“Are you the one who was in charge of the Coastal Killer case?” Beck asked.

“I was one of them,” he affirmed. “But that was a bit ago.”

“I was hoping you tell a little more about the case,” Beck pushed.

I sat quietly and folded my hands on the table. I was far too nervous to chime in.

“There’s not much to tell beyond what’s already in the case file, which the FBI should already have,” he said. “Although, I wouldn’t put it past you bureaucrats to have lost things.”

I caught the scoff at the end of his sentence. His eyes remained fully on Beck, ignoring me.

Beck barely flinched at his words, but I caught the slight shift in his leg under the table. It moved ever so slightly closer toward me, like he was protecting me.

I was imagining it. I had to be. Had I really become that desperate for someone to give a shit about me?

“Yes, I’ve read the file, and I do think there are some holes in it. We’re missing a statement from the local deputy in charge of the case, for instance,” Beck started. “We also seem to be missing statements from those who work at the bar each victim visited before they were killed. It would seem the first team to look this case over completely missed that detail.”

I could tell Beck was watching the way the sheriff reacted, gauging how much of a help he would be to us. Graham’s brows furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes, his nose flaring.

“My deputies did not miss anything. If there were things overlooked, then that’s on the FBI.”

I caught the way Beck swallowed hard, like the accusation got under his skin. It still baffled me that not a single person put it together before. The High Tide Pub was clearly a hunting ground for whatever vile person killed all these women.

Beck cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m here, to make sure the FBI doesn’t miss anything this time.”

“It’s a cold case, so why bother?” Sheriff Graham said.

“Doesn’t matter. The FBI needs a completed case file,” he said, his voice steady with patience.

The sheriff’s eyes flicked over to me. “Why is she here?” he asked, and I heard the disapproving tone.

I opened my mouth to answer but fell short of words.

“She,“ Beck started firmly, “is here as a supervisory agent. I expect you to treat her with the same respect.” Beck leaned forward, his elbows on the table. Graham stood over us, trying to maintain some semblance of authority and power over us. I tried to keep my face neutral, his eyes bearing into me.

“Is something wrong?” Beck asked, raising a brow.