Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(69)

“Look at him! He’s not in any shape to—”

“No.” Connor steps back. He takes the blanket off. It seems to me that my son grows inches in that moment, that he ages years, and it breaks off pieces my heart. “Mom, I need to go. Sam needs me to tell the truth. I’m okay.” He isn’t, but I know I can’t protect completely from this.

I focus back on the cop. “He’s a minor,” I say. “I’m going with him. My daughter comes too; she’s not staying here by herself.” He can’t really argue with me about any of that, but he seems to be searching for a way. I don’t give him time. “I’ll drive him to the station.”

“Ma’am, he’s going to have to come with me.” He isn’t yielding on that point, I can tell. Because that’s something he can enforce, petty as it is. “He’s a critical witness to the murder of a police officer.”

“Fine,” I snap. “Then you take all of us.”

He can’t find a good reason to refuse, so we crowd into the backseat of the cruiser. There’s steel mesh between us and the policeman’s front seat, and—I know from experience—back doors that won’t open from the inside. We’re in a cage now. Right where they want us.

But there’s nothing else to be done, except start making moves of my own.

As we’re driven back to Wolfhunter, as night starts to close in on this depressing, devastating town, I start texting my contacts.

Every one of them.



I sit in the interview room while Connor gives his statement, and I am speechless to hear the scope of it . . . the discovery of the body. The ambush on the way back to the lodge. Sam’s actions. Connor doesn’t lie, as far as I can tell; he’s straightforward and open, even when he tells the detective—a local one I don’t know—that he didn’t see the actual shooting that Sam’s been accused of; he only looked around the tree when he heard the shot.

That doesn’t help Sam much, but I’m glad he doesn’t make up a story. It would be too easy for them to trip up a kid his age.

Brave as he’s been, Connor still drops his chin when the detective leaves the room, though, and I realize he’s crying. Finally, I think. I grab tissues and pass them over, and just let him work it out. I’m glad my son can cry.

When he’s finished, I say, “Don’t feel guilty, baby. Sam doesn’t want you to lie. You told the truth. That’s what matters.”

“I know,” he says. “But, Mom, they—the way they treated him . . .”

He still remembers how I was treated when I was arrested. It was probably gentler than how these local cops handled things, but it was traumatic enough to leave lasting marks on my children. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “I asked Hector Sparks to show up at the hospital and protect him in case the cops want to get a statement too soon. Mike Lustig is on his way to Wolfhunter as soon as he gets free. Kezia and Javier know what’s going on. Things will be fine. I promise.”

“Don’t promise,” he says, and gives me a sad little smile. “Sam doesn’t.” I wonder what that’s about, but I don’t let it take root. I can’t right now.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all this,” I tell him. “I know it feels bad. I know it reminds you of things that are hard to deal with.”

“It’s okay,” he says, though it’s obviously not. “I’m glad we found her. It wasn’t right for her to be just . . . left there. Like nobody cared at all.”

“She’s found now,” I tell him gently. “You and Sam did that for her.”

“She’s probably one of them. Those missing women.”

“She could be,” I say. “But we don’t know that.”

He just shakes his head. “I think she is.”

I don’t try to talk him out of it. I ask if he wants something to drink, and when he nods, I knock on the closed door and ask for a bottle of water. The bottle comes back in the hand of the same detective from before. He brings a printed-out statement with him, and he puts the bottle, the statement, and a pen in front of my son.

Connor automatically picks up the pen. I grab the paper. “What’s this?”

“We transcribed his statement, ma’am. It just needs his signature,” the detective says. I start reading. I don’t get two sentences in before I take the pen from Connor’s fingers and start marking up the paper. This transcription is more like a free paraphrasing. I shove it back at the detective. He’s not happy. “Ma’am, we took this directly from the recording . . .”

“I’ll bet,” I say, and take my phone out. “Here. Let’s play that game, shall we? Because I had my recorder running too.”

He clears his throat, stares at me for a few seconds, and then stands up and leaves the room without a word. Connor gives me a look. “Wow. Seriously? You recorded that?”

I don’t confirm or deny, just in case. I only smile.

When the statement comes back this time, it compares to what I remember from Connor’s account. I ask him to read it and correct anything that’s wrong. He does on one sentence, and then signs it. Before he passes it back, I take a quick picture of it.

That gets an even less happy response from the detective. I’m fairly sure they were going to try something else shady, but now that I have the picture, they can’t. Especially if I have the recording. Which I don’t, but they can’t be sure.