"Some punk gave it to me back in high school. Ancient history."

Nick remained silent, his gaze ping-ponging between Jeffrey and Bradley, weighing their words, their body language, searching for the truth hidden beneath the layers of hostility and fear.

"Are you planning to press charges against Jeffrey Saltano for attempted murder?" Nick asked, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.

Jeffrey glowered at Bradley, his silence more menacing than any threat.

"Nah, I'm not pressing charges. Let the old man go," Bradley said, waving his hand dismissively.

"I swear on my life, I didn't kill Rose. I loved her, man. I really did."

"Well, in that case, Jeffrey, you're free to go," Nick announced, striding to the door. He called out to the officers behind the two-way mirror, his voice clipped and professional:

"Escort Bradley back to his cell and get that address from him. I want it verified ASAP."

Christian, who had been a silent observer throughout the interrogation, stepped forward. "Jeffrey, anything else you want to get off your chest before you go?"

Jeffrey's face contorted with barely contained rage. "I've said all I'm gonna say. You deaf or something?"

"I don't buy a word of it," he spat. "My daughter would never have stooped so low. I knew her better than anyone."

With that, Jeffrey stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoed through the room. Bradley was led away, leaving Nick and Christian alone with their thoughts and the weight of an investigation that seemed to grow more complex by the minute.

6:00 AM

Nick turned to Christian, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep but burning with determination. "We need to run down that address, see if Bradley's story holds water. If it checks out, he's got himself a rock-solid alibi."

"I'm on it," Christian nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll dispatch a couple of uniforms right now."

Two hours later

The confirmation came through like a sucker punch to the gut – Bradley's alibi was airtight. With a heavy sigh, Nick gave the order for his release. Half an hour later, he found himself standing by the window of his office, a silent sentinel watching the parking lot below. A sleek blue BMW pulled up, its engine purring like a satisfied cat. Steven Cooper emerged, his lanky frame swallowed by a baggy white hoodie. He greeted Bradley with a bear hug that spoke of relief and brotherhood, pounding his back with enthusiastic fervor. Then, amid a cacophony of whoops and laughter that seemed almost obscene in the wake of recent events, they peeled out of the lot, leaving nothing but tire marks and the acrid scent of burnt rubber in their wake.

The investigation, spearheaded by Nick Larsen, had become a Sisyphean task. They chased leads that evaporated like morning mist, explored theories that led to dead ends, and questioned an endless parade of potential witnesses who seemed to know less than nothing. They even entertained the notion that an outsider might be behind the killings, despite their earlier certainty that the perpetrator was a local with intimate knowledge of the area. Every phone record, every text message, every scrap of Rose's life was put under a microscope, yielding nothing but frustration. Nick felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit, but he refused to give in to despair. The truth was out there, and he was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.

Jeffrey Saltano, by some miracle of bureaucratic inertia, still clung to his position as sheriff. But it was a hollow title, as meaningless as his days had become. He spent his time in a alcohol-induced haze, drowning his sorrows and his guilt in bottom of countless bottles. Bison, sensing the shifting winds, had cut all ties with his former ally, leaving Jeffrey to flounder in a sea of his own making.