SIXTY-SIX | SAL AND GRIFF

The police station was on the outskirts of town, and was set against the forest in a miserable grey block building, with a faded sign over the electric front doors. It looked like an afterthought in an otherwise beautifully constructed town, and even less fitting than the suburban houses that ringed around the old English centre.

It looked like the sort of place that people went into, and never came back out of.

I rolled my truck into an empty space – of which there were a surprising number, though it was a Sunday, after all, and Hawthorn, despite the recent attacks, still wasn’t exactly a bustling city with a new crime to report every hour. The drizzle didn’t help the muted grey exterior, and I slunk inside, my hood pulled up over my head to keep the rain off my face and hair. I wondered where Skye’s little car was – I couldn’t see it anywhere, even though his slot had been right before mine.