sheriff’s office in Silver Junction, Colorado, smelled like dust, damp wool, and old paper that had been handled too many times by men who believed ink could hold a life in place.
Claire Whitaker stood in the middle of the room with her hands pressed over the curve of her stomach, seven months pregnant, as if her palms could shield her child from the words she’d already heard but still couldn’t understand.
Across a scarred wooden desk, her father slid a folded document toward Sheriff Halvorsen.
The paper made a dry, final sound as it scraped forward.
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