Chapter 3

Ronan knocks on the office door and hears the chief call out.

“Who is it?” the chief yells.

“It’s Ronan.”

“Come in,” Wilkinson responds.

Ronan opens the door and heads in, shutting it behind him.

Chief Chris Wilkinson is twenty years older than Ronan, and he looks every year of it, with gray hair and a bit more weight than he should be carrying. He’s sitting at his desk in a leather chair, and he gestures for Ronan to take the seat on the other side of the desk, which Ronan does, taking a sip of his coffee before putting it down on the desk. “Ronan, hello, take a seat.”

“Hello, Chris. What did you want?” Ronan asks.

“Straight to the point as always,” Chris says, and laughs.

Ronan shrugs. “Well, when you call me at ten at night I know something is going on. You know how I am: I hate not knowing things.”

“We have a case. I have a feeling it might be your sort of thing,” Chris says with emphasis on “thing”.