Claire’s POV
The Sheriff’s Department’s parking lot is half-full, with official vehicles lined up alongside civilian ones in an unspoken truce when the taxi drops me off. Jeremy had dropped me off as usual, but afterward I took a taxi here without him knowing.
A bell gives a tired jingle as I push the door open. The front desk is manned by a woman with ash-blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight it looks like it might hurt. She looks up, her eyes flicking at my face, then my hands, then back to my face.
“Yes?”
“I’m Claire Dane,” I begin, then correct myself because titles matter here. “Claire Anderson. I’m inquiring about an investigation. There was an incident involving my family during the storm.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something behind it adjusts. A mental file opens. “A
