Just like I went into the Bureau while he was CIA, we see things from slightly different angles and approach them likewise. Dad respects that and is able to help me through cases without trying to inject himself into them.
When I finish, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and wait for whatever he's going to say.
"You have good instincts, Emma. Trust them. But also remember they are just instincts. Not absolutes. Be willing to admit when they might be wrong, so you don't let them mislead you."
"Does that mean you think I'm wrong?" I ask.
"No. It means I know you want the answers. You always want the answers. Make sure you're looking for them in the right places. Don't hesitate when you know something's right. Don't shy away when you think something's wrong."
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Is Dean already gone?” Sam asks as he comes into the kitchen a while later.
I've come back inside for a cup of coffee, and I pour him one, too. He accepts it from me and offers me a kiss in exchange.
“Yeah, he left about an hour ago,” I tell him. “He seems pretty eager to get to Salt Valley and see what he can find out about the house.”
"It's going to be a mess for the local PD down there. He lived in one jurisdiction and was found dead in another. That's going to confuse things," Sam notes.
"I think that's part of why Dean is so determined to push ahead. He already feels as if he failed Mason. And Debra. He wants to figure out what happened, and he's not going to tangle himself up in all the confusion and red tape of their police department. He'll get whatever information he can in any way he can,” I say.
Sam takes a deep sip of his coffee and shakes his head. “I really wish you wouldn't say things like that to me sometimes. Those are the types of things I shouldn't know.”
“You aren't in your uniform yet. That means you aren't sheriff,” I grin, knowing full well that's not how it works.
“Hmmm,” Sam nods, his lip pursed out as he seems to think through my logic. “See, the thing is, the sheriff and I share a brain. Small though it may be. So, that makes it a little challenging.”
"Alright. Fair enough. But you know Dean goes for non-shady tactics the vast majority of the time. And with something like this, I doubt he's going to be rocking the boat. The detective is already willing to share information with him, so until the clash of the departments and seizing of information begins, he's got a lot to go on."
"What about you? What are you going to be doing today?" he asks.
"Nothing with that case." I think for a few seconds, sinking down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table so I can sit with him while he eats breakfast. "Hey, do you know anything about a guy named Xavier Renton?"
He looks at me quizzically. "Xavier Renton? Why would you be asking about him?”
“Remember I told you Detective White sent us out of the department pretty abruptly, and wouldn't tell me why he was up at the jail talking to somebody about Lakyn Monroe’s disappearance?”
“Yeah,” he nods.
“That's who he was talking to. He gave me his name and said to look him up. It's really never a good thing when somebody says that. Usually, it means you're not going to like what you find. I was just wondering if you know anything about him, or why he might be involved in the disappearance.”
“I’ve definitely heard of him,” Sam says. “But I don't know why he would have anything to do with this case. He's been in prison for years.”
“Prison?” I ask. “But Detective White wasn't at the prison. He was at the jail.”
Sam nods. “There's some new activity on Renton’s case. He was moved to the jail about eight months ago and is still going through the process.”
“Well, who is he?” I ask. “Detective White acted as though he could be completely dismissed, as if he wasn't even worth talking about.”
“I mean, I can almost understand where he's coming from,” Sam says.
“You can?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I'm not the type of sheriff who will immediately discount somebody, but if I was investigating a case and it led me to somebody like Xavier Renton, I would probably hesitate a touch, too.”
“Why?”
“He's crazy,” Sam explains. “Not in the fun, let's go crazy and eat half a container of whipped topping on our cherry pie. Or even the less fun, super intense person who does everything dialed up to eleven. I mean crazy, like completely cracked. He's a conspiracy theorist. Barely comprehensible.”
“If he's criminally insane, why was he in prison for years rather than in a mental health facility?” I ask.
“I said he's crazy, not criminally insane. Not even mentally ill. Just cracked. Something got jostled loose in there, or he melted his brain with some serious drugs at some point. Whatever is going on with him, the courts determined he was competent to stand trial. At least, he was at the time. I think that's part of why his case is being looked at again,” Sam tells me. A ding from his phone suddenly alerts him to how late in the morning it is. “Crap, I gotta head in. Love you.”
He kisses me goodbye and rushes upstairs to change before leaving. I sit at the kitchen table for a while longer, tumbling his words over and over in my mind. He’s
