DOUBLE EXPOSURE

A THOMAS SHEPHERD CRIME THRILLER

BOOK 10

DAN PADAVONA

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

Rain tapped against the police cruiser’s windshield. The sound was a drumbeat pounding inside Officer Noah Vale’s skull. The streetlights smeared across wet glass, blurring the way forward.

Beside Vale, JJ Lynch lounged in the passenger seat, one arm draped lazily over the door.

“Not bad, Vale,” Lynch said. “You’re driving like you’re actually awake tonight.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Noah said, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He wasn’t sure if Lynch meant it as a compliment.

The dashboard clock read midnight. Seven hours until Vale could go home and sleep. One year on the force, and the graveyard shifts were already killing him.

“Look, kid, I know you got that mentor riding your back. The county sheriff or whatever. But it’s ridiculous that the chief is making you run the gauntlet. You don’t need a mentor. Guys like him stick their noses where they don’t belong. Hartford Springs knows how to take care of its own. Always has.”

Noah understood that Lynch’s words came from more than a casual dislike of outsiders. “The sheriff thinks he can help, and Chief Milham agrees.”

“Sheriff thinks he’s God’s gift to law enforcement.” Lynch scoffed. “And so does Milham, if we’re being honest here. Trust me. You’d be better off without him breathing down your neck. How can you relax with someone looking over your shoulder? You’re handling the job, right?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, but even he could hear the doubt in his own voice. He checked the mirrors and the dash display. Good lord, he was tired.

The squeak of the wipers grated on Noah. He felt a pressure in his chest. It wasn’t the Kevlar vest, though he was aware of its suffocating embrace. He tried to concentrate on the road, but his memories wouldn’t stay quiet.

He had been twelve when it happened. His mother’s screams had woken him from sleep. That night, he learned how quickly love could turn into fear. His father, a man who once seemed larger than life, became a monster. Noah was powerless, a scared kid hiding in a closet, listening, helpless, useless.

The sounds of breaking glass, the crash of furniture, his mother’s sobs—all of it still lived inside him.

The cruiser hit a pothole, drawing him back to the present. He sucked in a breath. Five years of therapy, and the past kept finding him.

“You zoning out, Vale?” Lynch asked.

Noah swallowed and forced a nod. “Just tired.”

A call came in from the dispatcher. “Unit 4, report of a suspicious vehicle parked at 11th and Pine. Possible drug activity. Proceed with caution.”

Noah and Lynch exchanged a glance.

“That’s us,” Lynch said. “Are you awake enough to drive?”

“I am now,” said Noah.

“Then respond to dispatch.”

“10-4,” Noah said into the radio. He turned on the cruiser’s lights, and the red-and-blue strobes started spinning. Unease coiled in his gut as he turned onto 11th Street, scanning for the vehicle in question.

“There,” Lynch said, pointing. “Gray sedan, tinted windows. See it?”

“Got it.” Noah slowed the cruiser and parked at a slight angle behind the sedan. He left enough distance in case they needed to back up in a hurry. Procedure drilled into him during training returned to him—approach cautiously, hands visible, assume nothing.

“Relax, rookie,” Lynch said. “Might be just a guy who fell asleep at the wheel. Standard stuff.”

Or it was a dealer. Earlier this year, after Harmon PD cleared out the remaining members of the 315 Royals, the gang members scattered. Rumor had it that a few were in Hartford Springs.

“You have my back, right?”

“I got you. Hey, man. Stop acting like Hollow John is about to leap out of the dark.”

Noah shivered. A legend claimed that a monstrous figure named Hollow John stalked Hartford Springs, murdering people in their sleep. But that was just a story. This was real.

Vale and Lynch stepped into the rain, boots splashing in puddles. The air smelled of wet asphalt and oil. Lynch hung back and gave Noah the lead, but he stayed close enough to intervene. Noah approached the driver’s side with the flashlight beam angled on the driver’s side door. The sedan’s windows were up. No movement came from inside.

Pine Street was the epicenter of drug activity. The high school was three blocks away, and that was another reason Noah wanted to eliminate crime from this area.

“Driver, lower the window,” Noah said. His voice cracked, betraying his nerves. He felt Lynch’s eyes on him.

There was no response. Noah shifted closer. The night had turned silent. He could hear his own heartbeat. When Noah reached the door, he tapped on the glass with the end of his flashlight.

“Hartford Springs PD. Lower the window.”

The driver’s silhouette moved. Noah’s stomach tightened.

As Lynch had said, the driver could have fallen asleep at the wheel. Or this might be a deal gone bad, and the pusher held a gun.

“Easy, Vale,” Lynch said behind him, a hand drifting toward his holster.

The window cracked open, and a man’s face emerged, shadowed and unreadable. “Problem, Officer?”

“License and registration,” Noah said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sure thing.”

The man’s hands moved and suddenly dropped to his hip.

“Gun!” Noah shouted.

He was already reacting, the hot wire of fear burning down his spine as he reached for his sidearm. Everything blurred—adrenaline, rain, flashing lights. Noah’s hand shook. Time slowed. The barrel of the supposed weapon came into view.

“Noah!” Lynch jumped forward. “It’s a phone!”

Noah’s breath caught in his throat. The driver held up a cell phone, not a gun. The man’s hand trembled and caused him to drop the phone.

Lynch moved past Noah, taking over the situation with a mix of professionalism and cold efficiency.

“Step out of the vehicle, hands on the hood.” Lynch’s voice was calm and controlled, everything Noah’s wasn’t.

The driver complied. Lynch gave Noah a hard look. “Eyes up, Vale. Check inside the vehicle.”

Noah holstered his weapon. Rain dripped down his forehead. He’d come so close to firing his weapon at an unarmed man.

Still, Noah wanted answers. Who was this man, and why was he parked in this neighborhood where so many crimes had been reported?

The driver flinched when Lynch snatched his driver’s license. Noah directed his light into the backseat.

“You don’t have the right to search my vehicle,” the driver said.

“Quiet,” Lynch said. He glanced at the license, reading it aloud. “Mr. Douglas Taro, you’re a long way from home. What brings you to Hartford Springs at this hour, Mr. Taro?”

“I got lost, okay? Give me a break. I’m trying to get back to Kane Grove, so I pulled over to check my GPS. Then you two came along. Is that a crime now?”

Noah ignored Taro and shone the beam into the front seat. No weapons or drugs. Not yet, at least.

“You parked in an area known for illegal activity, Mr. Taro,” Lynch said.

“I lost my cell service and drove around until I got a bar. Hey, man, I’ve never come through this city before. How was I to know there are problems here?”

“So you’re telling us you just happened to pick this spot to check your GPS?”

“Yes,” Taro insisted. “Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want to get home.”

“Stay where you are, Mr. Taro. We’ll run a quick check on you, and if everything comes back clean, you’ll be on your way.”

While Noah stayed with Taro, who kept shifting from foot to foot, Lynch moved to the cruiser to run the license.

The rain poured harder, soaking through Noah’s uniform. He had almost escalated a routine stop into something catastrophic.

“Is this necessary?” Taro asked. “We’ll both catch pneumonia if we stay out here much longer.”

Noah knew the man was probably telling the truth. But he couldn’t take chances.

Minutes later, Lynch returned, his expression neutral. “Everything checks out. No warrants, no priors.” He handed the license back to Taro and directed the man to the highway. “Follow my directions. If you get lost again, pull over in a safer location.”

As Taro got back into his car and drove away, Noah squeezed his eyes shut. “I almost fired my weapon.”

“But you didn’t,” Lynch said. “Stop beating yourself up.”

Despite the pep talk, Lynch still stared at Noah from the corner of his eye.

Maybe Noah wasn’t fit to be a police officer.

“I’ll have to tell Chief Milham. And I should speak to my mentor.”

“Nah, kid,” Lynch said. “They’ll just find an excuse to stick you on desk duty.”

As they climbed inside the warm cruiser, Noah gave the neighborhood one last look. Taro was innocent, but danger lurked in the shadows.

And those shadows seemed to grow out of Noah’s soul.

2

Thomas kneeled in the dirt, his hands covered in soil as he patted down a new row of flowers along the edge of the yard. The air was crisp but hinted at warmth, a promise of the approaching summer. Birds chirped, and the breeze carried the scents of fresh earth and budding blooms. Beside him, Chelsey adjusted her sun hat and dug her trowel into the soil, preparing another spot for planting.

“Not bad, Thomas,” Chelsey said, eyeing his handiwork with a smirk. “You might have a second career as a gardener if you ever hang up the badge.”

Thomas pushed the mop of hair off his forehead. “Don’t count on it. I’m pretty sure the green thumbs in my family ended with my aunt and uncle. Half of these flowers will be dead by next week.”

“I have faith in your ability to keep a few plants alive.”

“That makes one of us. Are you sure you don’t want LeVar to do this?”

LeVar Hopkins played the role of the tough guy, but if Chelsey knocked on the guesthouse door and asked Thomas’s junior deputy to help, LeVar would lend a hand.

“I’m not marrying LeVar; I’m marrying you.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to garden, does it?” Thomas asked.

“It means you have to try.”

“All right, then. At least this is good practice for keeping busy when I finally take a day off.”

Chelsey’s hands paused. “You know, I was going to bring that up. The wedding is in a few weeks, Thomas. You have a lot on your plate, but I really wish you’d take a step back from work, even if it’s just for a few days.”

“The sheriff’s department needs me.”

“Every time you promise to take a few days off, you end up working another twelve-hour shift or chasing leads on your lunch break.”

She wasn’t wrong. Thomas leaned back on his heels.

“I’m sorry, but there’s always something. Like that child predator case. I keep thinking if I take a week off, a serial killer will show up in Wolf Lake.”

“Been there, done that,” Chelsey said.

“Don’t remind me.”

Chelsey’s fingers resumed their careful work in the dirt. “You have to let go sometimes, or you’ll break under the pressure.”

“Look who’s talking,” Thomas said, brushing the dirt off his hands. “You and Raven haven’t slowed down. Still taking every case that comes through Wolf Lake Consulting, huh?”

She laughed, a light sound that made the tension in his shoulders ease. “Touché. Raven and I are equally poor at handling the work-life balance. But I’d put our records against yours any day.”

As the lake sloshed its lazy blues against the shoreline, Thomas and Chelsey worked in harmony. Though it was only April, Thomas was bracing himself for the summer heat. He placed another flower into the earth.

“How about this? We make a deal. I’ll cut back on my hours if you promise to take a break with me. No clients, no cases. Just us.”

“I assumed we’d have time together on our honeymoon.”

“Of course we will. I’m referring to a second vacation.”

“A second vacation?” Chelsey’s jaw dropped. “Can’t say I saw that coming. But I’m holding you to your word, Thomas.”

“Please do. Someone has to.”

Chelsey set aside the trowel, which meant she wanted to talk. “You’ve been cagey about this police officer you’re mentoring.”

Thomas wasn’t sure how much he should tell her. “His name is Noah Vale.” He kept his eyes on the ground, as if the flowers would offer a way out of this conversation. “Hartford Springs PD asked me to step in because Noah was having a rough time.”

“Rough time? That’s vague. Is it personal stuff or on the job?”

“Both.” Thomas tugged at his shirt collar. “Chelsey, it’s not my story to tell. I don’t want to betray his trust. But I can say this much—he’s good at what he does, and he’s carrying a lot. The department thought having a mentor from outside might help.”

Chelsey frowned, clearly turning this over in her mind. “Why not keep it internal? Why bring in someone from the sheriff’s department? You’ve got enough investigations to deal with, Thomas.”

“That’s what I asked when they called. Hartford Springs PD doesn’t have the best reputation for handling their own issues. They’re insular. I think they’ve swept too much under the rug for too long, and Chief Milham knows it.”

“Having an outsider look at it might be their way of feigning effort.”

That was a possibility. Milham might have brought in Thomas to improve his department’s public image, not to make a difference.

“I considered that.”

“So Milham called in the most trustworthy guy in Nightshade County? Sounds like you drew the short straw.”

“I agreed, because Noah is walking a tightrope. He’s a young officer with potential, but he’s close to breaking. If I can help him pull through, it’s worth the hours. But I’m not blind to what this could cost me if it goes wrong.”

“And what will it cost you?”

“Time and attention. If I take my eye off the ball, the sheriff’s department will suffer.”

“As if Aguilar or Lambert would allow that to happen. You’ve always tried to save everyone, even when you shouldn’t.”

“Noah deserves a chance.”

Thomas turned his head toward the lake when he heard an approaching motor. The water rippled as a sleek white boat coasted toward his dock. His brows lifted in surprise as he recognized the figures onboard.

“Is that…” he said, shading his eyes with a hand.

“Darren and Raven,” Chelsey said. “Did Darren mention anything about buying a boat?”

“Not to me, he didn’t.”

The boat glided to a stop, and Darren, the ranger at Wolf Lake State Park, tied it to the dock before jumping onto the wooden boards. Raven followed, stepping off with care, her braids catching the breeze.

“Well, well,” Thomas said. “Didn’t know you were part of the Wolf Lake Yacht Club now.”

Darren shook Thomas’s hand. “Not quite. But I’d say it’s time you met the newest addition to the family.”

“This is yours?”

“One hundred percent ours.”

Chelsey crossed her arms. “Raven, seriously? You didn’t say a word about this.”

Raven shrugged, failing to hide her excitement. “It happened fast. Darren found a deal too sweet to pass up.”

“‘Deal’ might be underselling it,” Darren said, motioning for them to come aboard. “I got this beauty from a guy over in Montour Falls. He was moving to Arizona and didn’t need it anymore. Practically gave it away.”

Thomas helped Chelsey aboard. He owned his own boat, but nothing like this. The interior appeared to be in terrific shape. Cushioned seats lined the sides, and the steering console gleamed as though freshly polished. A canopy provided shade over the rear half.

Darren patted the captain’s chair with pride. “Solid engine. Clean interior. Barely a scratch on her. I checked everything. The guy just didn’t have the time to use her anymore.”

Chelsey ran a hand along the seat’s edge. “Not bad at all. You definitely scored.”

Raven pointed at the front. “There’s a storage compartment with enough space for picnic supplies, fishing gear, whatever.”

“And, in case you’re wondering, it’s not just for show,” Darren said, winking at Thomas. “I’ve already tested it. She handles like a dream. Might take you fishing, Sheriff.”

“Is that so?” Thomas asked. “Last I checked, your aim with a fishing rod is as shaky as your aim with a dartboard.”

“Hey, hey. No need for slander. I’m improving.”

Raven laughed. “You’ll have to get him on the water to believe it.”

“She’s really something.”

Chelsey slid into one of the cushioned seats. “So, let me get this straight. You just referred to the boat as female. Typical. Why do guys always do that? Ships, cars, scooters. It’s always a ‘she.’”

“Yeah, seriously,” Raven said. “What’s the deal with that? Is it some secret male bonding ritual we don’t know about?”

Darren scratched his forehead. “It’s…uh, tradition. I think.”

Thomas couldn’t ignore the chance to pile on. “It’s just the way boats and cars are. You know, they’re temperamental, need lots of care, and can be unpredictable.”

His fiancée cut him off with a raised finger and an exaggerated gasp. “Excuse me? Careful where you’re going with this, my future husband.”

“Keep talking, Thomas,” Raven said. “Dig that hole deeper.”

“Those are Thomas’s words, not mine,” Darren said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But boats are classic ladies of the water, right?”

Chelsey looked at Raven. “See? Classic ladies. It’s like they think they’re flattering us.”

“Maybe next time, we should call our car ‘Sir Snail’ when it doesn’t start right away,” Raven said.

“At least we use our terms as compliments,” Darren said.

“Sure, Darren. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The four of them burst into laughter, rocking the boat.

“All arguments aside,” Chelsey said, “I’ve got to hand it to you. This is impressive. Just don’t forget to invite us next time you decide to cruise in style.”

“You’re on the guest list,” Darren said. “Consider this your formal invitation to the inaugural Wolf Lake sunset cruise.”

“I can’t wait,” Thomas said.

The lake breeze played through Thomas’s hair; the moment was a welcome reprieve from his responsibilities.

Raven took a seat across from Chelsey. “Actually, Chelsey and I could use a little help on a case we’re working. Thomas, think the sheriff’s department can spare LeVar for a few days?”

Thomas tilted his head, curious. “What’s the investigation?”

“We’ve been hired to look into a missing person case—someone who disappeared near Wolf Lake ten years ago,” Chelsey said. “The family doesn’t think the authorities gave the disappearance the attention it deserved. We’ve found some unusual circumstances.”

“Unusual?”

“The evidence suggests the person might have been involved in something shady before disappearing. We need LeVar’s skills.”

“Better not tell LeVar that,” Raven said. “His head is big enough as is.”

“LeVar is only scheduled for one shift this week,” Thomas said. “Freeing him up shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thanks, Thomas.”

3

Inside Wolf Lake Consulting, with a submarine sandwich set on a dish before him, LeVar tapped a pencil against the desk. Raven, Chelsey, and Scout tossed theories back and forth about their latest investigation. They were trying to solve a decade-old disappearance of Randall “Randy” Mercer.

Raven scrawled various theories on a dry-erase board. “Okay, hear me out. What if Randy Mercer got mixed up with the wrong crowd? Organized crime, maybe? He disappeared, leaving behind debts or people who wanted him dead.”

