But he stared at the screen anyway, pretending the words meant something new.
“There’s more pastries up front if you want one,” Kevin called over, phone finally down. “Pretty sure there’s still a few left before Reese eats them all.”
“I’m good.”
Kevin shrugged and went back to his paperwork.
Wyatt scrolled. Autopsy notes. Blunt force trauma. Tree bark in the wounds. Time of death between midnight and two AM.
His eyes weren’t moving. He was staring at the same paragraph, seeing nothing.
Outside the window, a car door slammed. His pulse kicked. Just a civilian dropping off something at the front desk. Not his father. Not a threat.
He forced his eyes to move down the screen. Fiber analysis. Carpet samples. Automotive origin.
Lucy shifted at his feet. Her tail thumped once against the floor, then stopped.
Jo’s chair creaked. When he glanced up, she was looking at him. Not suspicious exactly. Just... observing. The way she watched crime scenes, taking in details most people missed.
He looked back at his screen.
“Hey, Wyatt.”
Kevin’s voice made him flinch. Just barely. Just enough that Lucy’s head came up.
“Yeah?”
“Your mom doing better?”
The question landed like a punch he should’ve seen coming.
“Yeah. Much better.” The words came out too fast, too smooth. Rehearsed. “Just needed rest and some antibiotics.”
Kevin nodded, already moving on. “That’s good. My mom used to get sick every winter. Drove her crazy.”
Wyatt managed something that might’ve been a smile.
Jo’s pen tapped against her desk. Three times. Then stopped.
Sam’s office door opened. “Team meeting. Five minutes.”
Relief hit Wyatt so hard he had to grip the edge of his desk. Structure. Orders. Something to follow that wasn’t his own spiraling thoughts.
He stood, coffee in hand, Lucy immediately at his heel.
Sam’s office was small, barely big enough for all of them. Sam took his usual spot behind the desk. Jo stood next to the window. Kevin leaned against the filing cabinet. Wyatt positioned himself by the doorframe—always by the door, always with a clear line to the exit.
Old habits.
Agent Keller was already there, standing near Sam’s desk with a folder in hand. He nodded at them as they filed in, his expression tired but professional. The grief from yesterday was still there, visible in the lines around his eyes, but he’d gotten it under control.
Sam spread his notes across the desk. “Agent Keller’s been sharing what the Bureau has. Victim was undercover, investigating organized crime moving into the region.”
Kevin leaned forward. “What kind of organized crime?”
“The kind with roots,” Sam said. “Not street gangs. Not drug dealers working corners. This is bigger. Corporate fronts, money laundering, connections that go deep.”
Wyatt’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup.