Groundswell: Chapter Twenty

Kimball turned the gun over in his hand several times before setting it down on his desk.

Logan couldn’t read him. Did he suspect it wasn’t the same gun?

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes. We’ll get this back to you in about two or three weeks. Hopefully.”

Two or three weeks?

“I kind of need that,” said Logan. “Two or three weeks is a little inconvenient for me.”

Kimball smirked. “Well, that’s too bad. Law’s the law.”

“What law?”

Kimball rose from his chair and looked Logan square in the eye. “My law, Mr. Hayes. The only law that matters in this town.”

Logan knew he was right. He could keep that gun as long as he wanted, as potential evidence.

“I should’ve expected that,” said Logan. “Given your less-than-friendly reception of me.”

“Smart boy,” said Kimball. “You learn quick. Well, not quick enough, since you’re still here, but you’re learnin’.”

Logan bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do him any good to protest or deliver some scathing retort.

“Fine,” he said. He turned and left Kimball’s office, slamming the door shut behind him.

A lazy-looking slob of a cop with an untucked shirt and his feet up on his desk smirked and crunched a handful of Funyuns as he watched Logan storm out of the station.

Once he was outside, Logan checked his phone. He had multiple new texts, and they were all from Candy.

Got home and found this!!!!

He zoomed in on the picture she’d sent him. It took him a moment to recognize that it was of her living room. It’d been completely trashed.

And not trashed as in ransacked, as if someone had been looking for something, either. Subsequent pics showed shattered lamps, a TV wrenched loose and dangling from its wall mount, and broken windows. There was debris everywhere. The contents of the refrigerator had been hurled against the kitchen walls.

Scrawled across one wall, with angry, childlike steaks of red paint, were the words “DIE BITCH WHORE SLUT UR NEXT.”

Hello?? U see this shit???

What the duck should I do???


He called her.

Alright just calm down,” he told her when she picked up, before she had a chance to speak. He could hear the panic in her rapid, shallow breaths. “I’ll be right over.”

“That’s not all of it,” she said. “There’s… oh shit I can’t even talk about it. I didn’t want to send a pic of it. You have…” she started crying.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m getting in my car right now, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“You don’t understand,” she sobbed. “You have to see it.”

“On my way.” He ended the call and tossed his phone on the seat beside him.

Ordinarily, he’d have advised calling the police, but…

He glanced at the station in his rear view mirror as he waited to pull out of the parking lot.

…Not these cops.

Not these police.

Whoever did this was either Chance Miller’s murderer, or someone who wanted people to think he was. Or she was. Either way, there were clues hiding in plain sight, begging to be found. There always were. They always left something, especially when emotions were involved, as appeared to be the case based upon the level of anger on display in the photos.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again. He turned on the radio.

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