh, we found something.”
Walsh took the tablet.
“What is it?”
“The fleet system shows the SUV stopped outside an abandoned maintenance depot approximately fourteen miles east of town. It remained there for fifty-three minutes.”
“Can we confirm who was driving?”
“Not yet. The vehicle's location data is reliable, but the driver's identity is still based on the log.”
“Any cameras?”
“The depot has an old security system. We're checking whether the recordings survived.”
Evelyn stepped closer.
“Does the depot belong to the county?”
“No. It was privately owned, but the property was transferred to a holding company six years ago.”
“Who owns the company?”
The investigator looked at the screen.
“That's what we're trying to establish.”
Walsh handed the tablet back.
“Send a team to secure the site if we have lawful grounds. Don't enter without the appropriate authorization. Photograph the exterior, identify possible witnesses, and check whether the property has an active caretaker.”
The investigator nodded and left.
Evelyn looked toward the sheriff.
Harlan was watching them.
Their eyes met across the corridor.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the sheriff looked away.
Evelyn knew that look. It was not the expression of a man who had merely been embarrassed by an unexpected encounter.
It was the expression of someone trying to calculate how much another person already knew.
She turned back to Walsh.
“I think Marcus may have been taken there.”
“It's possible,” Walsh replied. “But we need evidence before we make that conclusion.”
“Agreed.”
“And if he was there, we need to know whether he is still alive and whether anyone else is involved.”
Evelyn nodded.
The thought she had been trying to suppress since entering the jail returned with terrible clarity.
Marcus was seventeen.
He had reached out because he believed the truth about his father's death had been buried. He had taken the risk of contacting a federal prosecutor because he thought the law might still be capable of protecting him.
Now his whereabouts were unknown.
Evelyn looked at the front doors, where the rain had begun to intensify.
“Find him,” she said quietly.
Walsh answered without hesitation.
“We will.”
But neither woman knew that, at that very moment, far beyond the courthouse and the town's familiar streets, Marcus Reed was sitting in a cold room with a broken clock on the wall.
He had no idea that federal agents had arrived in Bellhaven.
He did not know that Helen Price had kept copies of the records.
And he did not know that the sheriff's carefully constructed story was beginning to collapse.
He knew only that the man standing outside the locked door had finally returned.
And this time, he was carrying the notebook that had belonged to Marcus's father.
Marcus Reed had learned that fear changed the way time behaved.
In the beginning, every minute seemed endless. He counted the seconds between footsteps in the hallway, memorized the creaking sounds of the building, and watched the narrow strip of light beneath the door as it shifted whenever someone passed outside.
After several hours, however, the minutes began to blur together.
He could no longer tell whether he had been sitting in the room for two hours or six. The cold had settled into his fingers, and the headache behind his eyes had become a constant pressure.
The room had once been an office. A rusted filing cabinet stood against one wall, and a wooden desk covered in dust occupied the opposite corner. Someone had removed the handles from the windows, leaving only narrow openings that admitted a little gray daylight.
There was no telephone.
There was no clock that worked.
And there was no way for Marcus to know what had happened to the world beyond the locked door.