“The keys to the Crestview home,” he says softly. “The local police finished their on-site sweep yesterday following Mr. McVale’s death. The property is formally released from any legal hold. It’s yours.”
I stare at the keys for a long moment before picking them up. They feel impossibly heavy in my palm.
Twenty minutes later, Locke’s truck pulls off the coastal highway and onto the winding, private driveway leading up to the house.
The afternoon sun is beginning to dip toward the ocean, casting long, dark orange rays across the manicured lawn. The wrought-iron security gates stand wide open, left unlatched ever since the emergency vehicles cleared out.
Locke brings the truck to a stop in the broad circular driveway. He kills the engine, but his eyes never stop moving, scanning the peri