“But wouldn’t someone have come looking for him in all these years? Family, old business partners?” Chelsey asked.

Scout, who had been skimming through HTML files to update the company website, offered her opinion. “Maybe he was in witness protection? What if he saw something and had to go underground?”

Much to LeVar’s chagrin, Scout wore a red-plaid miniskirt that revealed her toned legs. He forced himself not to stare.

“Witness protection usually means a total cutoff, but it’s damn hard to hide that cleanly without a trace,” LeVar said. “Someone would have leaked the truth by now. Besides, Randy Mercer didn’t seem like the most trustworthy individual. Witness protection doesn’t fit his profile.”

Scout adjusted her glasses. “He was a contractor, right? From what I’ve read, he built houses around Wolf Lake. What if one of his construction projects went wrong, and he escaped before anyone could sue him?”

Chelsey wrote Scout’s idea below Raven’s. “That’s plausible, but it would be strange for him to vanish instead of facing the music. Maybe he had more to hide.”

“What about family?” LeVar asked. “Did he have a wife and kids? Maybe he was a jerk, and they had someone dump him in the lake.”

“You’ve been watching too many daytime dramas, LeVar. Either way, we’re missing a sizeable piece of the puzzle. Sheriff Gray did a fine job before Thomas came along, but it seems like his department dropped the ball. We have literally nothing on Randy Mercer. One day, he’s building houses along the lake. The next, he’s gone.”

Raven crinkled her nose and waved a hand in front of her face. “Okay, seriously, LeVar. What is up with that sandwich? It smells like you’re trying to ward off vampires.”

With an onion slice dangling from the submarine sandwich, LeVar paused mid-bite. “They’re onions, Raven. They add flavor. You should thank me for keeping my immune system strong.”

“Didn’t you just have soup for lunch?” Chelsey asked. “Like an hour ago?”

LeVar shrugged and took another bite. “Soup doesn’t count, Chelsey. It’s basically flavored water. Barely any calories. This is the meal.”

“Flavored water?” Scout asked, screwing up her face. “That was a beef-and-vegetable soup. Those calories count, LeVar.”

“Are you worried I’ll lose my svelte physique?”

“As if.”

“It’s science, Scout,” LeVar said, grinning. “Soup is like the trailer before the movie. You need the feature.”

“You and your food logic, I swear,” Chelsey said.

He gestured at his sandwich as if it were the pinnacle of culinary talent. “Hey, you all keep spinning conspiracy theories about this Randy Mercer case, and I’ll keep my energy up. After you run out of steam, I’ll solve your little case. Think of me as the engine that never quits.”

Raven snorted. “Yeah, fueled by onion fumes.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Of what? That your breath stinks like a men’s locker room?”

“Very funny, sis.”

Chelsey clapped her hands together. “All right, LeVar, since you’ve clearly focused on food again, I have a job for you and Scout.”

“What job?”

“We’re out of coffee,” Raven said. “The Broken Yolk is just down the road. A few bags, please, or the next brainstorming session will involve Chelsey using conspiracy theories fueled by herbal tea.”

“Can’t have that.” LeVar groaned with exaggerated reluctance but was already pushing back his chair. “Fine, fine. I’ll sacrifice myself to the caffeine gods.”

Scout hopped up, apparently excited about the coffee errand. “Let’s go. It’s been days since we’ve been to The Broken Yolk.”

LeVar grabbed his wallet. “Chelsey?”

“Yeah?” Chelsey asked.

“You’d better not steal my sandwich.”

On the sidewalk, shoppers carried bags from store to store. LeVar and Scout walked at an easy pace. They had all the time in the world.

“Feels like spring is finally here,” Scout said, swinging her arms. “And in a few months, we’ll both be at Kane Grove.”

LeVar nodded, keeping his eyes ahead but sneaking glances when she wasn’t looking. “Yeah, it will be different, that’s for sure. Are you excited?”

“Excited, nervous, all the things,” she said. “What about you? Kane Grove is ten times the size of the community college.”

“Same. But you know me. I’ll make it work.”

His words were confident, but his thoughts churned. Kane Grove University would change everything. They’d no longer be nestled in the familiarity of Wolf Lake. Scout would be in a new environment, surrounded by people he couldn’t protect her from. Naomi, Scout’s mother, trusted him to watch over her daughter, and LeVar took that responsibility seriously. Scout was more than a friend; she was family.

“Promise me something,” LeVar said. “While we’re at Kane Grove, if anything feels off, if you ever need someone to back you up, call me.”

The wind gusted. Scout brushed the hair away from her face.

“You always have my back, LeVar.”

“And I always will.”

LeVar wanted to say more, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that they would become much more than friends once they were out of Wolf Lake. She would live in a dorm room, and he’d rent a house near the university. Too much privacy.

“I can care for myself,” she said. “But I appreciate having eyes on my back.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you from getting into trouble.”

“You don’t want me to find any mysteries at college? Hidden passages inside the bursar’s office?”

“Leave it to you to find a secret corridor into the unknown.”

Before LeVar knew it, they reached The Broken Yolk. LeVar opened the door and drank in the scents of fresh pastries and roasted coffee beans. Because LeVar worked at the cafe a few days a month, he received an employee discount.

“How about a turnover?” he asked. “My treat.”

“I’ll pay.”

“No, you won’t.” LeVar removed the wallet from his pocket and ordered. “Not until we’re the same age.”

“Uh, LeVar. You’ll always be four years older than me.”

“Then we have a deal.”

Scout appeared too confused to reply.

LeVar carried their orders out of the cafe. The day was bright, with sunlight filtering through the budding leaves, dappling the streets with patterns of light and shadow. It was one of those perfect spring afternoons that made it seem as if winter would never come again.

They made their way to the village park, where children played on swings and a few couples walked hand in hand along the paths. LeVar led them to a bench under an oak tree. They sat, their shoulders brushing as they settled in.

LeVar handed her a turnover. “Apple cinnamon. The best choice on the menu.”

Scout took a bite, her eyes lighting up. “Wow. You just converted me.”

He bit into his own turnover. Scout crossed her legs beside him, the red plaid miniskirt sliding up her thighs as her bare leg brushed against his knee. He shifted, trying to ignore how aware he was of how close she sat. It was impossible. He pictured them alone inside his rented house near the university.

No. Terrible idea.

“It’s beautiful out,” Scout said, gazing across the park. “I’ll miss Wolf Lake. This place always feels like home, you know?”

“It does.”

The park’s atmosphere was peaceful, but LeVar’s thoughts were still anything but calm. The red of her skirt caught his eye again, a vivid contrast against the green grass. He felt a rush of protectiveness and an urge he could never act upon.

“You seem distracted,” she said.

Distracted was one way to put it.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About college and how different life will become,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We’ll be out of Wolf Lake. Everything changes.”

“It’s a change for the better, right?” She leaned in, her shoulder pressing into his. “I mean, we’ll have cool adventures and meet new people.”

“I’m not sure about the adventures, but you’ll meet lots of people your age.”

“So will you,” she said.

He hated himself for noticing the way her hair caught the sunlight or the way her laughter made his chest tighten. She was Scout, the girl he’d looked after since she was in a wheelchair. But now she ran almost as fast as he did, and she’d grown.

The lines were blurring.

4

Thomas tapped on the brakes when a cat scampered across the road. Hartford Springs had always been rough around the edges, but over the past year, things had taken a darker turn. Crime was spreading, creeping out of the alleys and into plain view. It wasn’t just petty theft or graffiti anymore. It was drug deals, violence, and the undercurrent of something more organized.

According to the rumors, the disbanded 315 Royals from Harmon had scattered, and some of their members had regrouped here, strengthening Hartford Springs’ criminal underworld.

He passed by an old diner with a “Closed” sign hanging crookedly in the window, its glass smudged and dirt-caked. Once upon a time, it had been a staple in the community. Now it was just another forgotten building. He spied two young men standing on the street corner, their hands buried deep in their jackets despite the warmth. They eyed his cruiser with a hollow, guarded gaze Thomas had seen too many times. Trouble.

Turning down a narrow street, Thomas rolled past a park, where a group of kids played basketball. In the shadows beyond, another group loitered, exchanging handshakes that lingered too long—a clear sign of business being conducted. He considered stopping the cruiser, but even as the county sheriff, he didn’t want to step on the local police officers’ toes. And he was alone. Dozens of teens and twenty-something men hung out near the court. Thomas was outnumbered.

The sight made his stomach churn. Drugs were eating away at Hartford Springs.

He pulled into a parking spot near a precinct building that looked tired and worn. Officers leaned against patrol cars, their faces holding exhaustion and wariness. This was their reality, and he was about to step into it.

Thomas entered the precinct. He followed the signs to the back of the building, where Chief Milham’s office waited. He knocked twice.

“Come in.”

Chief Milham was a middle-aged man with a square jaw and thinning hair. Paperwork, coffee mugs, and a chipped nameplate crowded the desk. The chief gestured for Thomas to take a seat.

“Sheriff Shepherd.” Milham hastily built a pile of papers and shoved it inside his desk drawer. “Appreciate you coming by on short notice.”

Thomas settled into the creaky wooden chair opposite Milham. Everything about Milham’s office screamed of an overworked and poorly funded force. “Anytime. You know that, Chief.”

Milham’s eyes were tired but keen. He wasted no time. “You’ve been working with Vale for a couple of weeks now. What’s your take?”

Thomas kept his response measured. “He’s determined, which can be an asset. But I see some cracks. He struggles with confidence and doesn’t trust himself when the pressure is on.”

“Vale has potential, but he’s raw. Real raw. I’m not telling you anything you haven’t learned. But I’m hearing whispers, Sheriff.”

“Go on.”

“Word is, Vale almost drew on a guy the other night during a routine stop. The driver was unarmed. He pulled out a phone, not a weapon. You know what that looks like, right? The public is up in arms about police brutality, as if we don’t have enough to deal with.”

“What did Vale’s partner say?”

“I spoke to Lynch. He gave me very little. It seems to me like he’s protecting Vale. Not that I should be surprised. We look after our own. It makes me worry things were worse than the whispers suggested.”

“Officer Vale is a rookie. This job can break the best officers if they don’t have a support system. What do you need from me?”

“I need you to get inside that kid’s head. Figure out if he’s a liability or if there’s hope for him. If he’s a danger to himself or others, I need to know.”

Thomas took a breath. “Noah Vale isn’t a lost cause. But he needs accountability and mentorship.”

“Which is why I brought you aboard. Vale has baggage. You’ve seen the file.”

“I’ll talk to him. What happened with his family—it’s hard to come back from that. Losing his mother at the hands of his father left scars.”

“We vetted him, Sheriff. I don’t take chances with my community and its officers. When Vale applied, he went through a thorough psychological evaluation. It wasn’t a rubber-stamp job.”

Thomas remained silent, sensing there was more.

Milham continued. “I know it’s difficult to move past tragedy. But the evaluators said he was fit for duty. He has natural skills, instincts, and discipline. And let’s not pretend we have a line of perfect candidates waiting at the door.”

“I understand. But psychological evaluations can only go so far. It’s different when you’re in the field, making split-second decisions. We both know that.”

“Are you suggesting Vale slipped through the cracks?” Milham asked.

“I’m suggesting that trauma doesn’t go away just because a file says it’s resolved. He might not be a danger, but he’s carrying a burden. And if he doesn’t work through it, it’s going to affect his performance.”

“You’re right. It’s why I want you to spend more time with him. Vale needs someone who overcame difficulties, walked through the fire, and came out on the other side.”

Difficulties. That was one way to describe Thomas’s lifelong struggle with Asperger’s. He’d proven being on the spectrum couldn’t stop him from defending the public and delegating authority, and he would never use his Asperger’s as a crutch or an excuse. Throughout his life, he’d demonstrated anyone could overcome challenges with effort and perseverance.

“I’ll do what I can,” Thomas said. “But I don’t feel comfortable with what happened during the traffic stop. Vale internalizes his feelings. He has to meet me halfway.”

“He will. Or he’s done. We don’t have room for someone who can’t control themselves in the field.”

Thomas stood, offering his hand. “I’ll keep you updated.”

Milham shook it firmly. “I trust you will.”

5

Thomas found Officer Noah Vale in the conference room. After entering, he locked the door and drew the shade. Even after ensuring they had privacy, he could see shadows stop outside the window and linger.

The rookie looked up when Thomas entered. An expression of disquiet crossed his face before he stood, straightening his posture.

“Sheriff,” Noah said.

“It’s Thomas, Noah. There is no need for formalities. Have a seat.”

Thomas sat across from the officer. He studied Noah for a moment, taking in the man’s strained expression, the dark circles under his eyes. “You know why I’m here. I heard about the traffic stop.”

Noah clasped his hands together and gathered his thoughts. “I won’t make excuses. It was on me. I screwed up. For the life of me, I thought he was going for a weapon.”

“You almost pulled your service weapon on an unarmed man,” Thomas said. “What happened?”

“I misread the situation. It was dark and raining, and his movements seemed threatening. I thought—” Noah broke off, his voice cracking. He took a breath. “I thought the phone was a gun.”

“This job is all about reading people, Noah. About trusting your instincts, yes, but also knowing when to hold back. What was it about that situation that made you uncertain?”

As the clock ticked, Noah stared at the desk. When he looked up, his eyes held shame. “I expected the worst, Thomas. The drug trade is spiraling out of control in Hartford Springs. Every day, I see the damage it does. I don’t want more families destroyed.”

“You’re internalizing the problem. I sense there’s more to the story.”

Noah didn’t speak. Thomas sipped from a cup of coffee and gave the officer time.

“I’ve told you about what happened to my mother,” Noah finally said.

“Yes. Your father lost control.”

The rookie stared at the wall, as if viewing a forgotten horror.

“But you don’t know why he lost control.”

Thomas pushed aside the cup. “I’m listening, Noah.”

“When I was a kid, I watched my father get loaded night after night.” He swallowed. “He was a different person when he was high. Violent and unpredictable. It’s why he murdered my mother. My father wasn’t himself.”

Thomas’s breath caught. That wasn’t in the files. “You never told the police?”

“No. It’s not something I wanted anyone to know.” Noah’s voice sounded as if someone had dragged sandpaper across his throat. “When I see drugs, I remember the monster my father became. I don’t want anyone else to suffer like my family did.”

Thomas let the admission hang between them, absorbing the weight of what Noah had revealed. “I’m sorry, Noah. That’s a heavy burden to carry. No one should have to go through that.”

“I carry it every day, Thomas. But it doesn’t affect my job.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear.”

The image of a young boy, wide-eyed and terrified, watching his father’s descent into addiction and violence, lodged itself in Thomas’s mind. Noah’s trauma explained so much about the young officer’s volatility and his rigid stance toward the drug trade, not to mention Noah’s hypersensitivity to danger.

The quiet grew uncomfortable. Thomas rubbed a hand over his jaw. His eyes searched for cracks in the young man’s armor.

“I appreciate you telling me the truth,” Thomas said. “It took courage. But you know I have to take this seriously, right? This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about your safety, your partner’s safety, and the community you swore to protect.”

Noah bristled. “Yes, Thomas.”

“I’m not doubting your commitment. But you’re dealing with trauma, and it’s bleeding into your work. That traffic stop wasn’t simply a close call, Noah. It could have ended in tragedy. For you, for your partner, and for an innocent person.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“There’s a difference between making a mistake and letting fear dictate your actions. We have protocols for a reason. What happened the other night tells me you’re fighting more than criminals. You’re fighting ghosts.”

The younger man’s shoulders slumped. He looked impossibly young. “What now? You’re pulling me from the field?”

“I don’t have the authority to pull you. That’s Chief Milham’s call. Or Internal Affairs, and I see no reason to involve them at this point. But there will be steps we have to take. First, you’ll need to undergo another psychological evaluation. It is standard protocol.”

Noah’s eyes widened with panic. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I think you’ve gone through hell, and it’s my job to make sure you can perform under pressure. This isn’t a punishment, Noah. It’s for your own good.”

The officer drew himself up. “Okay, I can handle it.”

“You can. The department has counselors who specialize in trauma for law enforcement. I need you to work with them.”

“You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” Thomas sat forward. “You want to be a police officer?”

“More than anything.”

“Then prove to me you can do this job without endangering yourself or others. Don’t bury your trauma. Work through the issue, and we’ll move forward.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Good. Because I believe in you, Noah. But this job is bigger than you, or me, or any one person’s past. If you want to defend the public, you have to be at your best.”

Thomas could see Noah’s confidence returning.

“When do we start?”

“Right away,” Thomas said. “I’ll speak with the chief and make the arrangements. We’ll get you the help you need. One step at a time. Remember, Noah. Hold nothing back. Your counseling sessions are confidential.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Never forget that I’m here to mentor you, Noah. That means you can call me anytime, day or night.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” said Noah.

“Nonsense. It’s my duty.”

“But you’re getting married and have to run the county.”

Thomas flashed a grin. “You sound like my fiancée.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Day or night, Noah. Don’t forget.”

The sheriff rose, extending a hand. Noah hesitated, then shook it.

After Noah left, Thomas remained seated. His job wasn’t done. Checking the time, he fidgeted in his chair while he waited for Officer JJ Lynch, Noah’s partner, to arrive.

