Page 62 of Carry on Wayward Son

“I’m the new chief,” Rios said.

“You?” The word carried the weight of our island’s opinion of Rios Carrera and, underneath it, something that might have been the beginning of a reassessment.

“Yeah. Surprised me too when the council asked.” Rios kept his voice easy. “Turns out helping expose that Carson was dirty goes a long way toward convincing people you can be trusted with something.”

Something settled in Miles’s jaw and then released. “Good,” he said. “That fucker needed to be taken down a long time ago.”

His gaze moved to me and then to Layla at the end of the table, where it lingered longer than I was comfortable with. I didn’t have a clean read on why. Because she was a stranger? Because she was beautiful? Or because she focused on him with the full weight of her attention, and he’d always been a man susceptible to that kind of focus?

Maybe some of all three.

I had to resist the urge to snap at him to take his eyes off her.

“Hollingsworth.” His focus came back to me. “Last I heard, you were in the Navy.”

“Still am.”

“And you’re here… why?”

“Consider me a concerned citizen.” Wasn’t like I’d be telling him the details of my assignment in the region.

Miles’s gaze returned to Layla. “And who are you?”

She let the question sit for a moment, the way she let most things sit before she answered them. “Someone who hopes to get your sister, and others like her, some justice.”

Miles studied her for another beat, some deep emotion burning in his eyes that he didn’t allow to reach his face. The flatness came back down like a shade being drawn. “Good luck with that.”

Rios leaned forward slightly. “Here’s where we are: We know there’s a broader trafficking operation that’s been running on and around Hatterwick for at least as long as Gwen’s been missing, probably considerably longer. We know you were blackmailed into laundering money for parties we haven’t yet identified. We’re trying to establish whether those two things are connected, because given what happened to your sister, we believe they are.”

Miles’s eyes hardened. “Given what happened to my sister, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to say one word to anyone about any of that. She already paid with her life because I wouldn’t cooperate with these people. I’m not putting my wife and children at risk because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

“We’re not asking about that,” Rios said.

“What the hell are you asking?”

“We’re here to talk to you as the former mayor of Sutter’s Ferry.”

Miles frowned. I could see him working through the angle, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Carson was dirty,” Rios continued. “The State Bureau of Investigation has been auditing the department since his death, working to determine the extent of the rot. I want to know whether you noticed anything… untoward, in your position as the mayor. Anything we ought to take a closer look at. Because given how many years Carson was on the take, I expect we’re gonna have a landslide of cases to re-investigate, and you’re aware of the city’s budget. That’s going to take time and manpower we don’t have. We’ll have to prioritize cases. I want to know if there’s anything you’d move to the head of the line.”

“Why not just ask Chelsea? She’s been in there for months now.”

“I have. She’s as overwhelmed with what she inherited as I am.” Rios spread his hands. “I’m asking everyone who might have insight.”

“I don’t know what you think I might know,” Miles said.

And then they went around.

Rios worked it with the patience of a man who’d understood that patience was the only lever available. I came in from different angles when I saw an opening, searching for the flicker that meant we’d gotten close to something real. Miles was genuinely good, not merely stubborn. He’d had nine months to think about what he would and wouldn’t say if someone ever came asking, and he’d used that time. He deflected without appearing to deflect. He answered questions without giving information. He gave us the surface of a cooperative interview and held everything below it with both hands.

Layla didn’t say a word.

She sat at the end of the table, those dark eyes on Miles. Not in an obvious way, not in a way that Miles could have pointed at and objected to. Only the steady, unhurried attention of someone doing work that required observation. Miles’s gaze traveled to her several times during the conversation. Each time she met it without expression, and each time he was the one who looked away first.

I couldn’t tell what she was taking in. I trusted that she was taking in something because I could sense the tension in her, vibrating at a frequency I doubted anyone else could see. If Koa had been here, he’d have been pressed up against her. I resisted the urge to do the same myself. Now was not the time, and this was not the place.

When the guard knocked to signal five minutes remaining, I leaned forward and let the professional patience go for a moment.