Chapter 77
The steady shuffle of paperwork and murmured conversations filled the precinct bullpen, but Mark barely heard it. He sat hunched over his desk, a pen tapping rhythmically against the folder in front of him. Witness statements. Vivian Twombly’s friends. The bartender. A few random patrons from Saturday night. All of it felt frustratingly thin — a handful of vague memories, half-remembered timelines, and no real leads. Across from him, Kyle was slouched in his chair, one boot propped casually against the edge of the desk, flipping through the statements with bored disinterest. Mark scratched a note in the margin of a file and sighed under his breath. "None of this adds up," he muttered. Kyle shrugged. "Drunk girl leaves a bar alone. Happens every weekend." Mark shot him a look. "She
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