The door opened, and Officers JJ Lynch and Graham Larsen walked in. Thomas had expected to speak with Lynch alone, but Larsen’s presence surprised him.

Lynch was a sturdy man in his early thirties, his uniform crisp, his demeanor confident. Larsen, older by a decade, exuded a calm, practiced authority that came from years on the job. He was tall and wiry, with deep-set eyes that seemed to peer through Thomas.

“Sheriff Shepherd,” Lynch said, his tone polite but wary as he and Larsen took their seats. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

“Officer Lynch, I’d hoped to speak to you privately about the traffic stop involving Officer Noah Vale. This is a confidential matter.”

Lynch glanced at Larsen. “Understood, Sheriff. But Larsen has something you need to hear.”

Thomas turned to Larsen, whose legs drummed under the table.

“I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll get to the point,” Larsen said. “We’ve been hearing chatter around town about the 315 Royals. I know you’re aware of their history.”

“Disbanded after their leaders were locked up a few years ago. I’ve had one too many dealings with them. The rumors say some members scattered to Hartford Springs.”

“That’s correct. But while it’s true we’ve spotted a few of them here, they’re lying low. These guys keep their heads down and stay out of trouble. They hold menial jobs. One works at the corner grocery store on Twelfth Street.”

Thomas frowned. “And you believe they’re not involved in the drug trade?”

“There’s no evidence that ties them to narcotics trafficking in Hartford Springs. We’ve kept eyes on them, but so far, nothing. These guys aren’t reckless. They know we’re watching.”

“Noah says they’re behind the drug trade. Are you saying his instincts are wrong?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Larsen said. “Noah convinced himself that these guys are orchestrating the drug trade and moving product through secret channels. But he’s chasing ghosts. Every lead he brings to us is a dead end. I think he’s letting his past color his perception.”

Thomas wondered if Larsen knew Noah’s father had abused heroin. Though the information didn’t exist in the official records, people talked.

Lynch said, “Noah is sharp, but he’s intense. He sees threats everywhere. Larsen is right. I work the streets with Noah. He has a good heart, but his focus on the 315 Royals borders on paranoia.”

“You’re saying there isn’t a growing problem with addiction in Hartford Springs?” Thomas asked.

“No, that much is true. But people aren’t obtaining narcotics in Hartford Springs. Look, Harmon is a thirty-minute drive down the interstate, and you can find anything you want on the bad side of Kane Grove. People travel when they want something.”

“It seems difficult to believe nobody is pushing in Hartford Springs.”

“Then bring us the evidence,” Larsen said. “We’ve torn this town apart, and I’m telling you, Noah is wrong. He needs to reel it in. His paranoia makes him reckless.”

“But if we dismiss every suspicion because there’s no immediate proof, we risk missing a real threat.”

“Trust me, Sheriff. Chief Milham forces us to pound the pavement. Every freaking day. But if this supposed drug trade existed in Hartford Springs, we would have snuffed it out a long time ago.”

Thomas turned to Lynch. “Has Noah’s behavior on the street been erratic? Besides the traffic stop?”

“Not erratic, but intense. He patrols like he’s looking for a fight that isn’t there. It’s just a matter of time before someone gets hurt.”

That was the worst-case scenario. If Noah was unstable, he couldn’t wear the badge.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Thomas said. “Though I’m here to support and mentor Noah, my priority is protecting the public and ensuring Hartford Springs PD doesn’t have a rogue officer on its hands.”

“That’s all we ask, Sheriff,” Larsen said.

Was Noah seeing something the other officers had missed, or was he jumping at shadows?

6

Thomas drove out of Hartford Springs with more questions than answers. He’d agreed to mentor a rookie officer with a traumatic history, but his responsibility was growing.

Everything Officer JJ Lynch had shared only reinforced what Thomas already knew. Noah Vale was on shaky ground. The rookie’s instincts were sharp but misdirected, and his personal demons were seeping into his work. This was dangerous territory.

By the time Thomas returned to the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department, the sun had dipped below the hills. The parking lot lay in shadow. He stepped inside, shaking off the evening chill. Deputy Aguilar was working at her desk, sorting through stacks of paperwork and juggling phone calls.

“There you are, Thomas,” she said. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“Long day,” Thomas said. He pulled up a chair beside her. “What about you? What’s the word around Wolf Lake?”

Aguilar stretched her arms and yawned. “Draining. Lambert and I are juggling a dozen cases, and none of them want to play nice.” She gestured to a pile of files on her desk. “Want the rundown?”

“Hit me.”

Aguilar picked up the first file. “We’ve got that string of burglaries along the western edge of the county. The thief is mostly hitting vacation homes and cabins. Nothing super high-value, but it’s driving away tourists. Lambert thinks it’s a local group.”

“These sound like opportunistic crimes.”

“Definitely. They’re getting brave. The last break-in occurred in broad daylight. Neighbors didn’t see anything.”

She set down the file and grabbed another. “Then there’s the counterfeit cash floating around Treman Springs. A few businesses got hit last week. Small-time operations, like gas stations and convenience stores, but it’s escalating. Someone’s producing some pretty convincing fake twenties.”

“Any leads?”

“Lambert is running down a couple of names. We’ve got a suspect who used to dabble in forgery, but nothing concrete. And then there’s this.” She picked up a third file. “We received an anonymous tip about illegal hunting in Wolf Lake State Park. Someone’s poaching at night. Darren’s going to be furious.”

“He will be.”

“I already gave him a heads-up. He’s ready to set traps, but I told him to monitor the trail cameras and let us do the dirty work. We’re coordinating with Fish and Wildlife.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, just your usual dose of missing livestock. Farmer Buckley’s goats keep wandering off, and he’s convinced it’s a chupacabra. Lambert checked. Turns out he just has a hole in his fence.”

Thomas chuckled. “Are we sure it isn’t a sasquatch?”

“Buckley says it has to be the chupacabra, and who am I to argue? You know who would love to take on that investigation? Scout and LeVar.”

“Oh, you aren’t lying. Knowing them, they’d bag a monster.”

“Wouldn’t that make the news?” Aguilar quipped. Her expression softened, and she lowered her voice. “So, how’s it really going with Noah Vale? I realize you can’t give me the details, but I’m curious.”

The sheriff appreciated Aguilar’s concern. “It’s complicated. I’m working with Noah, and we’re a long way from finishing.”

Aguilar didn’t pry. “Just say the word if you need my opinion.”

“I will, Aguilar. Now let’s see what else this county can throw at us.”

Back in his office, he had just lowered himself into a chair when his phone rang. Chelsey’s name flashed across the screen and he answered.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey. Got a minute to talk about Randy Mercer?” Chelsey asked.

Thomas recalled their conversation about Wolf Lake Consulting’s latest investigation.

“Of course. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been going over the notes again. Mercer vanished almost ten years ago to the day. Builder, mid-forties, married with two kids. Just up and disappeared without a trace. Have you had time to look at the case files?”

Thomas opened the old case files on his computer and skimmed through the details. “I’ve got them here. No signs of struggle, no note, nothing. Sheriff Gray believed it was a voluntary disappearance.”

“I love Sheriff Gray, but I can’t make assumptions,” Chelsey said. “Not with what I’ve dug up. Did you know Mercer had just landed a huge contract for a luxury build right before he disappeared? Seems like an odd time to skip town.”

Thomas frowned. “I see that in the report. What’s your take?”

“Could be foul play,” Chelsey said. “Maybe someone wanted that contract for themselves, or Mercer got mixed up with the wrong people. But if he left of his own accord, why didn’t he empty any of his accounts? His bank account, credit cards. Nothing was touched before or after he disappeared.”

Thomas scanned the financial records in the case file. “You’re right. No activity. That’s odd, especially for a guy who was a devoted family man.”

“It’s weird. Another thing—the construction project he was managing. Did anyone comb through the site?”

“There was an initial search,” Thomas said, clicking through more notes, “but it doesn’t look like our deputies went beyond surface-level checks. No forensics sweep, no detailed soil analysis.”

“That’s a missed opportunity. We need to get eyes on that site. It’s been developed since, right?”

“Yeah. It’s a commercial property now.” Thomas paused, thinking. “I’ll see if I can pull property records and building permits. Maybe we’ll find something that points us in the right direction.”

“Good idea. I also want to talk to Mercer’s family again. See if any old memories surfaced, or if they’re willing to discuss anything they hid from the sheriff’s department.”

“Sounds like you suspect the family.”

“Not necessarily, but I need to be thorough.”

“Chelsey, the family hired you. If they’re guilty, wouldn’t they bury Randy Mercer’s disappearance and never speak of it again?”

“True,” Chelsey said.

“Be careful. This is going to stir up old wounds. If you need support, I’m just a call away.”

“Thanks, Thomas.”

He set down the receiver and closed the digitized files. Under normal circumstances, he would have supported Chelsey and her team by calling the former sheriff and asking Gray what he remembered. But with Noah Vale’s issues and the pile of investigations on Aguilar’s desk, he couldn’t spare time for the private investigators.

7

LeVar scrubbed the countertops in the compact kitchenette. The scent of tonight’s dinner—pan-seared chicken with garlic and herbs—still filled the guesthouse, and he caught a whiff as he worked. He enjoyed cooking and the comfort it brought afterward. Not to mention that he loved to eat.

He rinsed a sponge, wringing it out until the soap bubbles dissolved. This amazing tiny space was his home, and he’d never forget Thomas’s generosity. A single open room with a couch against the wall offered a view of the water. The place wasn’t fancy, but it was his, and it had grown on him.

LeVar grabbed a towel and dried the dishes before placing them in the cabinets. He’d grown used to simple living. That was about to change. In a few months, he’d pack and leave this place to start his life as a student at Kane Grove University. After earning his associate’s degree at the Harmon community college, the transfer would be a major step. One he’d worked and sacrificed for and sometimes doubted he’d ever reach.

Big fish in a small pond, huh?

LeVar had come a long way from his gang days, from thinking survival meant sticking with the Harmon Kings to dreaming about building a career that would make his mother proud. His thoughts drifted to Kane Grove and its crowded lecture halls, holding classmates from all walks of life. He’d been to the campus several times, mostly to scope it out and to help Scout with her college prep, but it still felt daunting. It was a different world, with its own challenges and opportunities. Part of him worried he wouldn’t fit in, that people would see him as the guy with a past he couldn’t escape.

He set up the card table beside the window before dropping into a chair. Outside, Wolf Lake reflected the dusky sky in depthless blues.

A knock brought him out of his chair. He set the sponge on the counter and wiped his hands on his jeans. A moment later, he opened the door to find Scout and Naomi waiting.

His first reaction was trepidation. Naomi knew. Somehow, Scout’s mother had read his thoughts and figured out he’d grown attracted to her daughter. Not that he would ever act on his feelings.

Then he realized Scout and her mother were smiling, which they wouldn’t do if Naomi was out for blood. Scout held a packet of papers.

“Are we interrupting?” Naomi asked.

“Not at all,” he said, moving aside to let them in.

He closed the door behind them, stealing a glance at Scout before forcing himself to turn away. She was wearing a pair of short jean shorts and a fitted top that drew more attention than he wanted to admit.

Naomi set the papers on the table and moaned. “I hate to ask, LeVar, but I need help with this financial aid application from Kane Grove. I’ve been staring at it for hours and still feel like I’m reading hieroglyphics.”

LeVar led them into the front room and pulled out a chair for Naomi. “I remember filling out my application. It’s a lot of fine print and confusing terms. Mind if I take a look?”

“Please do.”

Scout dropped into the chair next to him. She smelled of wildflowers. Her proximity made it hard for him to think straight. Last winter, a blizzard had left Scout stranded with LeVar inside the guesthouse. At some point in the middle of the night, they’d fallen asleep beside each other.

He tried not to remember and concentrated on the paperwork, guiding Naomi through each section, from personal information to income verification.

“This is the tricky part,” he said, pointing to a page filled with financial details. “You need to double-check what you’re reporting, and make sure it matches what’s on your latest tax return.”

“It’s always about the taxes.” Naomi snickered. “I want to make sure Scout gets every bit of aid. My job at Shepherd Systems helps, but college tuition has gotten out of control.”

“Hundred percent. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off working and forgetting about another two years of college.”

Naomi’s eyes widened. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

She expected him to watch over Scout during her first semester.

“Nah.”

“LeVar has to go to Kane Grove,” Scout said. “If he wants to work for the FBI, he has to.”

“True dat.”

“That’s a relief,” Naomi said. “You scared me for a second. I just wish I could figure out all these forms.”

“You will. Make sure the tax part is accurate. And here’s the section for dependent information. Because Scout is still under your care, you’ll need to fill this out.”

He glanced over at Scout, who was watching him. “You’ll have your own section to fill out later.”

“When?” asked Scout.

“After you’re officially enrolled.”

“Sounds like a party.”

“Oh, it will be.”

Naomi’s phone rang. She read the screen and answered. After a quick conversation, she stood. “That was your mother,” Naomi told LeVar. “I need to go. We’re baking for that charity sale tomorrow. Hope you two can handle yourselves.”

“Of course, Mom,” Scout said. “We’ll be fine.”

Naomi gathered the applications. “Thanks for the help, LeVar. I’ll finish the rest after I get home.”

“Anytime,” LeVar said. “Good luck with the baking.”

“Try not to burn down the place, you two.”

When the door closed, an awkward silence settled over the room. LeVar cleared his throat. He could feel Scout’s eyes on him.

“Looks like it’s just us,” Scout said.

“Uh, right. Want something to eat? I have leftover chicken in the fridge.”

“Thanks, but Mom made lasagna. I’m stuffed.”

“Lasagna. That’s my favorite.”

“LeVar, all the foods are your favorites.”

“Not gonna lie. I like to eat.” He tugged at the bottom of his shirt. “What do you want to do?”

Scout shrugged, her gaze lingering on him. “Got any more life advice about college?”

“Not much I can say. Community college isn’t the same unless you live on campus, and I don’t.”

“But you visit Kane Grove all the time.”

“Yep, and I know enough to keep you out of trouble. Barely.”

She laughed and twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

LeVar shifted as Scout watched him expectantly. Being alone in the guesthouse wasn’t a wise idea.

“How about we go for a walk?” he stammered, the words coming faster than he intended.

“A night walk?” Scout grinned, her face lighting up with excitement. “That sounds kind of adventurous.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

He was already second-guessing himself. Great. Real smooth. Way to avoid one nerve-wracking situation and step right into another.

She followed him outside after he grabbed a hoodie. The April evening carried the scents of pine and lake water. As they walked along a winding path that hugged the shoreline, the moon’s silver glow illuminated the waves. It seemed like they were the only two people in the world.

They walked in comfortable companionship until Scout spoke. “It’s funny how different everything feels now.”

LeVar glanced at her. “Different how?”

“Walking along this lake, feeling the ground under my feet, and no longer worrying about every step.” She paused, looking out over the water. “Sometimes, I can’t believe any of it happened. The crash. The surgery. It feels like a movie.”

A lump formed in LeVar’s throat. The memories came rushing back.

Scout confined to the wheelchair, determined and resilient despite everything.

How he’d carried her into the water at Wolf Lake State Park, feeling the twitch in her leg that gave them both a flicker of hope.

And then the long weeks of worry and waiting before her spinal surgery.

He’d been afraid to lose her.

“You’ve come so far.”

She turned to him, her eyes searching his. “None of this would have happened without you.”

He looked away, his chest tight. “Yeah, you would have. You’re strong. I just helped where I could.”

“That’s not true. You were there when my leg moved. I thought I was imagining everything until I saw the truth in your eyes. LeVar, you’re the reason I had the surgery and learned to walk again. Do you know how much I owe you?”

The way Scout’s eyes held his made him squirm. What was she suggesting?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do. We’re more than friends.”

His pulse raced. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. “Scout, don’t.”

She waited, not saying anything more, just letting an impossibility float between them.

No. Scout wasn’t referring to love. She was simply offering her friendship. Whenever he stumbled, she would be there to pick him up.

The wind rustled the trees, and the lake lapped against the shore.

LeVar forced himself to speak. “Friends don’t owe each other anything. They’re just…there for each other.”

“Like us.”

“Bet.”

He wanted to say more, to make everything clear, but in his mind, no words sounded right.

“Want to keep going?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

8

The next day, Thomas flipped through the catering contract for the wedding, barely registering what he was reading. Noah’s warning about the 315 Royals nagged at him. Officer Larsen had downplayed the stories, and Thomas wasn’t sure who to believe. If a gang was establishing a foothold in Hartford Springs, Thomas wanted to see it for himself.

Aguilar knocked on his doorframe. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Mulling over Hartford Springs and Officer Noah Vale’s suspicions about the 315 Royals. I want to see what’s really going on in town. The thing is, I don’t want to step on toes.”

“You’re the sheriff, and Hartford Springs is part of Nightshade County.”

“Still, I feel like I owe Chief Milham a call before I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You’re just cruising through, Thomas,” she said.

“Are you sure that’s all I’m doing?”

“No, that’s all we are doing. Want some company? I don’t mind going along.”

Thomas considered her offer. “All right, let’s head out. It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes. Do you figure Lambert can catch the chupacabra by himself?”

