Page 10 of A Future To Remember

Up to this past fall, the county had a perfect record of closing their missing persons cases.

Abby was the exception…leave it to her.

I followed Oscar through the entrance and into the stale air of the central building, which was three times bigger than it needed to be, given its purpose.

Wheaton was pouring himself a cup of coffee and telling a story to his deputies that had them laughing.

It immediately ticked me off.

“Wheaton!” I called.

He glanced over his shoulder at us, then turned back to his deputies to finish the punchline.

I badly wanted to deliver my own punchline directly to his face.

Oscar took a step in front of me, probably sensing that I was close to losing my cool.

Wheaton told his joke, his deputies laughed—although one had the sense to do so nervously once he looked at my expression—then the lumbering slob turned and headed toward us.

“Vehicle’s been towed,” he said, by way of greeting.

Oscar and I traded confused glances.

My hands curled into fists. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s been taken to Sid’s Auto and Body Shop, at the west end of town.”

I ground my teeth. I was on the edge of totally losing my shit, but I wanted to verify the most important detail first. “I take it my wife wasn’t inside the vehicle?”

Wheaton cocked his head at me, like he was watching my reaction closely. “Nope.”

“We need details, Sheriff,” Oscar said. It was a good thing he interjected himself into the conversation because I was about to go Godzilla versus Tokyo on this dumbfuck’s ass.

Wheaton was still eyeing me suspiciously. I stared back with the fury of the gods. Finally, and never taking his gaze off me, he said, “The SUV was found just downstream from the Dalton Mountain Road Bridge.”

My fury turned to confusion. “We searched that area repeatedly. With scanners.”

We’d searched the river up and down for six miles. The Dalton Mountain Road Bridge was just about the midpoint of our search area.

“And yet . . .” Wheaton said, trailing off on purpose.

My fists squeezed together harder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

In answer, Wheaton turned on his heel and headed over to his desk, where he plucked a piece of paper off the top of a stack there and brought it back over to us. His wrist rested on the handle of his weapon, holstered to his rib cage, and as he came toward us, his stance was stiff, guarded, ready for action.

The two deputies—whose names I couldn’t remember, so I referred to them only as Mutt and Jeff—had both risen from their desks, their right hands casually resting on the holsters clipped to their waists.

Something was up.

And here I was with my gun safely tucked away in the truck outside.

I hadn’t left it behind out of carelessness; I’d done it out of self-preservation. I didn’t know how I’d react to the news that Abby was dead, and I didn’t trust myself to be anywhere near a weapon if or when that news ever came.

But Oscar was packing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him also casually lay his hand across the handle of the gun at his waist. Neither one of us trusted these assholes as far as we could throw them. Given their largess, that was two to three inches. Tops.

Wheaton stopped in front of me and his deputies moved to the side, flanking him. He held out the piece of paper to me, like it was a smoking gun with my DNA, fingerprints, and a signed confession on it.

I took the paper, staring down Wheaton, then his two deputies, before I looked at the paper.