She didn’t answer immediately, staring out at the dark lawn. Finally, she spoke, her voice low. “You’re looking at the wrong woman.”
Sam frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Beryl turned back to face him, the light from the window catching in her pale-blue eyes. “It’s not me you should be after. It’s Marnie Wilson.”
“Marnie?” he repeated.
Beryl nodded, slowly, deliberately. “Your future mayor. She’s been circling that property for years. I thought Garvin was paranoid, but he was right about one thing—Marnie is dangerous. Her campaign? Funded by people who don’t give a damn about White Rock.”
Sam took a step closer. “Who? Convale?”
Beryl’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You could say that. But Marnie isn’t just taking their money. She’s in deep. Everything she’s done, every move she’s made—it’s all been about that land. Even her bid for mayor.”
Sam took a step closer, his gaze locking with hers. “You’re saying she’s the mastermind?”
Beryl raised a single brow, her smile faint but mocking. “I’m saying you’re wasting your time here when the real culprit is sitting in her campaign office, pulling strings.”
Sam watched her carefully, gauging every word, every flicker of her expression. Beryl was good—too good. She wouldn’t crumble under pressure, and she’d never willingly implicate herself. If she was pointing the finger at Marnie, it wasn’t because she wanted justice. It was because she was hiding something.
“Why would I believe you?” Sam asked.
Beryl shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. I have proof.”
But as the pieces clicked into place, a different picture emerged. The envelope from Beryl, the payments, Marnie’s mother tucked away at Parker Studies—none of it screamed mastermind. It screamed pawn. Manipulated. Used.
Sam’s jaw tightened as realization struck. Beryl wasn’t pointing a finger at Marnie because Marnie was in charge. She was doing it because Marnie was the loose thread that could unravel everything.
“You always have proof,” Sam said, his voice flat. “Convenient how it only shows up when it serves you.”
Beryl’s smile didn’t falter. “Believe what you like.But if you want the truth, Marnie’s your next move. Don’t waste time with me, Chief.”
Sam didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch. She’d overplayed her hand, trying to redirect him. But she’d also given him the one thing he needed: the perfect angle to push Marnie to talk.
“You think you’re untouchable,” Sam said finally, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “But leverage works both ways, Beryl. Don’t forget that.”
Her smile tightened just a fraction. A crack but not one she’d ever let him see fully. “Goodbye, Chief Mason.”
Sam turned on his heel and walked out, the cold air slicing through him as he stepped onto the stone porch. Lucy waited in the truck, her nose pressed against the glass. He climbed in, giving her a quick pat as she leaned against him.
As he started the engine, his mind raced ahead. Beryl thought she’d steered him into a trap, but she’d miscalculated. And now, thanks to Beryl, Sam had what he needed to make Marnie talk.
“Let’s see how much she’s willing to say once she finds out you’ve thrown her under the bus, Beryl,” Sam muttered as he drove off into the night, determination settling in his gut.
Marnie had answers. And Sam was going to get them.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Kevin logged the paint analysis request, his fingers punching the keys harder than necessary. He didn’t know why the system had to ask him three times if he wanted to confirm a sample.
Yes, dammit. That’s why I’m here.
He leaned back, exhaling. The monitor blinked its green confirmation. Paint sample? Done.
Next up, Lucy’s fur. Kevin glanced at the small plastic evidence bag beside the keyboard. Inside, the faint blue streak still clung to the hairs they’d trimmed from Lucy’s tail earlier at Jo’s place. Whatever it was—paint, dye, who knew—it had smeared onto her when she got too close to something.
Too late to send it to the lab tonight, but first thing tomorrow? It’d be out the door.
Kevin typed in the case file, pausing to double-check the chain-of-custody notes. His name. Sam’s. All clean. Evidence logged, bag sealed, chain intact. He tapped the enter key and watched the details lock into place on the screen.