“Probably not, but we’ll tend to his bandages after we return. I’ll grab the cruiser.”

Within minutes, they were on the road. Though summer was two months away, the number of vehicles told Thomas that the tourists were trickling back to the Finger Lakes.

As they neared Hartford Springs, Thomas tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I hope this is all overblown. Maybe Noah is overreacting.”

Aguilar knew about the rookie’s claims, but Thomas hadn’t told her about Noah’s drug-addicted father.

“It’s always better to check,” she said. “It’s not like we haven’t seen gangs move into small towns before. They go where the money is.”

As they entered the outskirts of Hartford Springs, the atmosphere changed. Thomas spotted a few rundown houses here, some new construction there, and small businesses with “Help Wanted” signs in the windows. People lingered on street corners. Some clustered around doorways, others pacing with their heads down, speaking into phones or scanning their surroundings with wary eyes.

“Looks suspicious to me,” Thomas said. “What are those guys up to?”

Before he could swing the cruiser to the curb, the sidewalk emptied.

“They aren’t trading baseball cards,” said Aguilar, craning her head to find the vanished mob.

Thomas’s eyes darted from the streets to the alleyways. They turned into the residential district, where a park sat abandoned, save for a few young men in hoodies leaning against a fence. As soon as the cruiser passed, the group shifted, exchanging glances before one of them pulled out a phone and began typing.

“We just made the rounds on their radar,” Aguilar muttered.

“Uh-huh. I’ll take another lap. Then we’ll check out the back roads.”

As they circled through the town, they noticed more clusters, sometimes just a single figure keeping watch, sometimes two or three. The patterns were unmistakable. An organized presence kept tabs on the area. How had the police missed something so obvious?

Aguilar lowered the window and removed a leaf from the side mirror. “If the Royals are back, they’re growing their presence. These hoods are establishing a network. What’s your call, Thomas?”

“Take note of everything you see. I’ll bring our findings to Chief Milham’s attention.”

“Maybe we can form a joint task force.”

“If the town will work with the county. There are never guarantees.”

Thomas redirected the cruiser to the Hartford Springs police station, its faded blue exterior reflecting a long history of serving a town that seemed to have grown more troubled in recent years.

Chief Milham greeted them in his office and he motioned for them to sit. “Sheriff Shepherd and Deputy Aguilar. What brings you back so soon?”

“Chief, we just spent an hour driving through the neighborhoods around town,” Thomas said. “What we saw concerns us.”

“Concerns you how?”

Aguilar spoke up. “Organized groups. People posted on street corners, some acting like lookouts, others communicating as we drove by. There’s no mistaking it. They’re watching who comes and goes.”

Milham seemed perplexed. “Look, I don’t mean to sound dismissive, but I’ve had my officers patrolling those areas every day. They haven’t reported anything like what you’re describing. Nothing even close.”

Thomas exchanged a glance with Aguilar. “I can only tell you what we saw, Chief. It’s unmistakable. If the 315 Royals are re-forming here, they’re doing it right under your officers’ noses.”

The chief’s face darkened, and he rubbed his temples. “We’ve established that some of the roaches from Harmon scattered here. But we haven’t seen evidence they’re dealing drugs or controlling territory.”

“With all due respect to your officers, Chief, these guys are careful. Every group we saw operated the same way by monitoring traffic and passing messages. They’re building a network, plain and simple.”

“You believe Officer Vale is right?” Milham asked.

“I do. Whatever personal issues he’s facing, Noah Vale’s concerns about the drug trade in Hartford Springs seem valid. Dismissing his warnings would be a mistake.”

Milham’s jaw worked as he considered their words. “This is a bitter pill to swallow. If what you’re saying is true, we’re in worse shape than I thought. How did we miss this?”

“I’m not here to point fingers. We can work together and build a task force.”

“You’re serious about partnering up? I don’t know how my officers will react. We’ve always kept things in-house.”

“This town deserves better than being blindsided by the resurgence of a dangerous gang.”

“I’ll pull together what intel we have. From there, we can form a task force and get these creeps out of Hartford Springs.”

The trio exchanged handshakes.

On his way out of the building, Thomas shot a look over his shoulder. Down the sidewalk, a figure moved off the path and behind a hedge.

“You look spooked, Thomas,” Aguilar said.

“I’m probably being paranoid, but I swear someone was watching us.”

9

Sitting behind his desk at Wolf Lake Consulting, LeVar tried his best to make sense of the old Randy Mercer files. His thoughts kept returning to the previous night. He’d walked along the lake with Scout for the better part of an hour before accompanying the teen to her front door. For a heartbeat, it seemed like she might kiss him goodnight. LeVar’s entire world tilted. He was relieved she was at school today. Distance would do him good.

“You look like a man with a secret,” Chelsey said, snapping him out of his thoughts. She tapped away on her keyboard as she eyed him over the monitor.

Darren and Raven worked together at the neighboring desk.

“Nah, just thinking about you and Darren’s new toy,” LeVar said, rocking back in his chair with a grin. “You really think it was a wise idea, Darren? Putting Raven on a boat? Next thing we know, she’ll be steering your baby into Lucifer Falls.”

“Excuse me?” Raven asked. “I am perfectly capable of driving a boat. Better than you, anyway.”

“Right. Because the last time you tried to steer anything, we ended up at the mechanic. Remember that camping trip with Mom and Buck? How you accidentally reversed into a tree?”

Darren laughed. “He’s got a point, Raven. Trees are stronger than bumpers.”

“Okay,” Raven said, “first of all, that tree came out of nowhere. And second, at least I didn’t capsize the canoe on Wolf Lake.”

“Oh, you’re bringing that up again?” LeVar grinned. “That wasn’t me. It was the fish’s fault. It was huge, and it jumped right at me. I had to defend myself.”

Chelsey snorted. “So now we’ve gone from a questionable tree to a monster fish? When will you both admit to your penchants for unpredictability?”

“I don’t care who drives the boat, as long as it doesn’t end up at the bottom of the lake,” Darren said. “Though, on second thought, maybe we should let LeVar take it for a spin. Scout can be our designated rescue swimmer.”

Hearing Scout’s name made LeVar pause.

“Speaking of Scout, is she still planning to work after school lets out?” Raven asked. “I need her to complete some backend work on the website.”

“As far as I know,” LeVar said.

At least the teen wouldn’t dare to kiss him in front of the others.

The banter gave way to a more serious subject. Chelsey leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “All joking aside, I want to discuss the Randy Mercer case. Melany Mercer is the one who hired us to find out what happened. She’s his wife. The timing is strange, don’t you think? Ten years later?”

Raven stretched her legs out in front of her. “Could be she’s ready for answers. Closure, you know?”

“Or maybe it’s more complicated than that,” LeVar said. “People don’t just wake up one day after a decade and decide to dig up the past without a reason.”

“True,” Chelsey said. “We know Randy was a house builder, and he disappeared without a trace. But why the sudden interest?”

“People deal with grief in different ways. Maybe Melany has been holding out hope that he’d walk back through the door, and now she’s facing reality.”

“Or,” Darren interjected, leaning against a filing cabinet with his arms crossed, “maybe there’s more to it. You said she hired us, right? Did she come across something that made her question what happened? An old letter? A message? Something that makes her think there’s more to the story?”

Chelsey wheeled her chair out from behind the desk. “I wondered that too. But if she found something, she hasn’t mentioned it.”

“We’re dealing with secrets and lies. Cases like these are never what they seem.”

“Not everything is a conspiracy,” Raven said. “Maybe Melany misses her husband. It might be as simple as that.”

LeVar gave a noncommittal shrug. “We won’t know unless we uncover something the sheriff’s department missed.”

“Let’s focus on what we know,” Chelsey said. “If Melany has skeletons in the closet, or if there’s more to Randy’s disappearance than meets the eye, we’ll have to get creative with our thinking.”

Flipping open the folder that Thomas had sent over, Chelsey spread out property records, building permits, and photographs of Randy Mercer’s projects. The papers showed tidy columns of numbers, official stamps, and dates spanning years before the disappearance.

“Well, here it is,” Chelsey said, gesturing at the paperwork. “Thomas went through all of Mercer’s building permits, contracts, and property records. Nothing jumps out. No missing funds, no building violations, nothing that screams foul play.”

LeVar looked over Chelsey’s shoulders. “You’d think there’d be at least one hiccup. When a dude like this disappears, you expect some shady dealings, a hidden loan, unpaid taxes. Something.”

Darren thumbed through a few pages. “All of it checks out. If there was something shady, Mercer covered his tracks well. Or he really was as clean as the paperwork suggests.”

“Thomas and I thought the same thing,” Chelsey said. “We looked for signs of money problems and legal issues, but we found nothing. It doesn’t fit the usual pattern for a disappearance.”

“So if it’s not about money, then what?” Raven asked.

“These were huge-money projects. I mean, million-dollar lake houses? You’re talking serious cash. Mercer had to have been doing well. Maybe someone wanted a piece of that.”

Darren narrowed his eyes. “You think another developer snuffed him out?”

“Success makes more enemies than friends,” said LeVar. “You take business from other people and don’t grease enough palms, and suddenly you’ve got people who want you to disappear.”

Chelsey considered LeVar’s words. “But we have no evidence of foul play. We’re speculating.”

“Yeah,” Raven said. “We’re private investigators. It’s our job to speculate. Until something comes up, all we have is a guy who vanished. No suspects, no motive, just a lot of rich people’s houses and a wife who suddenly wants answers.”

In the corner of the room, the printer fell asleep from disuse, leaving the investigators lost in thought. What was lurking beneath the shiny veneer of lakefront property deals? Something didn’t add up. And LeVar knew it.

10

Thomas shuffled through a stack of paperwork on his desk, trying to keep everything organized while balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. The hands on the office clock moved in double time, reminding him he had promised Chelsey to make it home in time for dinner. Every day this week, he’d shown up late.

His free hand flipped through a case file as Officer Noah Vale’s voice buzzed in his ear.

“Thomas, I just wanted to thank you for whatever you did. Chief Milham called a meeting about the joint task force. It feels like someone is finally listening.”

Thomas glanced into the bullpen, where Aguilar and Lambert were packing up for the day. “That’s great to hear, Noah. Keep that momentum going. Hartford Springs needs every officer on board.”

“Milham’s sudden turnaround wasn’t a coincidence. Did you say something to him?”

“Don’t worry about where Milham got his information. What matters is that the department is moving in the right direction. Concentrate on the job, Noah. Work with your superiors, earn their trust, and clean the streets.”

There was a beat of silence. Thomas could almost hear Noah working through what he wanted to say next. “I hear you, Thomas. When you’ve been fighting for so long, it’s hard to believe anyone’s really listening.”

Thomas’s voice softened. “I know. But Milham is listening now, and you’ve got everyone’s attention. Keep your head up, and don’t let your past dictate your future.”

“Before I let you go, something else I’ve been wanting to—”

The sheriff glanced at the clock again. Time was slipping away. “Hey Noah, I’ve gotta run. Can we pick this up tomorrow? Or maybe this evening? Whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan, Noah.”

Thomas hung up. He felt a pang of guilt for ending the call, but Noah could talk his ear off when given the chance, and Chelsey was waiting. He couldn’t keep pushing her aside. Soon they would be married. What kind of husband made his wife eat alone every evening? He gathered up his keys, double-checked the files on his desk, and hurried toward the door.

Thomas skirted the lake, his pickup moving past tidy residences and picturesque views that always made Wolf Lake seem like a postcard come to life. The village was nothing like Hartford Springs, where the scent of desperation hung in the air. Here, crime was at its lowest point in a decade, a testament to the tight-knit community and a vigilant law enforcement presence.

But Hartford Springs was a different story, one that would require more than just good intentions to change. He knew the battle against drugs would require a multi-pronged effort, and it wouldn’t be won overnight. Strategy was key.

First, intelligence gathering. That meant confidential informants, wiretaps, and anything that could provide insight into the operations of the drug network. They would need to pinpoint supply routes, identify the main players, and track how substances moved through the community.

Second, patrol strategy adjustments. High-visibility patrols in known hotspots would deter some activity, but plainclothes officers would be critical for observing and infiltrating the network. He made a mental note to suggest embedding undercover officers to blend in and gather information on transactions and distribution methods.

Community outreach and trust-building were equally important. Residents had to feel they could report suspicious activity without retaliation. Building trust meant showing results and making the streets safer.

Lastly, a coordinated strike. Once they had enough evidence, simultaneous arrests and search warrants would disrupt the network and send a message. Without precision, all they would do was scatter the players, making the job harder in the long run.

Thomas turned off the lake road and pulled into his driveway. He barely had time to open the front door before Jack bounded up to him, tail wagging like a whip. The big dog almost knocked him outside, and Thomas braced himself against the doorframe.

“Easy, Jack,” he said, ruffling the thick fur on the dog’s neck. Jack licked his face, a slobbery greeting that left Thomas wiping his cheek with the sleeve of his uniform.

From the living room, Tigger, their tabby, sat perched atop the back of the couch, watching the commotion with what could only be described as feline disdain. When Jack’s antics grew louder, Tigger stretched and let out a rumbling growl, a sound that never failed to amuse Chelsey.

“Come on, Tigger,” Chelsey said, appearing in the doorway. “The big bad wolf is just happy Daddy is home.”

“Jack, settle down, buddy. We don’t need more broken furniture.”

The dog plopped down on the floor with a huff, as if embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. Tigger flicked his tail in an I-told-you-so manner and leaped off the couch, trotting off to a quieter spot.

“Rough day?” Chelsey asked, kissing him on the cheek.

“More busy than rough.”

“Well, come on in. Dinner is ready. No point letting it get cold.”

“You cooked? I thought I was supposed to handle dinner tonight.”

“Sorry, Thomas. I was famished. Besides, you know what happens when I’m hangry.”

“Fair point,” Thomas said, feigning a shudder. “But I’ll make it up to you. I promise to get home earlier the rest of this week.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry about it. You have a job to do, and so do I. Sometimes work takes precedent.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Now you’re being unrealistic.”

Thomas wanted to be a proper partner, especially with the wedding so close. “It doesn’t seem right to keep you waiting every afternoon.”

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Jack let out a woof as if seconding the sentiment, and Tigger padded back into view and glared at the dog. Thomas felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. He was home. Thank goodness.

“Let’s eat,” Chelsey said, pulling him into the dining room. “Before the dog and cat stage a revolt.”

“Lead the way,” Thomas said. “Should I feed them?”

“I did it already.”

“Refill the water bowls?”

“Done,” she said.

He combed his hair with his fingers. “Geez, you’re making me feel like a heel.”

“Stop. You are doing your best, Thomas. That’s all anyone can ask.”

As they sat down to eat, the aroma of Chelsey’s cooking filled the room. He took a bite and nodded appreciatively. “This is great.”

Chelsey smirked. “Better than what you’d make?”

“I’d never admit it.”

“Have you made any progress with the Hartford Springs situation?” Chelsey asked, slicing her chicken.

“We’re on the verge of something huge. Chief Milham agreed to work with our department and take out the 315 Royals.”

“That’s promising. And how are things going with Noah Vale?”

Thomas hesitated, remembering the way he’d cut off Noah on the phone. “Hopefully he’s doing better. Noah was the only officer taking the drug threat seriously.”

“That’s a lot for a rookie to carry,” Chelsey said.

“Without question. How about the Randy Mercer case? Anything new?”

She shook her head, and her eyes held frustration. “We combed through those building permits. Like you said, nothing stands out yet. But there’s something about the wife’s sudden interest after ten years that doesn’t sit right.”

“Could be guilt. Maybe she put him through a woodchipper and scattered the remains.”

“Thomas!” Chelsey set down her fork. “I’m trying to eat.”

“My bad.”

“You’re watching too many horror movies.”

“They prepare me for the job,” he said.

The phone on the kitchen counter rang. Thomas hoped it wasn’t work. For once, he wanted to spend the evening with Chelsey. He wiped his face with a napkin and hurried to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

Silence greeted him on the other end. No background noise, no static.

“Hello?” Thomas said again, a little louder.

Nothing. The line went dead with a click.

He placed the phone back on its cradle. Chelsey watched him with curiosity and concern.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“No idea. They hung up. Could have been a wrong number, but—”

“But it didn’t feel like one,” Chelsey finished, reading his mind. She pushed aside her plate, her appetite waning.

Thomas recalled the figure he’d seen on the sidewalk near the Hartford Springs police station. Had someone learned about the joint task force?

11

LeVar parked his black Chrysler Limited in front of a single-story house in Kane Grove. Well-maintained homes lined the street, each with trimmed lawns and flowerbeds in bloom. The landlord, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair named Tom Davis, waited on the porch.

“LeVar, it’s good to see you again,” Tom said, extending a hand.

“Likewise,” LeVar replied, shaking it. “I’m excited to check this place out.”

LeVar felt relieved that this was finally happening. As much as he loved the guest house and intended to keep renting from Thomas, he needed a place near school. This home would be a lifesaver when blizzards hit and the roads turned icy.

“Come on in,” Tom said, leading the way into the house.

The front door opened to a spacious living room with hardwood floors and a large bay window that allowed natural light to flood the space. LeVar noted the neutral-colored walls and the faint smell of fresh paint. It was a clean slate, ready for him to make this his home.

