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Chapter 119: Anonymous
A few hours later.
The Hale house stood in silence, a ghost of what it once was compared to six years ago. The morning sun filtered through the glass windows, scattering golden slivers across the timeworn wooden floors. Dust motes floated in the beams of light, dancing lazily in the quiet, undisturbed air. The house felt frozen in time, holding its breath.
That fragile stillness shattered when the crunch of tires on gravel echoed outside, sharp and sudden against the hush.
Laura moved to the front window, every muscle tightening as the shape of a black-and-white cruiser came into view. Even before she recognized the seal of the sheriff's department on the door, her jaw set. Routine patrols didn't come this far out. This was a visit, deliberate and pointed.
From the vehicle stepped Sheriff Stilinski, familiar in both presence and posture, with a younger deputy trailing a step behind him. They moved with the quiet, confident purpose of men used to carrying authority into uneasy places.
There was no banging on the door, no barked commands. Just a polite knock—firm, respectful—but the weight behind it couldn't be mistaken. Laura inhaled once, shallow and sharp, then pulled the door open with an edge of practiced caution, her arms crossing over her chest like armor.
"Sheriff," she greeted curtly, her voice tight.
"Laura," Stilinski returned with a nod that was both cordial and measured. His expression was unreadable, as always. "We need to speak with Derek. Just a few questions regarding Andrew Smith's death."
Laura's eyes narrowed instantly, her posture stiffening even more. "Shouldn't our lawyers be present for this?"
Stilinski didn't flinch. He lifted a hand—an old gesture meant to reassure, even if it rarely worked. "Derek's not a suspect," he said, his tone calm, rehearsed. "This isn't an interrogation. We're not here to accuse—just to get a clearer picture of what happened to Andrew."
Before Laura could respond, a low voice called from deeper in the house. Gravelly, controlled.
"Let them in."
Derek stepped into view behind his sister, expression unreadable, shoulders squared. He looked tired—older than he should have, weariness sitting deep in the lines of his face.
Reluctantly, Laura stepped aside, allowing the sheriff and his deputy to enter. The moment they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere inside shifted. The house, already too quiet, seemed to shrink around them. Their uniforms made the space feel smaller, more suffocating.
The deputy, a man in his thirties with sharp eyes and a rigid jawline, set a tablet down on the scarred coffee table. With a swipe, the screen came to life, casting a dull glow in the dim room.
Grainy black-and-white footage played—a parking lot under dim streetlights, time-stamped and tagged. A familiar car came into view, the angle catching its sleek frame as it pulled out of a parking space. The footage wasn't pristine, but it didn't have to be. Every curve of the vehicle was unmistakable.
The deputy turned the screen toward Derek, his tone clipped. "Mr. Hale, is this your car?"
"Yes," Derek answered, voice steady. No hesitation. No denial.
The deputy tapped the screen again, pausing it on a specific frame. The vehicle's hood caught the streetlight just right—gleaming. Wet. Not rain. Something thicker. Darker.
"Then you'll also confirm," the deputy continued, "that what we're seeing here—this sheen on the hood—is blood? The victim's blood?"
Derek's jaw tightened. He didn't look away from the image. "Yes," he said after a pause. "But I had nothing to do with that guy's death. When I got back to my car… the body was already there. Laid out on the hood."
The deputy frowned. "And your first instinct wasn't to call emergency services? To report what you found?"
"I panicked," Derek replied, flatly. His voice carried no emotion, but the shame was there, just beneath the surface. "I didn't know what to do. So I moved the body. I drove away."
The deputy raised an eyebrow, voice sharpening. "That's not exactly the response of an innocent man, is it?"
Laura, who had been standing silent at her brother's side, stepped forward sharply. Her expression was fierce, protective. "And what is a 'normal' reaction, exactly? You think my brother murdered someone and left the body like that?"
Stilinski's calm gaze met hers, weighted but without hostility. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. The coroner's report was clear. Andrew's injuries were not man-made. They were consistent with animal attacks."
Laura's voice took on an edge, cool and controlled. "Then why are you in our home? Questioning him like a suspect?"
"Because," Stilinski said quietly, "we're trying to understand the timeline. We're trying to fill in the blanks. Andrew was a resident of this town, a new one but still—he had friends, family. People who deserve answers. And when Derek left the scene without reporting it, it complicated everything."
Laura's arms crossed tighter. "He panicked. He made a bad call. That doesn't make him guilty of anything."
The sheriff gave a measured nod, motioned to his deputy, and turned toward the door. The weight of the visit seemed to lift slightly—until Laura's voice cut through the air.
"One more thing, Sheriff. How did you even know that was Derek's car? It's not registered under his name—it belongs to the Hale family trust."
Stilinski hesitated. Then, with the reluctant honesty of a man who owed her at least that much, he said:
"We got an anonymous tip. Said Derek was involved in Andrew's death."
That hung in the room like smoke. Laura's eyes narrowed further, suspicion crackling behind them.
"Anonymous tip," she repeated flatly.
The sheriff gave her a final nod, then left with his deputy. The cruiser pulled away, its tires kicking up dust that shimmered in the sunlight.
Laura stood in the doorway, arms tight across her chest, watching until the car disappeared down the road.
Inside, Derek sat back heavily, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. The anonymous tip wasn't just suspicion anymore—it was someone out there, deliberately tightening the noose around them.