Glock looks miserable.

I hit the speaker button on my phone and dial Mona. “Can you bring me a box?”

A cautious pause. “Why?”

“Just do it, Mona, okay?”

I hang up. A moment later she appears at the door with an empty copy paper box. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “What’d they do?”

I don’t answer, but I see the knowledge in her eyes. “Chief? Did they . . .” She lets the words trail.

“Yeah,” I say.

“They can’t do that.” She looks from me to Glock and back to me. “Can they do that?”

“It’s in my contract.”

“But you’re the best police chief this town ever had.”

“It’s politics,” Glock growls.

Blindly, I begin tossing items into the box. A couple of framed photos. A brass paperweight Mona gave me for Christmas. My diploma and certificates hanging on the wall. What I really want I’m pretty sure I won’t be walking out with: my goddamn case.

For several minutes both Glock and Mona watch me pack. The switchboard rings and Mona shakes her head. “I don’t believe this,” she says and rushes out to grab the call.

Humiliation sets in when Detrick enters. He looks from me to Glock to the box on my desk, his eyes finally landing on me. “I’m sorry things worked out this way.”

I want to vent some of the anger pumping through me. I want to call him an ass-kissing, limelight-grabbing, case-stealing son of a bitch. Instead, I toss a scented candle into the box and frown at him. “You call in the feds?”

“SAC’ll be here tomorrow,” Detrick answers.

I nod, wondering if John knew and didn’t see fit to tell me. “Good luck with the case.”

Detrick says nothing.

I pick up the box and walk out the door.

CHAPTER 28

I feel like a wounded animal that’s gone to its cave to lick fatal wounds as I carry my box of belongings through the door. Around me, the house is silent and cold and reminds me of how empty my life will be without my job. The repercussions of my termination have started to sink in.

When I was eighteen years old and announced I would not be joining the church, the Amish bishop put me under the bann. My family wouldn’t take meals with me. It wasn’t done to injure, but in the hope I would come to my senses and live the life God had planned for me. I felt banished and alone. Neither of those things were enough to sway my decision to leave, but it had hurt.

Today, I feel much the same way. Abandoned. Betrayed. I should be worried about more practical matters like the loss of income and health insurance. I should be concerned by the fact that my career has taken a major hit and there are no job prospects within fifty miles. I’ll be forced to sell the house and move. All of these concerns are dwarfed by my growing obsession with this case.