“This is the living room,” Tom said. “Big enough for a couch, TV, and a coffee table. Whatever suits you.”

LeVar pictured a cozy setup with a couch, maybe a few posters of classic movies. He’d always been a sucker for old thrillers. As they moved through the house, he took in every detail. The kitchen had updated appliances, sleek granite countertops, and plenty of cabinet space. This was a step up from what he was used to in the guest house behind Thomas’s A-frame. It occurred to him that he’d never had this much privacy. After growing up with Raven and his mother, he’d moved into the guesthouse. Thomas and Scout were always stopping by. Not that he didn’t appreciate the company, but he hadn’t considered what it would be like to live on his own.

Tom continued the tour, showing him two bedrooms, a small but functional bathroom, and a backyard with a wooden deck. LeVar peered through the sliding glass door. Trees surrounded the yard, creating a natural fence line. He imagined sitting out there at night, a cold drink in hand, and grilling with friends.

Before he could stop it, another image surfaced. Scout. He pictured her on the living room couch, laughing at something one of them said, the curtains drawn.

He shook his head, clearing the thought.

“Earth to LeVar,” Tom said. “Are you still with me?”

“Just thinking about the space. It’s sweet.”

They moved on to the bedrooms. The larger one would easily fit a bed and a small desk. It had a closet with more than enough space for one person. The second room was smaller, but perfect for an office or guest room.

Tom paused in the hallway, his hands resting on his hips. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” LeVar said.

“Great, man. It’s not every day that I can rent to a sheriff’s deputy.”

“You’ve had problem renters?”

“Too many to count. I get a lot of students interested in renting. Not gonna happen. I don’t want parties and mayhem.”

“I’m a student, bro.”

“You’re different. How many criminal studies students hold part-time jobs with the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department? I’m happy to have you.” Tom handed over the keys. “Feel free to hang out and get a feel for the place.”

“Are you taking off?”

“I’ve got another place to show on Court Street. Just slip the keys through the mail slot when you’re done.”

“Appreciate the opportunity, Tom.”

After Tom departed, LeVar stood in the middle of the living room, keys in hand. A grin spread across his face, and he let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. This place was perfect. It was his. For the first time, he felt a sense of true independence.

He walked through the rooms again, letting his fingertips brush the smooth walls. In the kitchen, he imagined cooking meals that weren’t reheated leftovers from the station. This was a new beginning.

LeVar stepped out through the sliding glass doors onto the wooden deck and inhaled the spring smells. He scanned the yard and imagined reading under the stars. It was good to feel excited again.

Pocketing the keys, he decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. The streets were lined with tall oak trees, their branches reaching overhead and creating a canopy of shade. Three kids rode bikes, and a seventy-something man tended to his roses. A dog barking somewhere in the distance.

As he strolled down the block, LeVar noted the mix of old and new homes. A few had been freshly painted, while others bore the character of decades past. This wasn’t Wolf Lake, but it wasn’t trying to be. Kane Grove had its own vibe, a blend of college-town energy and small-town warmth.

Turning a corner, LeVar passed a coffee shop that looked like a place he might frequent. A “Help Wanted” sign hung in the window, but he had enough on his plate between school and the sheriff’s department.

He spotted a man in a crisp navy business suit unloading a briefcase from the trunk of his car. The man’s movements were fluid and confident, a polished professional who seemed to command respect as he bent to retrieve a set of papers. Within moments, a woman and two young children hurried out from the front door to greet him. The kids, a boy and a girl, couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, and they barreled into their father’s arms with infectious excitement.

As LeVar’s eyes lingered on the man, something tickled at the back of his mind. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he’d seen this face before. The man didn’t look familiar. So what was it about the family that drew LeVar’s attention?

The man kissed his wife’s cheek, then handed her the briefcase before scooping up his children. They laughed.

LeVar shook the cobwebs out of his head. Was this man someone he’d encountered during a previous investigation?

Turning away, LeVar continued his walk. His mind churned.

The scene with the man and his family had awakened an idea deep inside LeVar. Now he just needed to coax it to the surface.

12

Thomas blinked, disoriented in the darkness. The shrill ring of the phone made him sit up. He turned onto his side and surveyed Chelsey’s sleeping form. Her hair splayed across the pillow. She didn’t stir as he slid from beneath the covers. His feet touched the cold wooden floor as he snatched the phone.

The screen displayed Chief Milham’s name. A sinking feeling hit Thomas before he answered.

He stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him before answering.

“Chief Milham,” he said, his voice hoarse with sleep. “It’s early.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Sheriff Shepherd,” Milham said, “I hate to call you with this, but it’s about Noah Vale.”

Thomas’s stomach tightened. “What about Noah?”

Another hesitation. Milham took a breath.

“Noah hung himself last night. Hartford Springs PD found him in his apartment an hour ago.”

Thomas fumbled with the phone. Noah had wanted to tell him something before Thomas ended their call.

“How could this happen?”

“I don’t understand. Patrol went to check on him after he didn’t respond to phone calls. They forced their way in when he didn’t answer the door. Larsen found him in the bedroom. There wasn’t anything they could do.”

The world narrowed around Thomas. “I just spoke to Noah.”

“Don’t internalize this, Sheriff. Noah had issues, and you’re not a psychologist. Anyway, I thought you should hear it from me.”

“How did I miss this?” Thomas asked, his voice edged with disbelief. “How did I not see it coming?”

“It’s not just you. I’ve been asking myself the same question. This is a tragedy.”

Thomas rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble against his palm. “Did he leave a note? Anything to explain why?”

“Nothing. I knew he was struggling with his mother’s murder, but that was so long ago.”

“Thank you for telling me, Chief.” Thomas closed his eyes. He’d been so determined to help Noah. “I need to process the news.”

“Take your time,” Milham said. “But when you’re ready, we need to have a talk.”

“Because I was his mentor.”

“Yes.”

“Understood.”

After the call ended, Thomas stood in the darkness. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the wall for support.

Noah Vale had wanted to speak with Thomas, and now he was gone. There was nothing Thomas could do to turn back time.

An hour later, Chelsey found him sitting at the dining-room table, with a plate of cold eggs and toast laid before him. She paused when she saw him hunched over the table.

“Thomas?” she asked, stepping closer.

His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Noah Vale is dead.”

Chelsey didn’t move. “What? How?”

“He hung himself. Chief Milham called to tell me. I was his mentor. I was supposed to help him.”

She pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You were there to help him adjust to police work, not psychoanalyze him.”

“Whatever I did, it wasn’t enough. I should have seen the signs.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Chelsey said, squeezing his arm. “You’re one man, Thomas. And you cared about him. You tried.”

“I could have done more. He wanted to talk yesterday, and I brushed him off. I had so much going on. I told him we’d talk later. And now there won’t be a later.”

Chelsey stood and took the plate from in front of him. “You’re in no state to think clearly right now. This isn’t your fault, no matter how much it feels like it is.” She walked to the kitchen, reheated the food, and returned, setting the plate before him. “You need to eat something.”

He stared at the food, barely registering its presence. “I’m not hungry.”

“But you need your strength. You’ll find the answers you need, but not by starving yourself.”

As she watched, he picked up the fork. The food did little to unravel the knot in his stomach. Chelsey stayed by his side, offering strength.

When Thomas finished, she took the plate and rinsed it in the sink. He didn’t recall stepping out of his pajamas or climbing into the shower. One second, he was in the kitchen, forcing food down his throat. The next, he stood under the spray with no idea how he’d gotten there.

At seven o’clock, he parked his pickup behind the sheriff’s department. Everything felt surreal. Noah Vale had been doing so well. Why would he commit suicide?

Inside the station, Thomas spotted Deputy Aguilar at her desk.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” she said.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Officer Noah Vale is dead.”

Aguilar’s expression turned grave. “Dead? What happened?”

“Suicide. It happened overnight.”

“Oh, my God.” She set down her pen. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m heading to Hartford Springs to speak with Chief Milham. There must have been more going on with Noah than I realized.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No. I need you here, Aguilar. Run the office. Handle everything that comes in.”

“Thomas, you shouldn’t do this alone.”

“No arguments, Aguilar. Lambert is off today, and I need someone to oversee the junior deputies. If I learn anything new, I’ll call you.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Fine. But you’d better keep your radio on.”

“I will. Hold down the fort.”

He grabbed the keys to a cruiser and headed out. As he slid into the vehicle and started the engine, he wondered what was happening in Hartford Springs. There would be questions. Chief Milham would want to know everything Noah had told Thomas, even though those discussions were confidential.

Thomas didn’t remember the drive. He walked into the Hartford Springs police station. Conversations halted as officers and staff turned to stare at him. They knew he’d mentored Noah. The shadow of an officer’s death hung over the interior.

Beside the front desk, Thomas spotted Officer JJ Lynch on a bench. Lynch wore a faded sweatshirt and jeans. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked up as Thomas approached. The officer struggled to find his words.

“Sheriff Shepherd,” Lynch said, his voice raw. “I can’t believe it.”

Thomas extended his hand, which Lynch grasped weakly. “I’m sorry, Officer Lynch. I know you two were close.”

Lynch’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I never saw it coming. I mean, he always struggled with his emotions. But suicide? We talked yesterday. He was so psyched about the task force. Things were looking up.”

“I spoke with him yesterday afternoon, and he sounded fine.”

Lynch stared at the floor. “How could it end like this? What did I miss?”

“None of us saw it. Noah needed more help than we realized.”

“I was his partner, though. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs.” Lynch’s hands clenched into fists. “The kid was so nervous about that damn gang.”

Thomas set a hand on Lynch’s shoulder. “Officer, if there’s anything you know, anything you think might help us understand what pushed him over the edge, I need you to tell me.”

“I’ll tell you everything I know. But I never dreamed Noah would take his own life.”

Together they walked to the back of the bullpen. At a desk separated from the others, Lynch lowered his voice, his eyes misting over.

"Noah's behavior had been off. I mean, we all have our bad days, but this was different." He glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "Noah became jumpy, paranoid even. We'd be on patrol, and he'd think someone was tailing us. He started checking his rearview mirrors like crazy, just to see if we were being followed."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you come to me or Chief Milham?"

Lynch hung his head in shame. "I guess I wanted to believe it was just stress. We all go through tough patches in this job, right? But I should have said something."

"Stop blaming yourself. Noah was an adult. He knew how to ask for help."

"I know that, logically. But every time I tried to talk to Noah about his issues, he brushed it off and told me he was fine. I didn't want to lose my partner or get him in trouble with the department."

"You were trying to protect him," Thomas said.

"I just wish I had done more. Sheriff, Noah was like a little brother to me. Sure, you were his official mentor, but I took it upon myself to guide him."

"Noah was good at hiding things, even from those closest to him. But tell me, what exactly made him think people were following him?"

"Noah believed members of the 315 Royals were onto him, and that he knew about the drug operation in Hartford Springs."

“The drug operation you and the other officers claim doesn’t exist?”

"Maybe we were wrong," Lynch admitted, looking away. "Noah claimed he’d found some kind of evidence, enough to bring down their operation."

"And you didn't think to bring this to my attention or Chief Milham's?"

"I should have." Lynch winced when several heads turned their way. "But Noah made me swear not to say anything until he had concrete proof. He didn't want to go out on a limb."

“Because everyone, from Chief Milham to the dispatch officers, claimed Hartford Springs didn’t have a drug problem.”

“For the rest of my life, I’ll regret that I didn’t listen to him.”

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lynch took a shaky breath, gathering his thoughts as he continued. “It was Officer Larsen who found Noah,” he said, his voice brittle. “No one could reach Noah, so the department sent Larsen to check on him.”

“What did Larsen find?”

“Noah was at his apartment. Hanging from a ceiling beam.” Lynch’s eyes went glassy, his words dropping to a whisper. “Larsen called it in. By the time I got there, the paramedics had already cut him down. He’d been gone for an hour or more.”

“Did Larsen notice anything out of place? Any signs that might suggest foul play?” Thomas asked, wondering if this might not be a suicide. Had a member of the 315 Royals murdered Noah to keep him quiet?

“I asked him the same thing. Larsen swears there was nothing. No forced entry. No signs of a struggle. Just Noah. Why would he take his life?”

“What about a note? Did Larsen find one?”

“No note. That’s the part that eats at me. If Noah was this distraught, wouldn’t he leave a message?”

“Officer Lynch, I know it’s hard to accept, but not everyone who takes their own life leaves a note,” Thomas said. “In fact, studies show that only about a third of people who die by suicide leave behind a message. That might be exactly why he never gave us a reason. Sometimes, when someone is overwhelmed, they don’t have the capacity to explain themselves. The weight is too heavy. It doesn’t make the situation any easier, but when someone is in that state of mind, they don’t think straight.”

Lynch chewed on a nail. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. He talked about fixing things in Hartford Springs, about making a difference. How can he help people when he’s dead?”

“That’s a question we’ll never be able to answer. Officer, the strongest people hide the deepest pain. They try to shoulder it alone until they can’t anymore. But that doesn’t mean you, me, or anyone else is responsible for missing the signs. This is unfair, but it’s our reality.”

“What should I do now?”

“I’m not willing to write this off without understanding why this happened.”

“I appreciate you doing right by my partner,” Lynch said.

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s work to do. Was Noah in touch with anyone else recently, such as a family member? Anyone who might have influenced his state of mind?”

“He’d been avoiding people lately. The only person he really talked to was me. And you.”

Thomas absorbed the information, each word clawing a hole into his stomach. He needed to speak with Larsen.

“Thank you for being honest with me, Officer Lynch,” Thomas said. “I know this isn’t easy.”

“It’s the least I can do. I owe Noah that much.”

13

Thomas sat across from Officer Larsen in the conference room, the door locked and shades drawn to ensure privacy. The gravity of the situation was evident in the officer’s posture. Larsen sat ramrod straight with his fingers interlaced.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Officer Larsen,” Thomas said. “I realize this is difficult.”

“With all due respect, Sheriff, why am I discussing this with you? Chief Milham is running the investigation.”

“Because your chief wants me to talk to everyone about Noah.”

Larsen didn’t seem convinced. “Just seems to me that Chief Milham should have named you a part of the team.”

“I am part of the task force, Officer Larsen.”

“Understood, but this is a separate operation.”

“We’ll see about that,” Thomas said. “I need you to walk me through exactly what happened when you arrived at Noah Vale’s apartment. Every detail.”

“I got the call for a welfare check toward the end of my shift. Dispatch had called Noah because we needed him to come in early. Officer Cratz is sick and can’t help. Dispatch said Noah wasn’t answering his phone. I knew he’d been acting erratically, so I drove to his apartment.”

“Then what?”

“When I got to the apartment building, I parked out front and knocked on the door. I banged a few times, but there was no response. I called his name and made my presence known. Even then, I had a sick feeling that something was wrong.”

“Did you enter the apartment?”

Larsen’s eyes dropped to the table, then back up to Thomas. “I checked with the building superintendent to gain access. It’s protocol if there’s a potential emergency and we have reasonable cause. Once I obtained the keys, I knocked again, louder this time. I announced myself, but Noah still didn’t reply. With no other choice, I unlocked the door. I kept my hand on my weapon, just in case. You never know what you’re walking into.”

“Did you suspect foul play?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“What did you do next?” Thomas asked.

“I moved through the rooms, clearing each one according to procedure. Living room, kitchen, bathroom. They were all empty. Then I reached the bedroom. The door was partially open.”

Larsen opened his mouth to speak and stopped. Thomas gave the officer time to compose himself.

“I pushed the door open and saw Noah. He was hanging from a beam in the ceiling. He wasn’t moving. No signs of life. I called for backup, then approached to confirm.”

“Confirm?”

“That he was gone. I checked for a pulse and found none.”

“Are you positive Noah did this to himself?”

“There were no signs of a struggle, Sheriff,” said Larsen. “No forced entry. The scene was consistent with a suicide.”

“What about the rest of the apartment? Anything out of place?”

“I looked, but there were no signs of a fight or a disturbance.”

“So there were no hints that someone else had been inside Noah’s apartment?”

“I wish I could say yes. That would make it easier, I guess. Man, I’ll never understand why he did it.”

Despite the fluorescent lighting, the room seemed to darken.

“Thank you for being thorough, Officer Larsen,” Thomas said.

“If there’s more to the story, Sheriff, I want to help. I owe it to Noah.”

“But you just confirmed Noah took his own life. Are you sure you don’t have any doubts?”

Larsen considered the question before lifting his chin. “None.”

Thomas watched Larsen go. He checked the interview notes and compared them to what Lynch had said. There were no inconsistencies.

Back in Chief Milham’s office, Thomas took a seat. Milham looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You spoke to Lynch and Larsen?” Milham asked.

“I did.”

“Did you learn anything new?”

“No. From everything they told me, it appears Noah was going through hell and hadn’t sought help. I have to assume it’s true that he hung himself.”

“But?”

“But I’m not sure, Chief,” Thomas said, looking out the window. “I’d like access to Noah’s apartment. It’s important that I see the scene for myself.”

“Sheriff, you know that’s impossible while the forensic team is processing the evidence.”

“I’ve processed my share of crime scenes. You know that. I’m well aware of the protocol, and I can investigate without disturbing their work.”

