0451416325 by Heather Blake

we’re not supposed to be here, let’s get in and get out quickly.”
    I didn’t ask if he could get in trouble for this—I knew he could. Just as I knew he wasn’t going to quit this case just because the sheriff told him so. Not when his mama’s freedom was at stake.
    It was the heart of why I knew Dylan and I would always struggle as a couple.
    He loved his mama.
    And I despised her.
    He could poke fun at her, dismiss her biting comments, and sure, even get angry with her from time to time, but when it really mattered . . . he was on her side.
    “You just missed Mayor Ramelle trying to break in,” I said as I followed him up the front walk, my rain boots sloshing through growing puddles.
    He turned and looked at me. Moisture caused the dark hair around his ears to curl. “She what?”
    I explained as he charged up the front steps with purpose, reached over the crime scene tape, and tried the front knob.
    It was locked.
    “What do you think she was looking for?” he asked.
    My headache intensified as I closed my umbrella and leaned it against a post. “No idea. Maybe Haywood knows.”
    “Here, put these on.” Dylan handed me a pair of black latex gloves, slipped on a pair himself, and ran a hand along the top of the doorframe looking for a key. Coming up empty, he then lifted the welcome mat to find nothing there as well.
    As he kept searching, I knocked on the front door. “Haywood? It’s Carly,” I said loudly. “Do you have a spare key hidden out here?”
    Dylan looked back at me, his green eyes narrowed in disbelief.
    “What?” I said. “Might as well go straight to the source. He’s in there; I can feel him.”
    A moment later, I winced at the sharp pain at the back of my head as Haywood floated through his front door.
    Haywood’s vivid eyes looked sad and pained, and a sudden lump formed in my throat. My guess was that sometime during the night what had happened to him finally sank in.
    “Hi,” I offered, the one word sounding strangled from the emotion straining my voice.
    He gave me a halfhearted wave.
    Dylan walked over to us. “He’s really here?”
    “Right in front of you,” I said.
    “Strange,” he murmured, shaking his head.
    Haywood nodded.
    It was off-the-charts surreal, I had to admit.
    “Does he have a key out here?” Dylan asked.
    Haywood pointed to the fancy deep vertical mailbox mounted to the trim alongside the door.
    “Inside?” I asked, taking a step back to try to ease the pain.
    He nodded. Yes.
    “Inside the mailbox,” I said to Dylan.
    Lifting the black lid decorated with floral scrollwork, he reached his hand inside, and came out with a key. “Amazing.”
    A moment later, we’d ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and were inside the house.
    I took off my sunglasses, slipped them into my coat pocket, and looked around. For having been broken into, the place didn’t look too bad. It certainly had been thoroughly searched but nothing was literally broken and it would take only an hour or so to look good as new.
    From my quick glance, I determined this hadn’t been an ordinary burglary. The big-screen TV was still on its stand in the living room. A silver tea set remained on the sideboard in the dining room. Expensive crystal sparkled inside a hutch.
    Whoever broke in wasn’t looking to make quick money.
    But what was he or she looking for?
    The papers Mayor Ramelle wanted?
    Keeping to the rules, Haywood had drifted away from me, giving me some space. I asked him, “You wanted to show me something last night . . . Was that item stolen during the break-in?”
    Perking up a bit, he shook his head and gestured for us to follow him.
    I grabbed Dylan’s arm. “Come on, he’s taking us upstairs.”
    Dylan said, “He hasn’t relayed what the evidence could be?”
    My wet boots squeaked on the wooden steps as we climbed. “No.”
    We followed Haywood into a big room at the top of the steps, which was being used as an office space. A drafting table