Free Atonement by Winter Austin Page B

was here. And so was Walker—his squad car was parked in his “rightful” spot in front of the building. Her attitude soured. Two more people she had no patience to deal with today. Would she ever cut a break?
    She pulled off her sunglasses as she strode through the building’s entry. Walker glanced at her, scowled, and then returned to whatever he was doing. The sheriff’s door was shut, and the newbie, Jennings, was nowhere to be seen. Nic removed her hat and headed for her desk, depositing the sunglasses and cap next to her computer.
    She was about to sit when the sheriff’s door opened and both Hamilton and O’Hanlon exited. The expressions on their faces made her pause and straighten. Had O’Hanlon told her boss about what happened last night, or the night before? Her gaze flicked to Walker, and she noted the bruise on the side of his face. She pinched the bridge of her nose and resisted the urge to groan.
    O’Hanlon made a beeline for her, bypassed her desk, and beckoned for her to follow with a crook of his finger. Frowning, she checked with Hamilton—he waved her forward—and then took off after the detective to the file room in the back of the department. For the first time, Nic saw the folder in his hand.
    When they were both tucked inside the room, he closed the door and motioned for her to sit at the table, where he joined her. O’Hanlon opened the folder and spread the reports across the tabletop.
    “What’s going on?” she asked when he pulled out a file drawer.
    “Your boss suspects the Walker and Moore cases might be connected.”
    Floored, Nic pressed into the backrest. “What?”
    He withdrew an audio file and set it on the table with the reports. “The sheriff recorded his conversations with Dusty Walker. We need to listen to them and go over Seth Moore’s suicide note carefully.”
    “Looking for what?”
    “Why two men who apparently have nothing in common would state the same things right before they died.”
    “Wait. What brought this on? I thought both situations were cut and dried. Walker killed his wife, and I had to stop him. Moore committed suicide.”
    O’Hanlon placed the audio disk in the CD drive of the lone laptop in the entire department. “Not so cut and dried. Did you find out what that corner piece of a label was for?”
    “Doc Drummond said Moore never took out a prescription with him or any doctor in recent years. According to Doc, Moore had a strict no-medication policy. He wouldn’t even take the over-the-counter stuff after he got stitches. And the corner piece wasn’t from the housekeeper—she’s not taking meds for any reason.”
    “Maybe it was left there by someone who helped Moore remodel the place.”
    Nic shrugged. It was a possibility, but it didn’t settle with her. Perhaps the sheriff’s suspicions needed checking into. She pulled a report closer, saw that it was hers on the shooting, and shoved it back into the line. No sense rereading what she still had replaying in her mind.
    As the CD began to whirl inside the laptop, Nic’s muscles tensed. The sane, healthy side of her brain told her to get out of the room and protect her fragile mind from the onslaught of what led to her shooting Dusty Walker. Then the side demanding satisfaction countered with the argument that she deserved to hear what led the sheriff to give her the go-ahead to take the shot, if for nothing more than to find justification in her actions and help her sleep better at night. She settled deeper into the chair.

Chapter Nine
    Nic had all the signs of an impending panic attack. Listening to Dusty’s stark-raving-mad ramblings about atoning for the sins of his family and being sanctified before God pulled her back to the rhetoric she heard in Afghanistan and Iraq. She swore she could taste the dust and smell the stench of unwashed bodies. Hear the wails of the grieving after the Taliban claimed more lives.
    The recordings faded, replaced by the rapid, often angry, patois of