“That’s not the issue. The scene needs to remain uncontaminated. An officer is dead, and we’re following strict procedure. This is a high-profile investigation, and if we’re not thorough, everything could be called into question later.”

Why was Milham resisting?

“I understand the importance of preserving evidence, but I need to get a sense of what happened. Noah was my mentee.”

“Sheriff, the forensic team has it covered. They’re trained for this. Once they’re done collecting evidence, you’ll have access to the reports, the photos, everything. But for now, I can’t have anyone outside of the forensics team in that apartment. Not even the sheriff of Nightshade County.”

“It seems strange that you’re so adamant about keeping me away,” said Thomas.

“I’m not keeping you away. It’s about doing things by the book. We have one shot to get this right. The press is going to be all over this story, and I won’t have them tearing us apart over a mishandled scene.”

“At least keep me updated.”

“Of course,” Milham said, but there was something in his voice—a note of finality that didn’t sit well with Thomas. “Once the forensics team completes its work, you’ll know everything they know. In the meantime, find out what Noah knew about this drug ring in Hartford Springs.”

Thomas let the chief return to his work. But as he exited the station, he glanced over his shoulder at the closed doors. Why was Milham so insistent on keeping him away? It wasn’t like him to push Thomas out of a case. Something was wrong.

14

LeVar sat beside Chelsey in the living room of a modest, sunlit house with worn furniture and a faint scent of lavender. Across from them, Melany Mercer perched on the edge of a sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. LeVar could see a mix of guarded hope and old pain in the woman’s eyes.

Chelsey, seated with her notepad open and pen poised, offered Melany a reassuring smile. “Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Mercer.”

Melany lifted a mug of tea and sipped. “I appreciate you coming. Are you sure I can’t offer you anything to drink?”

“Nothing for us, thank you. We don’t want to take too much of your time. I’m sure this isn’t easy, so I’ll be upfront with you. We need to understand why you’re reopening this case now, ten years later. Why is it so important to you to find out what happened to Randy after all this time?”

The cup jiggled as Melany lifted it to her lips.

“I’ve lived with uncertainty for too long. I thought I could move on, but I can’t. Not anymore.”

LeVar watched as Chelsey digested the response. He admired her. If he could one day become as talented an investigator as Chelsey Byrd, he would be thankful.

“Did something happen recently to bring this all back to the surface?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Melany said. “I started receiving messages. Letters, actually. They’re unsigned, but they mention Randy. They say he’s not truly gone.”

Chelsey’s pen paused over her notepad. “Unsigned letters? Can we see them?”

“I have them in a box. Let me get them for you.”

She stood and disappeared into another room.

“Well, that’s an interesting development,” LeVar said.

Chelsey craned her head and looked down the hallway where Melany had disappeared. “I know, right?”

“Unsigned letters? That suggests someone was involved with Randy vanishing.”

“Shh, she’s coming back.”

When Melany returned, she handed Chelsey a cardboard box. Chelsey opened it and pulled out several folded letters. The handwriting was neat, almost too precise. She skimmed the contents.

“Did you show these to the sheriff’s department?” asked Chelsey.

Melany shook her head. “No. They didn’t take me seriously back then. They won’t now.”

Though LeVar knew Sheriff Gray, he’d never worked under him. Still, he couldn’t believe Gray’s team would blow off a missing person’s investigation.

“I have to ask this, Melany. Did you and Randy have any unresolved issues when he disappeared? Financial troubles, arguments, anything that could have led him to leave on his own?”

LeVar noticed Melany’s hands tightening again.

“We had our share of problems, like any couple does. But Randy wouldn’t just vanish. Not without a word.”

“What about his work?” Chelsey asked. “We know he was involved in major construction projects, including several along Wolf Lake. Were there any business disputes or issues that could’ve put him in danger?”

Melany’s face contorted with something LeVar couldn’t quite read.

“Randy was ambitious. Maybe too ambitious. He was good at what he did, but he made enemies. Competition can be ruthless.”

LeVar looked at Chelsey.

“Do you know of anyone who might have had a motive to harm your husband?” LeVar asked.

“I’ve tried not to think about it.”

“Mrs. Mercer, anything you can tell us, no matter how minor, will help. Even if it seems unimportant.”

The woman tugged at her shirt. “There was one contractor. Alan Bishop. He and Randy had a falling-out a few months before Randy vanished. I don’t know what it was about, but Randy came home furious. He never talked about Alan again.”

“Tell us more about Alan Bishop.”

“Alan and Randy used to work together. For a long time, actually. They were partners on several of the biggest projects Randy took on. Lake houses, luxury cabins, everything. When they worked well together, it was like watching a synchronized team. But when they clashed…”

Melany’s face darkened.

“What changed?” Chelsey asked.

“Alan wanted more control,” Melany said, the bitterness clear in her tone. “He felt Randy was getting the lion’s share of the credit and the profits. They had arguments. Loud ones. Randy accused Alan of sabotaging projects and cutting corners to make him look bad.”

LeVar crossed his arms. “That’s serious.”

“It got worse. Alan eventually left and started his own business. He took some of Randy’s clients with him. Randy said Alan had stabbed him in the back.”

“So Alan knew the ins and outs of your husband’s work?”

“Inside and out,” Melany said. “He knew about the finances and shared Randy’s contacts. Randy always said if anyone wanted to destroy him professionally, Alan had the means.”

“Did Randy ever say he felt threatened by Alan?”

“Not really. But just before Randy disappeared, he became more paranoid. He’d double-check with the bank, as if he expected someone would hack into his account and take everything he owned.”

“And did Randy’s money disappear?”

“No.” Melany reconsidered her statement. “Actually, a few hundred thousand disappeared.”

“A few hundred thousand?” LeVar asked, not believing his ears. “And you never told anyone?”

“Oh, I told another private investigator ten years ago. That was after the sheriff’s department stopped searching for Randy. The thing is, Randy withdrew the money on his own. He said he wanted to spread his funds across multiple accounts and claimed he’d found a safe investment.”

“What investment?” Chelsey asked.

“Randy never told me. He only said I needed to trust him. You have to understand, Randy was better with stocks and bonds than me. I just give everything to my broker and let her figure it out.”

“But a few hundred thousand is a lot of money.”

“That’s why I hired the investigator. He searched for any account Randy might have opened but found nothing.”

“Weird,” LeVar said.

“The money disappeared. Just like Randy did.”

“Mrs. Mercer, did you notice any change in Randy’s behavior after he moved his money?” Chelsey asked. “Was he more secretive, more stressed?”

“Yes, he was on edge. More so than usual. He met with clients and wouldn’t tell me where he was going. When I pressed, he brushed it off and said it was for our own good.”

“Why?”

“According to Randy, if anyone wanted to hurt us, it was better if I knew little about the business.”

“Did you ever catch the name of a secret client? Maybe overhear a conversation that could point to who he was meeting with?”

“Never.”

“One last question,” Chelsey said. “Do you have any of Randy’s private financial records? Anything that might offer a clue about these missing funds or his dealings?”

“Don’t you have his records?”

“Yes, but businesses often keep unofficial records to prepare their profit-and-loss statements. They help with organizing the financials.”

“I saved everything I could find,” Melany said. “I’ll dig through the hard drive and make copies for you.”

“Thank you. That could help us a lot.”

As they exited the house, Chelsey followed LeVar without speaking until they reached his Chrysler Limited. He opened the passenger door for her, then slid into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine.

“I’m no detective,” LeVar said. “But it seems like this secret client might have been mixed up in whatever Randy was doing with his money.”

Chelsey tapped her chin in thought. “Could be. It’s rare for that amount of money to disappear without a trace. Randy either hid it well, or someone else helped him misplace it.”

“Alan Bishop might know more about Randy’s money moves. Maybe he used that knowledge to his advantage.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What can you tell me about Alan Bishop?”

“That name is known in building circles,” Chelsey said, adjusting her seat. “From what I’ve read, he’s smart and aggressive, and knows how to play the game. Within a few years, he went from doing modest projects to developing high-end lakefront properties, even some commercial builds in the downtown district.”

“Sounds like he benefited from Randy’s departure.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

LeVar descended a hill and directed them toward the village. “So he’s ambitious and ruthless. Worth keeping an eye on?”

“You bet.”

He wasn’t sure how to begin the next conversation. Finally, he said, “Drove to the university district to check out my new pad.”

“Oh, cool. What did you think?”

“It’s exactly what I need. But I keep thinking about a man I saw in the neighborhood. Business suit, briefcase, family greeting him.”

“Did he look familiar?”

“Nah, and that’s the strange part. Something about the guy got me thinking, but I doubt I’ve seen him before.”

“You’re right, LeVar. That is strange.”

“Hey, I wasn’t checking him out,” LeVar said.

Chelsey failed to suppress a grin. “Never said you were.”

Why was he still thinking about this random guy from the neighborhood?

LeVar turned on the stereo. Music would help him clear his thoughts.

15

LeVar turned the Chrysler Limited onto a tree-lined street leading to Bishop Builders’ headquarters, nestled in the heart of Wolf Lake Village. The building stood out among the shops and residences. It was a sleek modern structure with clean lines and large glass windows. The construction appeared impressive without being ostentatious, radiating a sense of professionalism and success.

As they stepped out of the car, Chelsey adjusted her jacket and motioned at the building. “This place screams money, doesn’t it?”

“Big Benjamins.”

LeVar took in the polished facade and the landscaping. Pushing open the glass doors, they entered. The interior was as refined as the exterior. Cool gray walls, minimalist decor and soft lighting gave the lobby a sophisticated, almost sterile feel. A glossy reception desk sat at the center, manned by an impeccably dressed administrative assistant with a sharp gaze and a smile that held a razor’s edge.

“Good afternoon,” the assistant said. “Do you have an appointment?”

Chelsey introduced them. “We’re here to see Alan Bishop.”

“Mr. Bishop only meets with clients by appointment. If you’d like, I can check his availability for next month.”

LeVar raised an eyebrow. “Next month? This is urgent.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.” The assistant’s voice held a note of finality.

“Can you at least let him know we’re here?” Chelsey asked. “It’s about an important matter.”

“I’m sorry. As I said, Mr. Bishop is only available by appointment.”

LeVar knew they would never get past the administrative assistant. Alan Bishop had hired this woman to guard the castle, and she performed her task well.

“Come on, Chelsey,” LeVar said. “Looks like we’ll have to try another time.”

They turned toward the door. But before they could leave, a deep voice called from the hallway.

“No need to go. I’ve got a few minutes.”

LeVar and Chelsey turned to see Alan Bishop himself approaching. He was tall and well-built, with muscular arms and a face that had taken too much sun over the decades.

“Mr. Bishop,” Chelsey said, shooting the assistant a glare. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Let’s talk. My office is this way.”

Alan led them down a hallway lined with tasteful artwork and into a spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the heart of Wolf Lake Village. The room was stylish, with polished wood floors, a glass-topped desk, and leather chairs. He gestured for LeVar and Chelsey to sit before settling into a high-backed chair on his side of the desk.

“So,” Alan said, steepling his fingers. “I assume this has something to do with Randy Mercer.”

“Why do you say that?” Chelsey asked.

Alan shrugged. “A little bird told me Melany hired a private investigator.”

“And how would this little bird come upon this knowledge?”

“From his perch in the sky, he sees everything. Ask me your questions. I have nothing to hide.”

“You and Randy worked together for years,” Chelsey said. “What happened?”

“Yes, I worked for Randy. He was a brilliant builder and knew how to land the best projects. He had ambition and drive. But working with him…let’s say it wasn’t always easy.”

“What do you mean?” LeVar asked.

“Randy had a way of making everyone around him feel like they were secondary,” Alan said. “He wanted control over the projects, the money, and every task the builders performed. He was the classic control freak. For a while, I was content to play second fiddle because I believed in what we were building. But over time, it became unbearable.”

“You didn’t have a professional disagreement?” Chelsey asked.

“Randy was the one with the disagreements,” Alan said. “He accused me of cutting corners and sabotaging projects. In reality, he was paranoid about losing control. He micromanaged everything, and when things went wrong, he needed a scapegoat.”

“Is that why you left?”

“Yes. I had to get out before it destroyed me.” Alan straightened his posture. “I started my own business and took a few clients who believed in me. I’ve built a strong reputation since then. But leaving wasn’t easy. Randy made sure of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“He tried to ruin me. He spread rumors and threatened lawsuits. Anything to undermine my credibility. But I stood my ground. Eventually, we both moved on. At least, I thought we had.”

LeVar studied Alan. “It sounds like Randy Mercer was quite the character. I can see why you had a problem with him.”

Alan took a deep breath, as if dredging up memories he would rather leave buried. “Randy was… complicated. He had a lot of paranoia, especially about money. The jerk always acted like someone was out to get him or steal what he’d built. He would transfer funds constantly, and never kept more than a certain amount in one account. Randy said it was to protect against fraud, but I think he just didn’t trust anyone. Even his own wife. There were times when he would confide in me, talking about keeping the wolves at bay. I never knew what he meant, and honestly, I didn’t want to know.”

“Can you give us an example?”

Alan looked over their shoulders, as if afraid someone in the hallway might overhear.

“One time, we had an important meeting with a potential investor. This was a big fish who could have catapulted one of our joint projects to the next level. Randy no-showed. I was left scrambling, trying to save face. Later, when I confronted him, he said he went out of town for a meeting with a larger client. I never believed him. Randy always had an excuse, always some shadowy deal or hidden agenda.”

“So you had reason not to trust Randy Mercer?” Chelsey asked.

“Plenty of reasons,” Alan admitted. “Randy had too many secrets for his own good. Sometimes I think whatever happened to him was tied up in one of those secrets.”

“And that’s why he disappeared?”

The man’s stare turned icy. “If you want my honest opinion, Randy’s paranoia and his secrets caught up with him. I just don’t know how.”

16

Thomas parked a block away from Noah’s apartment and walked the rest of the way. A forensics van sat outside, its rear doors ajar. Several techs moved in and out of the building, carrying equipment cases, their faces neutral despite the officers losing one of their own.

Thomas stayed on the sidewalk. From there, he could see through a window into the living room, where gloved hands sifted through belongings. Pain knifed through him. Noah’s death couldn’t end with unanswered questions. Had his mother’s murder driven him to suicide? Why now, after so many years?

“Sheriff Shepherd.” The voice pulled Thomas around. He turned to see an officer named Barone marching forward.

“I’m not interfering,” Thomas said, holding up his hands.

“You’re standing where you shouldn’t be,” Barone said. He stopped just inches from Thomas, blocking his view. “Chief Milham made it very clear. Stay out of the way.”

“I have a right to know what happened to my mentee.”

“Not while we’re working the scene.” Barone’s voice held contempt. “You show up here and step on everyone’s toes. We don’t need that, even if you’re the sheriff. This is our jurisdiction.”

“Officer Barone, please listen. Noah Vale was under my guidance. I need to know if there’s anything—”

“Anything what? Anything you missed, Sheriff? Because it sure seems like you missed a hell of a lot.”

Thomas wanted to throw up. He would have done anything to help Noah Vale.

“This isn’t the time for cheap shots.”

“You were supposed to be his mentor, his guide. Tell me, how does a man go from hopeful to dead on your watch? Did you even see the signs, or were you too busy playing sheriff in a town you don’t belong to?”

The words landed harder than any punch. “I tried to help Noah. I spoke to him every day.”

“It wasn’t enough. If you’d looked closer, Noah would still be here. Think about that.”

“We’re all hurting, Officer Barone.”

“Don’t pretend you can empathize. We worked alongside Officer Noah Vale. You spoke to him a handful of times and pretended to be his friend.” Barone turned his back before whirling on Thomas. “If I find out Noah asked you for help, and you denied him, I’ll make sure you pay. Now head back to Wolf Lake before you cause any more problems.”

Barone strode off, leaving Thomas on the sidewalk.

The officer was right. Noah had wanted to talk, but Thomas cut him off. All because he was running late, as usual.

He stared as the forensic team continued its work. Now and then, a camera flashed. There was nothing more he could do here.

Thomas returned to his cruiser. He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to find them standing outside Noah’s apartment.

Slumping into the driver’s seat, he pulled away from the curb and drove through Hartford Springs. He turned down a familiar street, where, just days ago, he and Aguilar had spotted clusters of young men lurking and making exchanges. But now the streets were silent. The playground and basketball court lay empty. The corners, once a hub of clandestine movement, held no one.

It was as if the life had been sucked out of Hartford Springs overnight. Just like Noah.

He drove on, passing boarded-up buildings and empty alleyways. A minute later, he stopped the cruiser beside a graffitied wall. Where was everybody?

When he was halfway to Wolf Lake, Thomas dialed Aguilar’s number. She picked up after the first ring.

“I’m not coming back to the office today,” Thomas said, his tone flat. “Is everything okay at the office?”

“I’ve got things under control. Thomas, you don’t sound like yourself. Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

She hesitated, as if waiting for him to speak, but he ended the call.

Behind the station, Thomas traded the cruiser for his pickup and hurried out of the village. When he pulled into his driveway, the sight of Chelsey’s car parked in its usual spot brought a rush of conflicting feelings. He wanted to talk, but there was nothing to say.

