Page 26 of In Her Path

Jenna met his eyes, seeing the challenge there. “Twenty,” she said. “Then we continue, with you present.”

Greer considered for a moment, then agreed. “Twenty minutes.”

Jenna motioned to Jake, and they moved toward the door. Behind them, Warren sat motionless, his eyes on the table, his body slumped beneath the weight of whatever was coming next. As the door closed behind them, Jenna caught a glimpse of Greer pulling out a chair, his voice dropping to a murmur as he leaned toward his new client.

Jenna leaned against the wall outside the interview room, the cool plaster a relief against her back. The hallway bustled with the ordinary chaos of a small-town police station—phones ringing, deputies talking, the occasional burst of laughter from the break room. Normal life continuing around them, oblivious to the weight of the silence behind the closed door, to the questions that remained unanswered, to the killer who might still be walking free.

Jake stood across from her, his arms crossed, his expression troubled. “He didn’t do it,” Jake said finally, his voice low enough that only Jenna could hear.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. “You can’t know that.”

“I can’t prove it,” he corrected. “But I know it. Something’s not right.”

Jenna sighed, rubbing her face. Warren Oswinkle sat in the interview room behind them, his silence a wall they couldn’t breach, his eyes empty of everything except a resignation so complete it bordered on peace.

What did that silence mean? Possibly guilt—the consciousness of wrongdoing, the knowledge that anything he said would incriminate him further. But it could just as easily mean trauma, the shock of arrest after years of freedom. It could mean exhaustion, the collapse of a man who had fought too long and too hard. It could mean stubbornness, the last defense of someone who had learned that the system never helped people like him.

And his flight—the desperate lunge for the door, the wild-eyed panic as they’d tackled him—what did that tell them? Consciousness of wrongdoing, the instinctive reaction of a killer caught in the act? Or simply the panic of a man who had lost everything, who had nothing left to protect, who saw in the sheriff’s badge not justice but another form of persecution.

They had motive—Paige had destroyed Warren’s business, his marriage, his life. What they didn’t have was physical evidence.

“You saw his eyes,” Jake said. “That’s not the look of a killer.”

“It’s the look of a man who’s given up,” Jenna replied. “That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s guilty, either.”

They fell silent. Jenna looked at Jake, seeing her own uncertainty reflected in his expression—the same questions, the same doubts, the same fear that they were doing too much or too little, seeing too little or not clearly enough.

They had a suspect in custody. They could hold him for resisting arrest, for assaulting an officer, for breaking and entering. They could charge and try him for all those things. They could buy themselves time to gather more evidence, to find the missing piece that would confirm Warren’s guilt or eliminate him as a suspect. But they couldn’t hold him forever. And somewhere in Trentville, the actual killer might be walking free.

CHAPTER TEN

Jenna slumped in her office chair, staring at the collection of files spread across her desk. Jake was leaning against the doorframe, his tie loosened and the first two buttons of his shirt undone. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and the day’s stubble was beginning to shadow his jaw.

Hours had passed since they’d tried to interview Warren Oswinkle. Martin Greer, confirmed as his lawyer, had kept Warren quiet the entire time. Jake had just returned from City Hall, where he’d been questioning all the personnel there.

“Did you find anyone who stands out as a suspect?” Jenna said.

“None at all. I asked for alibis from the whole municipal staff. Not all of them can be confirmed, some of them were alone at home at the time. But everyone seems genuinely shaken by what happened. Not that many of them are grief-stricken by Paige’s death, but his murder came way too close for comfort. They’re really scared.”

Jake shuffled his feet restlessly and added, “Thank God for Meredith Soll, the mayor’s assistant. She helped me in every way she possibly could. I wish I could say the same for her boss.”

Jenna shook her head with frustration. As she’d expected, Mayor Simmons wasn’t being at all helpful.

“Do you still think Oswinkle’s innocent?” Jenna asked Jake.

He held her gaze. “I know what I saw in that room—that was a broken man, not a killer.”

“That’s bothering me, too,” Jenna replied. “I’ve arrested various kinds of killers. I’ve seen the anger, the defiance, the smugness. Sometimes even the relief. But Warren doesn’t have any of that. He just seems... empty.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Exactly where we were this morning.” Jenna sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Which is nowhere.”

Her phone buzzed on the desk, and she reached for it. The screen showed Dr. Stark’s name, and Jenna swiped to answer, putting it on speaker.

“Melissa, you’re on speaker and Jake’s here, too. What have you got?”