But her skin prickled anyway.
Wyatt had beenin the evidence room a hundred times. It was just a room—metal shelves, fluorescent lights, the faint smell of dust and old paper. Boxes stacked in neat rows, each one tagged and numbered, holding pieces of cases long closed.
Today it felt like a tomb.
He found the box on the third shelf. Smaller than he expected. The evidence bag inside was sealed, the box cuttervisible through the clear plastic. Old. Unremarkable. The kind of thing you’d find in any warehouse or shipping facility.
Sam stood by the door while Wyatt took the item ignoring the log. It went against everything he believed in to just take a piece of evidence and not sign for it, but if everything went well, it would be back in the box soon and no one would be the wiser.
“Got it,” Wyatt said, his voice rough.
Sam nodded. “Let’s go.”
They were halfway down the hallway when a voice stopped them.
“Chief Mason.”
Wyatt’s stomach dropped.
Shaw stood in the hallway, coffee cup in hand, Shadow sitting alert at her side. Her eyes moved from Sam to Wyatt to the evidence box in Wyatt’s hands.
“Pulling old evidence?” Her tone was casual, but her gaze was sharp. “Anything interesting?”
Sam didn’t miss a beat. “Cold case review. Nothing urgent.”
“Need a hand? I’ve got some time.”
“We’re good. Thanks.”
Shaw’s eyes lingered on the box for a moment longer. Then she nodded, that same unreadable expression on her face. “Let me know if that changes.”
She walked past them toward the squad room, Shadow padding silently at her heels. Wyatt didn’t breathe until she turned the corner.
“She saw,” he said quietly.
“She saw us walking with a box.” Sam’s voice was calm, but his jaw was tight. “That’s all. Come on.”
They made it back to Sam’s office without further incident. Jo was waiting, arms crossed, tension visible in her shoulders.
“Shaw?” she asked.
“Ran into her in the hall.” Sam closed the door. “She asked questions.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Cold case review. She didn’t push.” Sam turned to Wyatt. “Put that somewhere secure. Not your desk. Not your car. Somewhere only you can access until tonight.”
Wyatt nodded, clutching the box like it might explode.
“Tonight,” Jo said. “My cottage. Eight o’clock. Kevin’s already in. We bring Bridget up to speed and figure out our next move.”
“Agreed.” Sam glanced toward the squad room, where the normal sounds of the station continued—phones, voices, the mundane rhythm of police work. “Until then, we act normal. We don’t give anyone a reason to think something’s changed.”
Easier said than done, Wyatt thought. But she nodded anyway.
The restof the morning was an exercise in performance.
Jo reviewed case files she’d already memorized. Kevin made phone calls that went nowhere. Wyatt sat at his computer, the evidence box locked in his bottom drawer, and tried not to look at it every thirty seconds.