Page 21 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

“Yes.”

“Heard you solved that Coldwater case.”

“I helped.”

He gave an impressed whistle.

“Glad you’re here.”

I sure as shit wasn’t. He continued walking. I watched him disappear around the corner before continuing toward the sheriff’s office. The brass nameplate on the door read:

SHERIFF THOMAS WALKER

I knocked once.

"Come in."

I stepped inside.

Sheriff Walker stood behind a polished oak desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, a smile already waiting for me. Late fifties. Broad shoulders that hadn't surrendered to age. Silver threaded through neatly combed dark hair. Pressed uniform. Wedding band. The kind of smile that came easily. Too easily. Too practiced. He rounded the desk and held out his hand.

"Detective Reed. Took you long enough."

I shook it. Strong grip but soft hands. Interesting.

"Long trip?"

"I've had longer."

He chuckled as though I'd made a joke. I hadn't. Walker gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

"Please."

I stayed where I was.

"I'd rather hear why you requested me."

For the briefest moment, his smile faltered. Then it returned.

"Straight to business."

"I didn't drive six hours for small talk."

"I had a feeling you weren't the type."

He leaned against the edge of his desk instead of sitting, folding his arms.

"We've had eight women disappear over the last eight months. Four of those disappearances happened within the last month. At first, we thought it was random. Four women each disappearing weeks from each other. Maybe they took a wrong trail or ran from their family. But then four more in four months and it no longer became a random missing’s case. No ransom demands, no witnesses and no bodies. State police came through. The FBI reviewed everything we had."

He shook his head.

"Nothing."

The office fell quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows.

"We're a small town, Detective. We're used to drunk drivers, domestic disputes, missing dogs, kids spray-painting stop signs." He let out a tired breath. "Not this."

He bent down, pulled a heavy archive box from the bottom drawer, and set it on the desk with a dull thud. The cardboard sagged beneath the weight of its contents. Files, photographs, witness statements, maps, evidence logs. Eight months of frustration packed into one box. Walker rested a hand on the lid.