That was when he noticed something else. Her shoulder radio was missing. The clip was empty. And faint scuff marks marred the pavement near her boots—marks that angled away from the cruiser before circling back toward where she now lay.
Cal stood and leaned carefully into the cruiser’s interior. Dashboard lights flickered weakly. The airbag had deployed. The passenger seat was empty. But the rear passenger door on the far side hung slightly ajar.
He stepped back slowly, eyes narrowing. Headlights appeared at the far end of Main Street. An unmarked gray SUV slowed briefly as it approached the crash scene. Its brake lights glowed red through the rain. Then, without stopping, it accelerated again and disappeared down a side street.
Cal memorized the shape instinctively. By the time the first Ashford patrol unit arrived, sirens slicing through the storm, Cal was still kneeling beside Madison, soaked to the bone. Officers swarmed the scene quickly, paramedics loading her onto a stretcher with urgent efficiency.
“You the one who called it in?” an officer asked.
“Yeah,” Cal replied. “There was another vehicle. It slowed down, then took off.”
The officer’s expression tightened. “Storm’s messing with visibility. Could’ve been passing traffic.”
“There were no skid marks,” Cal said evenly. “And her radio’s gone.”
The officer didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the damaged cruiser with a look that wasn’t confusion—but calculation.
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