I brush the leaves away and finally get a look at what caught the bird. The buckle must have been in just the right position for it to slip its foot under the edge while looking for food. I move enough leaves to reveal the buckle is attached to something. A piece of thick brown leather looks almost like a tiny belt, but as I move it further, I realize it's a dog collar attached to a metal chain. Tugging it up, I find the end of the chain. It's wrapped around a nearby tree.
A chill creeps along my spine again, and I bury the chain back where I found it. It's still only mid-afternoon, but the wind is picking up and the temperature getting sharper. I feel ice in the air, just waiting to fall. This is going to be one of those years I spend longing for palm trees and the blistering heat of water park concrete on my feet right up until I can go outside without even thinking about a jacket.
My feet move faster along the path until I reach the spot where I first stepped onto it. I start further down it but stop when I realize it’s curving away from the direction of the cabin. Just as I expected, the service on my phone is spotty at best out here, so I decide to turn back. Now is not the time for me to get lost out in the woods. Not that there's really ever a time for that to be a good idea. But I'd rather it happens when I'm better prepared.
I climb off the path and head back through the woods how I came. My hands are numb, and my feet feel heavy in my boots when I make it back to the cabin. Thoughts of a huge bowl of soup and a cup of tea beckon me, but that promise disappears the instant I get to the porch.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I take the small white notecard out from where it's sticking out of the doorframe.
“I need to speak with you. Please come to the station when you get this.”
There's no signature on the note, but there's also no question about who wrote it. The only person in town who would both want to speak with me and would have enough of an ego not to give his name or offer even a hint of respect to my schedule.
Chief LaRoche.
Chapter Ten
Conceivably speaking, I could just pretend I didn't get the note. Just having the corner of the note stuck in between the door and the frame is a tenuous connection at best. It very easily could have gotten swept up by the wind and fluttered off into the woods. I could release it into the wild and let it return to its tree ancestors while I hibernate for the rest of the day.
Or I could acknowledge my sleep deprivation is getting to me and will only get worse when the Chief comes storming to the cabin when I don't respond to his beckoning. As much as I hate the thought of following orders when the man snaps his fingers at me, I hate even more the thought of him banging on the door and dragging me out of the cocoon I have every intention of hiding in if I spend more than five minutes inside.
I groan and let myself into the cabin only long enough to shuck my outer layer of clothes and grab my keys. What the hell does he want with me? It's an unfortunate reality that there are several different options for what the police chief might want to drag me in to talk about. I'm used to juggling a variety of tangled webs being my reality, but this man throws me off balance. He doesn't know who I am or why I'm in his town, and I feel like I'm at a disadvantage because I have no idea what he wants to talk about. Being undercover is about staying a step ahead, and I can't do that when I don't even know what I'm walking into. But I have my suspicions.
I walk up to the reception desk when I get to the police station and wait for Esther to look up at me.
“Hi. I'm here to see Chief…”
“Come back to my office,” LaRoche calls from the doorway to the back of the station.
“And there he is. Chipper as ever. Thank you, Esther.”
I follow Chief LaRoche down the hall to his office and drop down into the hard, wooden chair at his desk.
“Where were you?” he asks, coming around the desk to sit in his own thickly cushioned chair.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
He leans back, and his eyes rove up and down me. I might feel offended if I thought there was anything behind the look other than disdain. And maybe a healthy dose of suspicion. The longer I look at him, the more the suspicion and offense both creep up the back of my neck.
“I don't think it's that challenging a question, Ms. Monroe. I went to the cabin where you are staying, and you weren't there. Where were you?”
There's a lilt to the way he says the name, and I narrow my eyes slightly. He seems unsure, the suspicion shifting from what I did to who I am. My body tenses. Could he have found out why I'm here? It's not like Creagan's choice for name and backstory are all that creative. Not that it matters much. It's not illegal to be FBI in public. But the way he says it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“I don't think that's any of your business,” I state flatly.
“It is my business when I'm trying to protect the people of my town from what could be a serial killer.”
“That was a very compelling assertion. Throw in a ten-gallon hat and I might even believe it. But here's the thing. Didn't you in not so flattering terms tell me I'm not one of the people of your town? Just someone passing through?” I ask.
He leans back further in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach as he stares at me. The smirk on his face makes me dislike him even more.
“You're right. Which makes me want the answer to my question even more. I don't much like a stranger lurking around and not being honest about what she's been up to.”
“I don't have to tell you anything,” I say.
He draws in a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. When he lets it out, he gives a single nod.
“I've been looking into the dead man on your porch,” he says.
“You dragged me down here to grill me about something I've already told you I know nothing about?”
“I didn't drag you…”
“He wasn't there the last time I checked,” I snap, cutting him off before he can spiral into a self-important speech. “Unless you put him back, I don't think it really has anything more to do with me than it did the last time we spoke.”
I hope my voice is convincing. He can't know about the note hidden in the drawer of the nightstand in the cabin or the name scrawled across it. He can't know I need the information about that man even more than he does, or why. But I need every word LaRoche might have about him.
“I would really like to think that, Ms. Monroe, but you have to understand what this looks like.”
“No, Chief. What does it look like? As far as I can tell, this man doesn't fit in with the other disappearances or the murders. The last time we spoke, you said you didn't even know who he is.”
The chief opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a slip of paper. He slid it across the desk toward me.
“Does this name mean anything to you?”
I look down at the paper.
“Ron Murdock?” I shake my head. “No. I've never heard it.”
“Seems nobody else has, either. At least, not when it comes to him. Which leaves me wondering why that's the name he used for the hotel room he rented three towns over.”
“How do you know he rented a hotel room?” I raise an eyebrow in doubt.
“Surveillance video.” He tips his face down to look at me through lowered lids and licks his lips in a slimy way that makes me cringe. “I guess we know a little bit more about the investigation than you want to give us credit for.”