The risk of approaching him was that she'd tip her hand. If Shane found out Reagan had spoken to the retired sheriff, he might accelerate the timeline or change the approach entirely.
But the risk of not approaching him was worse. If Trent made his next move and Walter happened to be looking the other way, the moment would be gone. And there might not be another one before the window closed.
She needed to know if he'd seen what happened on Monday, on the main path, the first time Trent had tried.
If he had, if he'd noticed, and if his instincts had flagged it, then she didn't need to explain anything. She just needed him to know that she knew he was there.
Sometimes that was enough.
She packed her bag, went upstairs and showered, ate breakfast in the cafeteria.
She'd timed it deliberately. Arriving after the main rush but before it cleared entirely, so she was visible but not performing visibility.
Shane's table was occupied. Shane was there.
He looked at Reagan the way he'd been looking at her for the past week. With the specific attention of someone waiting for a result that hadn't arrived yet. A machine that keeps running, but whose output hasn't appeared.
Reagan put her tray down at her usual table by the window. Ate her eggs. Read the chapter she needed for today's sociology class.
Didn't look at Shane's table again.
* * *
At 9:15, she walked to the east entrance of Whitmore Hall.
Walter Briggs was on his bench. Newspaper folded in his lap. The actual printed paper, not a phone. Travel mug of coffee in his right hand.
He was wearing a canvas jacket, brown, with a fleece lining. The kind of jacket that had been worn long enough to stop being a jacket and become simply part of the man.
Reagan walked toward him at a natural pace. Not hurrying, not hesitating. She stopped a few feet away.
He looked up.
He had the kind of face that a long career in law enforcement builds. Not hard, exactly. Just settled. Like the landscape of someone who has seen a lot of things and arranged them inside himself into some kind of order.
His eyes were sharp. Alert without being aggressive.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," she said. "Mind if I sit for a minute?"
He looked at her. A brief assessment. Then he gestured to the far end of the bench.
She sat. Not too close. A respectful distance.
"You're the girl from Carver Hall," he said. Not accusatory. Just: I've noticed you, too.
"Reagan Holloway," she said.
"Walter Briggs."
He didn't extend his hand. Just said the name the way people say names when they're accustomed to being known.
"I know," she said. "I asked about you."
That got a slight reaction. Not quite a smile, but something near it.
"Did you?"
"I did."
She looked out at the path.