Rafe surprised her with how fast he answered.
“Brittney’s case is interfering with an ongoing investigation into a local drug ring. In the last year, someone’s been bringing an increasing amount of cocaine into the area from Mexico. We’ve had double the arrests, and the hospitals have reported more drug-related visits. You remember Justin? My undercover friend? He’s afraid that with the recent police pressure to bring down the drug ring, whoever’s behind the operation will relocate. Meaning all his work would be for nothing. Which is why the art book hasn’t been high on Nathan’s list of priorities.”
He continued to speculate for the rest of the drive, mostly about what was inside the art book.
“The kid would have made a good sketch artist,” was Rafe’s final summation after Janie exhausted every detail she’d put to memory.
“A decent writer, too, if he’d been given the time to straighten up. He had me on the edge of my chair even before I realized what I was reading might be true.”
“Too bad you didn’t read the last two pages,” Rafe said.
There it was, the one thing that had been eating at Janie. Derek had handed in the art book on Wednesday, he’d died three days later on Saturday, and she’d she read his work the following Wednesday.
Four days too late to change the course of fate.
The ending of Derek’s old art book, the one they’d found in his room, was the work of regret; he was facing the truth. The pages at the beginning of Derek’s new art book, the one he’d given to Janie, was the work of redemption; he was confessing.
She stared out the Jeep’s window as they passed through Adobe Hills. It was a typical college town, basically Scorpion Ridge times ten. Adobe Hills had two bowling alleys, two box stores and a water park.
All Scorpion Ridge had was BAA and a couple of resorts.
When they reached the station, Rafe parked his truck next to the car of their police escort. After the last few days, Janie knew he was an open-the-door-for-the-lady kind of guy. He did so now, but before he helped her from the truck, he reached under the seat and pulled out an evidence bag.
“What is that?” Janie asked.
“The art book we found in Derek’s room.”
This whole time she’d been sitting above the book that read: I have to tell somebody. I can’t live with this. But whomever I tell will be in as much danger as me.
Without a word, Rafe directed her through the front door. Their escort disappeared almost immediately. The Adobe Hills police station’s waiting room was decorated in wanted posters, dirty handprints and aged flooring that had probably seen too many incoming and not enough outgoing. It boasted a somewhat restrained atmosphere of rigid professionalism combined with harsh reality.
Near a desk, an irate woman demanded her son’s release. On a chair, head back against the wall, a man who looked drunk snored and drooled. Next to him, completely comfortable and making herself at home, was an overweight woman reading a book. Every once in a while the woman nudged the man upright. In one corner, a group of young men—all sporting tattoos—sulked while impressing each other with loud four-letter words. All except one eyed her in a way that made her wish she had on more clothes, carried pepper spray and was anywhere save here. The one who didn’t stare had a completely different emotion in his eyes, an emotion Janie couldn’t read, one she wasn’t sure how she’d paint.
Her steps slowed.