Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(57)

“If you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.” She glances backward and drops her volume. “Connor apologized, by the way.”

“He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Not that badly, anyway.”

“I know.” She sighs. “He’s like hugging a tumbleweed, Mom.”

“So are you.”

She grins, and I can’t help but smile back. “It’s a family trait,” she says. “You’re more barbed wire though.”

“Damn right,” I say, and hold up a fist for a bump. She rolls her eyes. “Not cool anymore?”

“Let’s just go,” she says. “Connor says Sam’s taking him for a walk in the woods.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to go with them instead . . . ?”

“Duh. I put on makeup, didn’t I?”

She’s right, half a mile in this heat would melt that carefully applied shadow and eyeliner into a streaky, sweaty mess. “Then let’s go.”

I second-guess myself through the entire drive to the county lockup. Strong and capable as she is, my daughter isn’t an adult. If the last year and our brushes with Absalom and the father of my children have taught me anything, it’s that my kids are brave, and smart, but they don’t always do the wise thing. The safe thing.

And they probably get that from me.

The county lockup is more secure than the Wolfhunter PD office, and I have to present identification at a guard gate before I’m given a parking permit and waved into the lot. There are at least thirty other vehicles in the parking lot; most seem to have gotten rough usage. I pull in as close as I can to the front row and turn to my daughter. “Okay,” I say. “Now you have to get very serious, do you understand me? This is not a game. And this is not a safe thing to we’re about to do.”

She nods slowly. “I know.”

“Do you?” I search her expression. “I’m not joking around with you, Lanny. You need to do what I tell you, the guards tell you, the lawyer tells you. No arguments and no hesitation. If there is any trouble, you get down and stay safe, and do not stop for me. Understand?”

I’m scaring her, I can see that. Good. She needs to be scared right now. She doesn’t say anything, but she nods again.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go. Don’t make me sorry I agreed to this, okay?”

We make the short, hot walk from the parking lot to the heavy doors of the county jail. Once inside, we find a well-lit reception area with a massive, intimidating counter that runs the entire length of the room. It’s old wood, with a more recent addition of bullet-resistant glass stretching from the counter up to the ceiling. There’s just one window open, and a line of four people ahead of us. It takes a while. I don’t see Hector Sparks anywhere, and there’s no sign of Detective Fairweather. We get credentials—though the woman behind the counter gives my daughter a long, judging stare—and go sit on one of the benches. It doesn’t take long before our badge numbers are called, and we’re directed to a door at the end of the counter that buzzes. A sign says PULL ONLY WHEN BUZZING OR ALARM WILL SOUND. I wonder how often they have to deal with that? Often enough to put up a sign.

Detective Fairweather is waiting in the hall. He does not look pleased, and when he sees that Lanny is with me, for a moment he looks downright pissed off. It doesn’t last long, and then he nods to both of us. “Ms. Proctor. And who’s this?”

“Lanny,” I say.

“Her assistant,” Lanny says, and dares him to deny it. He gives her a long stare, then transfers it back to me. Placing the blame where it belongs.

“This is no place for a kid,” he says.

“Odd, because you’re keeping a girl the same age here,” I reply. “My daughter may be valuable if we need Vee to really open up about what happened inside that house.”

“And you think your daughter should hear that?”

I don’t even blink. “I guarantee you, Detective, she’ll be fine.”

At least he doesn’t bother to argue, not that he could block her if he wanted to, because just at that moment I see Hector Sparks coming down the hall behind him. The lawyer is in his shirtsleeves, no coat, and he looks a little overheated. “There you are,” he says, and pauses. I see him take in my daughter standing behind me. It’s only a second, and then his attention returns. “Come this way. Our visiting time is limited.”

“By what?” Lanny asks before I can.

“My appointments,” Sparks says, which is an odd thing to say; surely the rest of the cases he’s handling can’t be as urgent as a fifteen-year-old girl with her life at risk. But he turns and walks away before I can ask, and we follow. Detective Fairweather doesn’t.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he calls after me, and I hold up my hand to acknowledge that I’ve heard him. If he tries my cell phone, he’ll get nothing; I’ll have to call him instead. I prefer that, really.

As we go down the long, straight hallway toward the locked gate, offices open up on the left—bare, windowless rooms with desks and filing cabinets and virtually nothing that allows any humanity. Not a single Beanie Baby or fluffy unicorn calendar. No pictures of families. I suppose it’s smart; it keeps everything strictly businesslike and deters any kind of personal ties that employees might be tempted to form, especially with inmates.