Beneath These Walls by Shade Owens

Author:Shade Owens [Owens, Shade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

The police station doesn’t feel like a police station. The redbrick building feels like an old pizza shop that got new tenants.

Behind the counter is a young woman wearing a police uniform. Her hair is tucked neatly into a tight bun at the base of her skull, her hairline perfectly straight across her forehead.

“Hi there,” she says. “Do you have an appointment?”

She’s sitting behind an old wooden desk. No Plexiglass. No fancy security equipment. Nothing.

I thought there were only two cops in Thorn Lake?

Wyatt and Derek.

I spot a shiny nameplate next to a stack of papers and yellow folders.

Officer Teresa Diaz.

She’s even younger than Derek, which would make her somewhere in her early twenties—fresh out of her teenage years. She doesn’t smile at me, but she doesn’t scrutinize me the way Derek does, either.

“Oh, um, hi,” I say. “Yes. I received a call from W— Officer Daniels.”

“Ah, Wyatt,” she says.

So they’re on a first-name basis.

She rolls her chair back. “You must be Emma Collins. One second.”

She gets up, and moments later, Wyatt appears from behind a poorly painted blue door.

“Emma, please, come in,” he says.

I thank the young cop and follow Wyatt into what appears to be an office. He picks up a stack of papers off a peeling leather chair and offers me the seat.

“Thank you for coming in so quickly,” he says.

I don’t say anything.

He closes the door behind us and takes a seat at his desk. A soapy smell enters my nostrils, followed by the strong scent of coffee. I spot a brown Beans & Stuff cup next to his keyboard.

“I’m sorry,” he says, watching me. “Would you like a coffee? I can get Teresa to brew up a fresh batch.”

“No, that’s fine,” I say. “Is she new?”

He’s searching through paper notes, distracted. But finally, he looks up and says, “Hm? Oh, Teresa? She’s been here about a month. Fresh out of Police Academy. Derek was the one handling the phones for about a year, so when he moved up, we needed to bring someone else in.”

“I’m sure the extra hands help,” I say.

“They do,” he says, lacking any hint of emotion on his face.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he pulls out the sheet of paper and spreads it flat on his desk with one hand.

“Marta Sanchez,” he says matter-of-factly.

He pauses a moment, his green eyes rolling up at me.

What is he waiting for? A reaction? I thought he said I wasn’t a suspect.

“What?” I ask, growing increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze.

He must not have received the reaction he was looking for. As if nothing happened, he taps his finger on his report and says, “That’s the name of the woman who was found in your basement. Twenty-two years old. Does the name ring any bells?”

I suck in a breath, hold it, then shake my head.

Twenty-two years old?

In my uncle’s basement?

How is that possible? Who was she to him? And did he do this?

“We’re still waiting for the official results from the Medical Examiner," he says.

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