“What are you doing?”
I looked up suddenly right into the face of John Kinkead himself. Or at least I assumed it to be John Kinkead. Never having seen the governor, I couldn’t be sure. The man was of an age with Mr. Slaughter, though of somewhat wider girth, which now filled the open doorway to the study. Black hair, streaked with gray, was slicked back over the top of his head, and a full beard, also streaked with gray, covered his jowls and his chin but stopped short of connecting into a mustache, much in the style of our late, great leader Abraham Lincoln. Gray, piercing eyes accused me as I stood above the still open drawer of his desk, his mouth set into a tight and angry frown, a frown that at the moment I shared.
Grasping the locket in my hand, I looked Kinkead square in the eyes and said in a low tone, “Chastity Slaughter’s been stolen from her father’s ranch.”
“And you expect to find her in my desk?” he said.
I kept my gaze locked on Kinkead. “It’s interesting what you can find in a man’s desk.” With that, I tossed the locket onto the desk. The locket hopped once, but the chain kept going, sliding the still open locket around so that the picture of Abigail Slaughter came to rest facing Kinkead.
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