Beneath These Walls: A Gripping Psychological Thriller by Shade Owens

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

CHAPTER 34

I’m midblog when my phone starts to ring next to my laptop.

Thorn Lake Police Department.

If I didn’t have such a history with them, I’d panic at the sight of that text scrolling across my screen. I might allow my imagination to run wild and think that something happened to Grayson or Lucas.

Instead, I find myself rushing to hit Accept.

“Hello?”

“Emma,” Wyatt says. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” I lie.

I managed to sleep an hour, maybe two.

“Listen, I was wondering if you’d have a minute to come down to the station?”

My eyes narrow at the back wall of my office. Am I under investigation or something?

“The results came in,” he says.

Results?”

“Forensics,” he quickly adds.

“Oh, right.” I rub grime off my forehead. “Sorry, I barely slept—”

“I know,” he says.

He knows? How does he know that?

“Derek left the police report on my desk this morning. I wanted to check in on you. Make sure everything is . . . okay?”

It depends on how I look at it. While there was no intruder, I may very well have traumatized my fourteen-year-old.

“There was mention of a loaded gun in the kitchen,” Wyatt adds.

A sinking feeling hits me in the gut.

A loaded gun. Inside my house. With my kids.

He must think I’m a terrible mother.

“You must have been terrified,” he says.

“I— I was,” I say.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he says. “It’s completely normal to be on edge after witnessing something traumatic.”

On edge?

I heard someone in my house, followed by the sound of Grayson crying out in pain. How else was I supposed to respond? Call out gently and ask whether everything was okay?

When I don’t say anything, Wyatt says, “Anyway, that’s not why I’m calling. Like I said, some information came in from Forensics, and I have a few questions for you.”

“Questions?” I say.

“You’re not a suspect if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says.

I would hope not. It wasn’t like I even lived here when the person was killed or died. I might finally get answers today.

But the way he assures me that I’m not a suspect makes me feel like he doubts my sanity. Like he has to walk on eggshells around me.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” I say.

“Good, good,” he says.

The conversation feels strained and awkward.

“When can you come by?” he asks.

“Anytime before three,” I say. “I like to be home when the boys get back from school.”

“I’m in the office now,” he says. “Is now a good time?”

How urgent is this?

Should I be worried?

What information did he find that warrants him calling me first thing in the morning for questioning?

“Now is good,” I say.

He thanks me and ends the call.

And although I should be relieved that he has more answers, I can’t help but feel a twinge of anxiety creeping into my chest.

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