As he hopped down from the truck, Chelsey exited the A-frame. The afternoon sun painted her in warm tones. There was no point in hiding his grief. She could read him like a book.

“Something happened in Hartford Springs,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I can’t remember a day like this.”

She guided him up the steps, as if to keep him from crumbling. Inside, she took his jacket and hung it in the closet. “What happened?”

Thomas looked away. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Chelsey nodded, understanding without pressing. She led him to the couch, and they sat without talking. She slid her hand into his and squeezed. “Whatever you went through, we can figure this out.”

“I was supposed to help Noah.”

“You did everything you could, Thomas. I know how much you cared about him.”

He leaned into her embrace, letting the warmth of her presence melt the ice in his veins. “It wasn’t enough.”

“Were you supposed to watch him day and night? You’re human. Even you have limits.”

He closed his eyes and focused on the rhythm of her breath.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about Noah Vale tonight.”

“You need to decompress, don’t you?”

“You don’t know the half. Tell me, how was your day? Any progress on the Mercer investigation?”

Chelsey leaned back against the couch, her fingers still intertwined with his. “I went with LeVar to meet Alan Bishop,” she said. “The guy is smooth; I’ll give him that. He had an answer for everything. Bishop acknowledges they had a falling out, but he started a business and moved on with his life without Randy Mercer.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I’m not sure. He talked about how his partnership with Mercer went south while maintaining he harbored no hard feelings. But it felt rehearsed. As if he’d practiced telling the story a hundred times.”

“Is there a chance he’s lying?”

“Maybe he’s just trying to protect his reputation. Hard to tell. I don’t think he’s our primary suspect, but he’ll stay on our list.”

“Did he say anything useful?”

“Nothing groundbreaking. Just that Randy had some paranoid tendencies and kept secrets. Bishop mentioned something about Randy hiding money, claiming it was for safe investments. I can’t decide if Bishop really knew what was going on, or if he was repeating rumors.”

“That’s an interesting item. The sheriff’s department knew about some missing money, but the investigators never located the funds.”

Chelsey studied him. “Do you really want to talk shop, or should we eat?”

“Talking about the Mercer investigation keeps me out of my headspace.”

“All right, then. We can discuss the case for as long as you want, but I need to get some food into my belly. Oh, I forgot to tell you that—”

A knock on the sliding glass door to the back deck made Chelsey stop.

“Do we have company?” Thomas asked.

“I was about to say that I invited LeVar to dinner.”

“Are you sure we have enough food in the house?”

“LeVar isn’t that bad.” They shared a look, and Chelsey broke into laughter. “Okay, he totally is.”

Thomas walked to the sliding glass door, unlocked it, and slid it open. The afternoon carried the freshness of pine and lake water. Standing on the deck, LeVar flashed them a lopsided grin.

“Hope I’m not crashing date night,” LeVar said, stepping inside with an exaggerated stretch of his arms.

“With your appetite? This won’t be a date night. It will be a raid on the cupboard.”

“Hey, you’re just in time,” Chelsey said. “I haven’t decided what to make, and Thomas here seems more interested in Randy Mercer’s disappearing act than eating.”

“Good thing I’m here, then. Gotta keep Shep Dawg from wasting away.”

“I’m honestly not hungry,” Thomas said.

“Then let me and Chelsey handle it. You get to kick back for the day.”

“Have we ever cooked dinner together, LeVar?” asked Chelsey.

“Nope, but we’re about to fix that. And I can handle myself in the kitchen.”

“He brags a lot too,” Thomas said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t sleep on my skills,” LeVar teased, grabbing an apron hanging near the kitchen. “No offense, Shep, but I’ve seen you botch Italian food too many times to count.” LeVar looked at Chelsey. “You ever seen this guy cooking on spaghetti night? It’s like a crime scene in a pot.”

“Hey,” Thomas said. “That was one time. And I was experimenting.”

“With what? Cement?”

“Okay, show us what you’ve got, Chef LeVar,” Chelsey said, pointing at the fridge. “I’ll help, but don’t expect fresh ingredients. Nobody has had time to go to the store. We’re working with what remains of this week’s meals.”

“Leftover challenge, huh?” LeVar said, pulling open the refrigerator door. “Let’s see. We’ve got half a roast chicken, some veggies, rice, and what looks like a questionable casserole. We’ll make it work.”

Thomas slumped into a chair and watched as Chelsey and LeVar worked their magic.

“Pass me the knife,” LeVar said as he started shredding the chicken. “No, not that one, Chelsey. The one that doesn’t look like it’s been used to carve a tree.”

She handed him a sharper knife. “You’re bossy for someone who invited himself over.”

“The guest chef is supposed to be bossy.”

Chelsey tossed vegetables into a sizzling pan, transforming leftovers into something new. LeVar, ever the showman, sprinkled in spices, narrating his every move like a cooking show host.

“You know, Thomas,” LeVar said, stirring the rice, “life’s a lot like cooking. You can’t control every ingredient that gets thrown your way, but you can make something good out of it. Even when it looks like a mess.”

Thomas raised his head. It was a simple sentiment, but it struck a chord. “I’ll try to remember that.”

17

After finishing the last bite of his reheated chicken stir-fry, Thomas lowered his fork. Dinner with LeVar and Chelsey was just what he’d needed.

LeVar was telling a story about a call he’d answered two weeks ago involving an angry swan, a canoeist, and a dispute that ended with two soaked junior deputies. The tale made everyone laugh, and for a moment Thomas found himself smiling too. It felt good to be around people who cared, to share a meal and forget his troubles, even if just for a little while.

When the laughter died down, Thomas cleared his throat. “Thank you, both of you. I needed this.”

Chelsey sipped her water. “We all did.”

LeVar leaned back, balancing his chair precariously on two legs. “You know I’m here for you guys. And not because of the food.”

“Chelsey tells me you checked out your new apartment in Kane Grove,” Thomas said.

“House, my brother, not an apartment.”

“But you still want to rent the guest house?”

“Heck, yeah. I don’t plan to stay in Kane Grove more than a few nights per week. Between my shifts, working with WLC, and keeping you in check, I figure I’d better stick around.”

“I bet you’re excited.”

“You know, before all this drama hit with the Randy Mercer case, it did me good to check out the pad. Let me tell you, it’s a sweet place. One-story, lots of light, quiet neighborhood. It’s got a decent kitchen as well. I can see myself cooking there. When I actually have time, that is. School will be a bear.”

“Sounds like a solid spot. How’s the space?”

“It’s perfect. Big enough to spread out, but small enough to feel like I’m not wasting space. There’s this little patio out back where I can sit and think. And grill. And eat. It’s hard to picture life beyond Wolf Lake, but this house felt like a home.”

“You’re ready for college life, huh?” Chelsey asked. “Parties? Late-night cramming?”

LeVar chuckled. “Maybe not the parties. Or the late-night cramming, come to think of it. I review every day so I don’t need to cram. But yeah, I’m ready for a change. This place has plenty of room to study, and it’s private too. Privacy is a big deal.”

There was a moment of quiet. Thomas knew LeVar was thinking about Scout, and he hoped LeVar would choose wisely. He knew it was only a matter of time before LeVar and Scout became more than friends. If only they would wait a little longer. Scout was a little over a year away from her eighteenth birthday. But Thomas couldn’t push advice on LeVar anymore. He had to trust LeVar and Scout wouldn’t do something they would both regret.

“It sounds like a heck of a place, LeVar,” Thomas said. “I think it’s exactly what you need.”

“It’s a fresh start. I’ll be closer to school and away from the noise. But that’s not to say I’ll ever forget where I came from.” LeVar’s gaze moved from Chelsey to Thomas. “Don’t be surprised if I call for advice.”

“We’ll be here,” Chelsey said. “Anytime.”

“I appreciate it. For the first time in forever, I’m actually excited. Nervous as all get-out, but excited.”

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll adjust in no time, especially with your best friend staying a few blocks away in the student dorms.”

Thomas hoped Scout would be sleeping in the dorm and not at LeVar’s place.

“You’ll invite us over, right?”

“In a heartbeat. Can’t wait to hang out on my deck together.”

“I’ve been holding off on talking about Noah Vale and what’s going on in Hartford Springs,” Thomas said after a pause.

The mood shifted. LeVar set his chair down, and Chelsey’s expression grew serious.

“We’re listening,” Chelsey said.

“This is more for you, LeVar.”

“Me?” LeVar asked.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. Noah believed a drug ring was operating out of Hartford Springs, and Aguilar and I confirmed his theory.”

“Yeah, I overheard some scuttlebutt between the deputies. The county is getting involved, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but it sounds like there’s more to the story.”

Thomas brushed the hair off his brow. “There is. It seems the former members of the 315 Royals are involved.”

LeVar’s back stiffened. “The 315 Royals? Tell me this is a bad joke.”

“Noah felt certain the Royals were supplying the town. When Aguilar and I went to Hartford Springs, we saw signs of organized activity.”

“I thought they were gone. After what happened in Harmon, everyone believed the 315 Royals had scattered or gone away for good.”

“So did I,” Thomas said. “If they’re back, we have a problem.”

Silence settled around the table. LeVar stared down at his fists.

“You remember what the Royals were like? They didn’t play games. If they’re in Hartford Springs, they’ll spread like a disease. In Harmon, the Royals operated on a different level. Even back when I was in the Kings, we thought we’d gotten rid of them. You think they’re DOA, but they’re like smoke. They slip through your fingers.”

Thomas studied LeVar. Could the deputy keep his involvement professional? “You don’t have to join the task force.”

LeVar’s eyes blazed. “Like hell I don’t. I’m in. I know how these guys move. And if they’re trying to worm their way back into power, they’re not just your problem. They’re mine.”

Thomas nodded, understanding there was no convincing LeVar otherwise. Though Thomas was LeVar’s superior, he couldn’t prevent his deputy from working on the investigation outside of his shift hours.

“Don’t make this personal, LeVar.”

“I won’t.”

18

At eight o’clock on the next morning, Thomas waited in the lobby of the Hartford Springs Police Department. Beside him, Aguilar bristled every time an officer moved through the room without so much as glancing at them, let alone greeting the sheriff and his deputies. LeVar was too busy reading the placards on the wall to notice.

A door opened, and Chief Milham approached. “My officers are ready for the meeting. Before we head to the conference room, there’s something you need to know.”

Thomas adjusted his hat. “Go ahead.”

Milham’s eyes jumped to Aguilar and LeVar before settling on Thomas. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Some of my officers hold you responsible for what happened with Officer Vale. They think you should have seen the signs.”

Though Thomas’s face remained impassive, the words twisted the knife deeper inside. “Officer Barone said as much.”

“I’ve tried to change their minds. We’re all culpable. It’s not as simple as pointing fingers. But… well, you know how it goes.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “I know.”

“Once we’re in that room,” Milham said, “stick to the plan. The joint task force is too important to let internal friction derail everything.”

Aguilar spoke up. “We’re here to do a job, Chief Milham. If your officers have a problem, they’ll have to deal with it on their own time.”

LeVar set his thumbs in his belt loops and lifted his chin, as if daring Milham to fire back at Aguilar. Thomas just wished everyone would get along. In time, the police would accept the sheriff’s department team’s leadership. For now, he had his work cut out for him.

“I appreciate where you’re coming from, Deputy Aguilar,” Milham said. “Any officer who doesn’t display professionalism will be removed from the task force. You have my promise. The NY State Police contingent is already here, by the way. Trooper Russo is running point for their end. She’s no-nonsense but fair. Should be a good balance.”

“Noted,” Thomas said. He squared his shoulders. “Let’s get to it.”

Milham led the way down a hallway lined with photos of past chiefs and commendations. As they walked, Thomas felt the stares, some curious, others cold, and a few openly hostile.

When they reached the door to the conference room, Milham paused, his hand on the knob. “Just remember, Sheriff, you’re here to help us turn the tide and save Hartford Springs. That’s what matters.”

Inside the conference room, a charge rippled the air. Officers and state troopers sat around a large rectangular table, each wearing an expression that ranged from skeptical to determined. Trooper Russo, a woman in her late forties with short-cropped silver hair, stood at the far end, her arms crossed as she took in the new arrivals.

“Sheriff Shepherd,” Russo said, extending a hand. Her grip was strong. “Glad to have you on the front lines. Trooper Fitzgerald sends along his best wishes.”

Aguilar blushed. It was no secret that Aguilar and Fitzgerald were dating, though both did their best to conceal the relationship.

“Thank you, Trooper Russo. All the best to Trooper Fitzgerald. My team is ready to work.”

Milham cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room. “All right, everyone, settle down.”

The low hum of side conversations faded, replaced by expectant silence.

“Before I start this meeting,” the chief said, “I want to be clear about something. This isn’t the time to cast blame. You’re here to reclaim this town from those who seek to destroy it. Sheriff Shepherd, Trooper Russo, let’s lay out our plan.”

Thomas stepped to the front of the room, projecting confidence despite the simmering undercurrents. “There’s a network of drug runners and former gang members operating inside Hartford Springs.” He waited until the doubtful grumblings died down. “Our goal is to disrupt their supply chain, neutralize their influence, and make arrests. This won’t be easy, and it won’t be quick. But victory is achievable if we work together.”

Russo patted Thomas on the back. “To do that, we’ll utilize a three-pronged approach: intelligence gathering, coordinated raids, and community outreach to break the cycle of addiction and dependency. We can’t arrest our way out of this problem. Instead, we have to cut off their resources and dismantle their power structure.”

“We’ve had officers patrolling known hotspots and gathering what intel they can,” Milham said. “But so far, we haven’t located any of these gang members.”

By now, the police officers should have encountered the suspects. Thomas and Aguilar had seen them on multiple street corners.

“We need plainclothes surveillance,” Aguilar said. “Blend in, gather intel. Figure out who’s running point for the distribution.”

Russo pointed to a map pinned on a corkboard. It highlighted key locations in Hartford Springs, including parks, street corners, and suspected stash houses. “We have a few leads on locations used as drop points. If we can pinpoint their schedule, we can cut off their supply lines.”

LeVar scanned the map. “The Royals won’t make it easy. They’ve gone underground before. We need to think like them.”

“Shouldn’t be difficult for you,” Officer Barone said from the front row.

LeVar’s mouth fell open. Nobody was sure how to respond.

“That’s enough, Officer Barone,” Milham said.

Thomas ignored the hostility. “I propose coordinated stakeouts at suspected distribution points. We need to catch them in the act, and that will require patience and precision.”

Another officer raised a hand. “What’s the plan for informants? We’ve had some in the past, but they’re scared to talk.”

Russo replied, “We offer protection and show them we mean business. No one talks when they think the people they’re ratting out run their town.”

“Which is why we need to make a show of strength early on,” Thomas said. “A coordinated raid on a known stash house sends a clear message. It shakes the tree. We’ll see who falls out and who runs.”

Murmurs moved through the room as everyone considered the implications.

“It’s risky,” Milham said. “But if things are as bad as the sheriff’s department believes, we’re running against the clock.”

“We’ll assign specific teams. One for surveillance, one for raids, and another for community outreach to build trust. Any officer not on board with this mission needs to step aside now. This won’t work if we’re fractured.”

A tense pause followed, but no one spoke.

“Good,” Russo said. “We’ll start with surveillance and coordinated intel gathering over the next forty-eight hours. Once we know who we’re dealing with, we’ll hit them hard.”

Thomas met Milham’s eyes, seeing a hint of hope buried beneath layers of exhaustion. The chief was taking Noah Vale’s suicide to heart and had lost sleep. Thomas couldn’t imagine what Milham was going through.

The meeting seemed to last forever. When it ended, Thomas and his deputies were the first to exit the room. LeVar looked shaken, and Aguilar acted as if she wanted to fight the first person who came through the door.

Chief Milham left the meeting room.

“What was that about?” Thomas asked.

Milham appeared ready to protest but stopped. “I will speak to Officer Barone.”

“Is he going to cause problems?”

“Not on my watch. Look, Sheriff. Everyone is on edge. One of our comrades took his own life, and now we’re dealing with a major issue in Hartford Springs.”

Thomas wanted to tell Milham that the issue had existed long before the department acknowledged the problem, but doing so wouldn’t help matters.

“Deputy Hopkins is one of my finest, and I won’t have anyone disparage the officer he has become.”

“Nor will I.” Milham turned to LeVar. “You have my apologies, Deputy Hopkins. Officer Barone was out of line.”

LeVar nodded, keeping his feelings to himself.

Russo was the next one to exit the conference room and approach. Sunlight filtered through the hallway window, drawing slanted beams across the floor.

“Good session in there,” Russo said. “All things considered.”

She was tall and carried herself with an intensity that mirrored Thomas’s own.

“The team will mesh,” said Thomas. “Give it time.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page about how to tackle this investigation. I’m splitting my team into two units. One will monitor the back alleys and abandoned warehouses on the north end. There’s chatter about drops being made after dark.”

“That fits with some of what we’ve seen. I’m going to have Aguilar and LeVar work on mapping out all known and suspected drug routes.”

“We’ll use plainclothes and marked units,” Milham added.

“I’ve got a few contacts in the state intel unit who can run a deeper background check on suspected gang affiliates. We might find connections that we hadn’t considered.”

“Good call. I’ll ensure we have consistent communication channels open, including encrypted messaging if things get dicey.”

