Chapter 3

The salt-laden breeze from the nearby Atlantic wafted through the open door of the Cape Canaveral Police Station as I stepped inside, the sterile light reflecting off my polished FBI badge. The lobby was a muted tableau of beige and gray, punctuated by the occasional splash of color from "Wanted" posters and community announcements.

"I"m here to see the detective in charge of the Chapman case," I announced to the lady behind the counter.

"Agent Thomas," her voice cut through the formality like a knife through butter, her eyes not even glancing at the offered ID. "No need to show me your badge. I know who you are." Her fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up information with an efficiency that spoke of years behind that desk. "That"ll be Detective Ryan," she murmured, pressing the phone receiver to her ear. A beat passed before she motioned me forward. "Go right in."

The detective's office was a stark contrast to the antiseptic environment outside—papers strewn about, a whiteboard filled with scribbles and lines connecting various points of interest. The man himself, Detective Ryan, looked up from his cluttered desk, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution.

"FBI Agent Thomas," he acknowledged, leaning back in his chair, sizing me up with a detective"s practiced eye.

"Detective Ryan," I nodded.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"What can you tell me about the Chapman case?"

"Chapman?" He snorted, shuffling papers as if to emphasize the mundanity of it all. "Why the sudden interest in that case? It"s not exactly FBI material. Wife shoots husband in bed. Open and shut. They had a fight. He had kicked her out. She was angry. Wait. Are you here to steal my case?" There was a defensive edge to his tone, the kind honed by too many years watching outsiders sweep in and claim the glory.

"Steal?" I echoed, feeling the weight of jurisdictional politics. "No, I just need to take a look at it."

"Look all you want from afar, Agent Thomas," he bristled, standing now, the energy in the room shifting to something akin to two rams butting heads. "But I do mind. I know how you people are. You can"t just waltz in here, big-shot FBI agent, and snatch my case from under me."

"Detective Ryan," I began, trying to infuse my voice with calm reason, "I might be able to help?—"

"No way," he cut across, stepping closer, his shadow falling over the paperwork between us, turning it into a landscape of grays. "Don"t come in here all high and mighty thinking you can just steal my case. This is mine. Now, if you"d please leave."

"Of course," I said, but anger curled within me like smoke. The detective had made his stance clear; this was his turf, his victory or defeat to claim. But at what cost?

I turned and walked out, each step echoing my frustration. The door closed behind me with a click that sounded far too final, leaving me standing there, the taste of thwarted opportunity bitter on my tongue. But there was no way that was going to stop me. I would do this my own way. Sarah was my friend. I had to make sure justice was served in her case, and I had a distinct feeling that wasn"t happening. I knew I had to take matters into my own hands, and that was something I wasn't afraid to do.