Instinct by Jason Hough (ebook reader web TXT) 📗

Hell, I didn’t even glance in the kitchen to see if Clara was working. She’ll be pissed if I didn’t say hi. But turning around, walking back in, and switching on the old Mary charm would just make me look even more out of sorts.

I resolve to do better. I’m going to be upbeat today and make my mark on this town.

By the time I reach the next shop I force myself to feel as if I’ve left not just the diner, but what happened last night, behind me. You are Silvertown’s only cop, I tell myself. Compartmentalize, stow it, and get back to business, Mary.

Sally Jones walks past me, her cute bob of red hair radiant in the morning sunlight. She’s a part-time Realtor and a full-time mom. It’s weird to see her without her babies, though. She has twin girls, still in diapers. I smile every time I see her with that double stroller she’s always pushing around. I don’t care who you are, you can’t not stop and coo over those adorable little munchkins. Today, though, she’s walking beside a man I’ve never seen. A tourist from the look of him.

“Morning,” I say, tipping my hat like John friggin’ Wayne.

“Good morning, uh, Officer,” she replies.

Doesn’t she know my name? I’ve met her like ten times. Whatever. I refuse to let it bother me. I march on, entering the station at 8:00 a.m. on the nose.

The place is dark and whisper quiet.

“Ms. Pascoe?” I call out. No response. Leaving my coat on its hook, I weave my way through the small office toward the cells. The door to hers stands open, and no one’s inside. “Katherine?” I try, louder this time. There’s a rustling sound from the rear of the building. Only storage rooms back there, and the old drunk tank from the days when Silvertown had nearly six times its current population.

Feeling the hair rise on the back of my neck, I make my way toward the sound. There are three storage rooms, doors all closed. Beyond them is the drunk tank, its door propped open by a little rubber wedge as the space needs perpetual airing out.

Another rustling sound, definitely coming from in there.

The grimy little cave hasn’t been used in… well, I have no idea actually. Certainly not since I moved to town. The room is like a communal shower. Yellowing tiles separated by grout gone black with mildew. I round the corner with my pistol drawn, not quite remembering when I unholstered it.

When I see her I immediately put the gun away.

She sits in the corner of the small room, wet hair dangling in front of her face. Her eyes are closed, her body dripping wet. Stark naked. Clasped in her hands is her phone, from which dangles the white cord of a pair of earbud-style headphones.

“Katherine?” I say it twice, quite loud the second time, and her head finally snaps up.

She covers her breasts with one hand, embarrassed and startled all at once. With her other hand she yanks the headphones from her ears, dropping the phone in the process. It clatters loudly on the tile floor.

“You okay?” I ask. I don’t avert my eyes, instead I’m looking her up and down for signs of trauma.

“Wanted to take a shower,” she says, defensive and shivering.

I glance around. There’s an old bar of soap beside her, but other than that and a bucket in the far corner that reeks of bleach, the room is empty. Her skin is dotted with droplets of water.

“Then why are you—”

She grimaces. “No towels.”

“Honey, this isn’t a shower, it’s a… never mind. Wait here.”

A quick march to the front of the building and I reach the bathroom, within which there’s an actual shower with soap and towels. I grab two of the latter and return to her, deciding for now to hold back the information that there’s a real shower in the front of the building. She accepts my gift gratefully, and I turn away while she wraps one around herself and begins to towel dry her hair.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask.

“In the car,” she admits.

Kyle was kind enough to tow the vehicle here so it wouldn’t have to sit at that old dirt parking lot overnight. Within ten minutes my guest is dressed in clean clothes and gratefully drinking a cup of Mr. Coffee. From the car she also grabbed a box of granola bars, one of which she tears open eagerly. It’s only then I realize I should have brought her breakfast from the diner. Too late now, I guess.

For the time being I leave her to her meal. Sometime this morning I’m going to have to figure out how to get her home.

On the middle of my desk is a sheet of paper. A Post-it Note is attached with the words “the deets you asked for—good luck” and Clara’s signature. On the paper itself is contact information for the deceased hiker’s parents. I scan it quickly, hoping they’ll be the answer to my Katherine Pascoe dilemma, but unfortunately the couple lives in Salt Lake City. I decide to hold off for an hour before I call them with the news.

It’s Saturday, and that means a stream of folks will be driving up from the city to see Lake Forgotten and buy some Big Foot trinkets. Freshly fallen leaves still blanket the twisty mountain road, but with any luck the cones I placed at that first hard corner will engender some caution. I don’t think I can deal with another accidental off-roader on Slippery Slope, especially since the last one tried to kill me.

The one plus about that bastard assaulting me in my own home is that Sheriff Davies is the one who’ll have to write the report. I’m the victim (a word I detest, but in police parlance it’s the appropriate one) in this case. Still, I expect he’ll want a detailed account from me, so I begin