“I’m concerned about some of your officers,” Russo said.

Milham looked away. “I have my officers under control.”

“Even Barone?”

“Officer Barone has a chip on his shoulder. I’ll deal with him if it becomes a distraction.”

“Everyone is on edge after Officer Vale’s death, but we can’t afford internal fighting.”

“I’ll second that,” Thomas said.

As Russo left, Thomas turned to his deputies. No room for half-measures now. Every decision mattered. This fight was only beginning.

He just hoped the fight was against the 315 Royals, and not among the team members.

19

As Raven veered onto Brook Hollow Road outside of Wolf Lake, Chelsey glanced at her notes. The black Nissan Rogue hit a bump, making Chelsey bounce in her passenger seat.

“Whoops,” Raven said. “Pothole.”

“Pothole? That was more like the Grand Canyon.”

“I know, right? The county needs to patch this road before someone loses their front end. Can’t you talk to Thomas about these crappy streets?”

“Uh, Thomas is the sheriff. He doesn’t patch the road; he catches criminals.”

“Huh. Whoever is in charge of upkeep is a criminal, in my opinion.”

"We won’t have LeVar for the next two days," Chelsey said, flipping a page in her notebook. She hoped the change of subject would stop Raven from complaining. "Thomas asked for his help with the task force in Hartford Springs."

Raven pursed her lips. "I’m uncomfortable with this. LeVar has had too many run-ins with the 315 Royals."

“Thomas feels the same way, but you know how LeVar is.”

“Stubborn as a mule.”

“You would know better than anyone,” Chelsey said.

“Believe me, I do. We could have used LeVar on the Mercer case. As much as I hate to admit it, my brother picks up details I overlook.”

"We'll manage," Chelsey said.

"I hope so. But, let's be honest, it will be quieter without him around."

Chelsey snorted. "You can say that again. So, what do you think about our next steps? If Alan Bishop only knows part of the Randy Mercer story, how do we find the missing chapters?"

“Well, since we're short one LeVar, how about we check out Randy Mercer’s supposed safe investments? There's too much money that went poof.”

“Melany said she hired another PI years ago. I can find out who and dig into their findings, or lack thereof.”

Raven nodded as she adjusted the Rogue’s navigation. “Scout's hanging out with Naomi at the office today, huh?”

“That’s right. Naomi is making sure she stays busy.”

“What about school?”

“Superintendent’s Day, or some other nonsense. I swear, kids have more vacation days than school days.”

“Look at you, yelling at clouds,” Raven said.

“It’s true, isn’t it? I mean, I’m glad we have Scout holding down the fort while we drive in circles.”

“Working keeps Scout out of trouble and gives her something productive to do.”

Chelsey’s smile faltered. “I’m not saying it isn’t good having her around, but I worry sometimes. About LeVar and Scout.”

“Like all the time they spend together?”

“Scout is maturing before our eyes. She isn’t a nerdy little girl anymore.”

“My brother would never do anything to hurt Scout,” Raven said.

“I agree, but it’s complicated. When Naomi isn’t around, which is most of the time, we’re pretty much Scout’s guardians.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think they’re doing the whole Romeo and Juliet thing.”

“I don’t either. LeVar is trustworthy, and he’s been through more than most people twice his age. But it’s a delicate balance. Those two are more than friends.”

“Can’t argue.”

“We can’t let our guard down,” Chelsey said. “I’m not sure what we should do. Guide them without making it obvious, I guess?”

“That’s probably the best approach. I’d hate to see either of them hurt.”

“Anyhow, since Scout is at the office, I’ll call and have her look up the investigator Melany Mercer hired.”

Chelsey tapped the button to enable the Bluetooth connection. The call connected, and Scout's voice came through, bright and energetic.

"Hey, Chelsey. Mom and I are organizing the old investigation files and baking muffins. What's up?"

“Wait, did you say you’re baking muffins?”

“Blueberry muffins, yeah. We’re saving you some.”

“Perfect. It’s a good thing LeVar isn’t there,” said Chelsey.

“Right? The muffins would be gone by now.”

“Hey, Scout. Raven and I were just wondering if you and Naomi can dig through the database. Specifically, we're trying to find out more about the investigator Melany Mercer hired after Randy disappeared.”

"Give me a second," Scout said. The sound of typing filled the line. "Okay, I'm searching for any investigators tied to the Mercer case. Here we go." There was a pause. "Found him."

"Who was it?"

"Chuck D'Intino," Scout said.

Chelsey groaned. "Seriously? D'Intino is known for being sloppy. If there’s a way to botch an investigation, he’ll do it."

Raven drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Great. Anything he found—or didn’t find—has to be questioned."

"Browsing through the records, I can’t find anything D'Intino uncovered," Scout said.

“I’m not surprised,” said Chelsey.

“I take it you don’t think highly of this person?”

“He’s kind of a disaster.”

“Why would Melany Mercer hire him?”

“Because he’s the cheapest in Wolf Lake. Ugh. Okay, Scout. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

“See ya, guys.”

"Thanks, Scout."

After the call ended, Raven rolled her eyes. "Chuck D'Intino. Of course, it had to be him."

“Now we know why Melany Mercer never found Randy’s investments.”

Raven directed the vehicle towards the competing private investigation firm. Finally, they came upon the paint-chipped building that housed Chuck D'Intino Investigations. A once-upon-a-time neon sign flickered intermittently. The door was adorned with a faded "Open" sign, swinging precariously on its rusty hinge. Raven parked her car in a meter-less spot at the curb and glanced at Chelsey. They exchanged resigned looks before steeling themselves for the meeting.

Inside, the ambiance did nothing to improve their moods. Stacks of yellowing files teetered haphazardly on every available surface, and a thick layer of dust coated the old-fashioned desk fan that spun in one corner, blowing around stale air. A lone light bulb dangled from a frayed cord above the desk. The air reeked of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, causing both women to scoff.

Behind the desk sat Chuck D'Intino, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a rumpled suit that reminded Chelsey of an old game called Leisure Suit Larry. He looked up from a stack of papers, his eyes narrowing as he recognized Chelsey and Raven. D'Intino folded his hands over his paunch.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the dynamic duo from Wolf Lake Consulting," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Good to see you too, Chuck. We're here about the Randy Mercer case."

D'Intino's eyebrows shot up, but he quickly schooled his features into a mask of nonchalance. "Mercer? That's ancient history. Why the sudden interest?"

Raven removed a folder. "His wife hired you to investigate his disappearance and the missing money. We want to know what you found."

The man let out a dry chuckle. "You know I can't hand over my files, even if I could find them in this mess." He gestured at the cluttered office.

“We're not asking for your files,” Chelsey said. “Tell us what you remember.”

"That was a decade ago." The PI shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Mercer vanished, along with a chunk of change. I looked into it, but the trail went cold. That's all there is to it. How’s that for a story?"

Raven's eyes narrowed. "You expect us to believe that's all you've got? No leads, no suspects?"

D'Intino spread his hands. "What can I say? Whoever wanted Mercer to disappear made sure nobody would ever find him. There wasn't much I could do."

Chelsey knew about D'Intino's reputation for shoddy work. It was possible he'd missed something crucial.

"What about the money?" Chelsey pressed. "Mercer's investments, his assets. Did you look into those? The man was the leading property developer on Wolf Lake."

"I followed the paper trail as far as I could. But you know how it is with these rich guys. They've got their money squirreled away in all sorts of places. Offshore accounts, shell companies. It's a labyrinth."

“Do you really think Randy Mercer hid his money from his family?” Raven asked.

“I don’t know who he was hiding his money from. Probably from his enemies. And since someone made Randy vanish, I figure he was paranoid for a reason. The trouble is, the bad guy probably got the cash.”

Chelsey set her hands on the desk, then thought better of it. She wiped her palms on the tops of her jeans. "Chuck, let's cut to the chase. We're not here to rehash your old investigation. I need to know if you found anything that could point us in the right direction. All I care about is getting Melany the money she deserves."

D'Intino’s chair squealed in protest. He rubbed his chin. “Look, I'll level with you. Mercer was a smarter guy than he let on. He had a knack for making money grow. And I mean quickly. He had various investment accounts where he traded volatile securities.”

“That’s our answer,” Raven said. “It shouldn’t be difficult to locate his investing accounts.”

“If you say so. When I checked, I couldn't find any brokerage accounts under Randy Mercer’s name.”

Raven's brow furrowed. "What are you saying? That he used aliases for his investments?"

"It's possible. Or maybe he had a partner who handled that side of things. Someone who knew how to navigate the financial world without leaving a trail."

“Did you ever find out if Randy used an alias?”

"If I had, do you think I'd still be sitting in this dump?" D'Intino gestured at the dingy office, a sardonic laugh escaping his lips. "No. Listen, ladies. I have no proof that Randy Mercer used an alias to hide his money. But if he did, that means he was scared."

“Scared of who?”

“That’s the multi-million-dollar question, now isn’t it?”

“Are you telling us that after all this time, you've got nothing?” Chelsey asked. “No leads, no suspects, and just a bunch of dead ends?”

D'Intino made a defensive gesture. "Hey, I did my job. I followed every lead, chased down every rumor. But Randy Mercer was a ghost. Someone buried him in a shallow grave and took his secrets with him."

"I find it hard to believe that you couldn't uncover anything substantial. Randy Mercer was a prominent figure in Wolf Lake. He had business dealings, social connections."

"Do you think I didn't exhaust every avenue? I talked to his associates. I even tracked down some of his old flames. But you know what I found? A whole lot of nothing. Whoever Randy Mercer crossed, they made sure he paid a steep price."

Chelsey rubbed her temples, feeling a headache coming on. “You don’t seem to care that his family never got answers.”

"That's the way the cookie crumbles, sweetheart. In this world, the sins of the father often fall on the family. It's a harsh reality, but that's life." The PI eyed them with annoyance. "Listen, ladies. I understand you've got a job to do. But trust me when I say that some stones are better left unturned. Randy Mercer's disappearance is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, tied up with a bow of secrets and lies. You start pulling at those threads, and who knows what might unravel?"

This man was using so many cliched metaphors, he was a parody of himself.

“We won’t quit.”

“Well, you should. And you would if you knew what was good for you. For now, I must bid you farewell. As you can see, I’m quite busy.”

“One more question,” Raven said.

“No. I’m finished talking to you.”

"If you think of anything else that might be relevant, I hope you call."

D'Intino waved a dismissive hand. "Sure thing, sweetheart. But don't hold your breath. This case is colder than a witch’s heart, which reminds me of my ex-wife.”

Ugh. Another cliche.

“That’s not helpful,” Chelsey said.

“I never promised you a rose garden.” The rotund investigator clasped his hands behind his head. “It’s been fun, ladies, but I have work to not do. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” He pointed at the door and yawned, as if the conversation had worn him out. “You can see yourselves out, right? Good.”

Chelsey opened her mouth, but Raven touched her arm.

“Not worth it,” Raven murmured.

The door shut behind them with a thud.

Outside, they descended the steps of the ramshackle building and hurried to Raven’s vehicle. Chelsey pulled the passenger door open with more force than necessary and slid into the seat, slamming it shut. Raven dropped into the driver’s side and let out a long, exasperated breath.

“Unbelievable,” Chelsey said, palming her face. “That man is insufferable.”

“Walking stereotype,” Raven agreed. “And useless. I don’t think he likes us very much. Every word out of his mouth dripped with condescension.”

“That’s because we’re kicking his tail in the marketplace. I have half a mind to march back in there and let him have it.”

“Don’t bother, Chelsey.”

“He had to know something more. There’s no way he investigated Mercer’s disappearance and came up with that little.”

“Or,” Raven said, “he found something, and it scared him so bad he’s burying the truth.”

“Nah. Chuck D’Intino didn’t look scared. He’s just really that poor of a PI. Either way, that conversation got us nowhere.”

“Dead ends can sometimes lead you to new paths. We just need to figure out where this one goes.”

Chelsey snickered. “You’re using one of his ridiculous metaphors.”

“Smack me if I ever become that bad,” Raven said. “Anyway, there must be something we can do with the information he gave us.”

“I’m all ears, Raven.”

Raven lowered her voice. “Don’t look now, but our friend D'Intino is watching us.”

Chelsey turned just in time to see a shadowy figure shift behind a dusty window.

“It appears he’s curious about our next move.”

“Or he just wants to leave his driveway.”

“Drive, Raven.”

As they pulled away, Chelsey’s thoughts revolved around Randy Mercer, his missing money, and whatever secrets D'Intino concealed behind his feigned indifference.

20

Inside the cruiser, Thomas adjusted his seat. His eyes never left the basketball court a few hundred feet away. A chain-link fence bordered the court, and a group of teenagers dribbled and passed with lazy enthusiasm, their shouts causing birds to scatter. Aguilar sat in the passenger seat, arms folded tight, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on her biceps. LeVar sat in the back, quieter than Thomas had ever seen him.

Thomas adjusted the side mirror so he could see his junior deputy. “You all right back there?” he asked without turning around.

LeVar rubbed at his stubbled cheeks. “Peachy.”

The echo of a ball smacking pavement provided an inconsistent beat to the afternoon.

“You know what’s really bothering me?” Aguilar asked. “That smug jerk Barone. How dare he even suggest—” Aguilar broke off, shaking her head as if trying to fling the memory away.

Thomas watched the court. “Don’t give him the power, Aguilar.”

“I’m not giving him anything. It’s not right. LeVar’s out here risking his neck, and that jerk has to bring up the past.”

LeVar interrupted, his voice flat, “I don’t need anyone defending me.”

Aguilar twisted around in her seat to face him. “Too bad. I’m doing it, anyway.”

He met her eyes, his expression hard but not unkind. “People like Barone see what they want to see. My badge doesn’t change their minds. I learned to accept prejudice.”

Before an argument could take root, Thomas said, “Barone isn’t in the cruiser with us. Our attention needs to be on that court.”

A group of men walked across the playing surface, two of them with their hoods pulled low. They lingered, exchanging glances with the players but not joining in.

Aguilar grabbed her binoculars. “What about them?”

Thomas adjusted his hat, tilting it down to shield his face as he watched. “They haven’t revealed their cards. Keep observing.”

Minutes ticked by; the sun was baking the vehicle. The unknown men loitered, one glancing around as if he sensed eyes on him. Then, without warning, one of the newcomers jogged into the game, stealing the ball with a grin. The tension in the car deflated.

“False alarm,” Thomas said.

“This is like watching paint dry, only with more disappointment,” said Aguilar.

LeVar rested his elbows on the back of her seat. “Yeah, I don’t recognize those guys from Harmon. They aren’t running with the Royals.”

“As I was saying, cops like Barone don’t deserve to wear a badge.”

Thomas didn’t want to think about the officer accosting him, but the incident refused to leave his mind.

“There’s something you both should know,” Thomas said.

“What is it?” Aguilar asked.

“After Noah…after it happened, I went to his apartment. Barone was outside. He wouldn’t let me in.”

LeVar glanced up from the back seat, suddenly alert. “He stopped you?”

“Because the forensic team needed to work. I can’t argue with the decision, but it got personal.”

“How so?”

“Barone blamed me for not predicting Noah’s suicide.”

Aguilar let out a shout. “He really went there?”

“Oh, Barone didn’t hold back.” Thomas looked straight ahead, studying the court but not really seeing it. “He blamed me and said I should have seen the signs. Said if I’d been half the mentor I claimed to be, Noah would still be alive.”

“That scumbag. Who does he think he is?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas said. “In his eyes, I failed. I keep asking myself if he’s right.”

“Don’t do that, Thomas. Barone is looking for someone to blame because he can’t deal with his own incompetence. I mean, how can an entire police force miss a gang overtaking their town?”

LeVar stared at Thomas in the mirror. “He’s lashing out. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, but understanding doesn’t help Noah.”

“Barone didn’t mentor Noah like you did. Doesn’t matter what one cop says.”

“It’s not just one cop. They all blame me,” Thomas said.

“Are you sure?”

“Did you see the way they glared at me during the meeting?”

Nobody replied.

“Noah died, and I can’t help him anymore.”

“Let it go,” said LeVar. “Barone’s words are like gum on a shoe. Annoying, but they scrape off.”

“That’s right, LeVar,” said Aguilar. “He’s noise, nothing more.”

A bicycle whizzed past, startling a squirrel that had been foraging in the grass. Thomas watched as the animal darted up a tree, its tiny claws scraping bark.

“The Royals aren’t ghosts,” Thomas said. “They’re here. Noah Vale saw them, and so did we.”

Aguilar nodded. Thomas resumed scanning the court, where a tall player dunked the ball and hung on the rim, dangling as his teammates hooted.

A restless energy made LeVar shift in the back seat. “Something is off.”

“What do you mean?” Aguilar asked.

“I mean, it’s too quiet. No Royals. No lookouts. You said this spot was crawling with activity. Now it’s just kids playing ball. You know what I think? Someone tipped them off.”

The logic tracked.

“They knew we’d be here,” Thomas said.

“And went underground. That’s what the Royals do when things get hot.”

“What does that mean?” Aguilar asked. “Have they been watching us this entire time?”

“Back in the day, I would have seen the police presence and alerted my boys,” LeVar said.

Thomas reached for the radio and pressed the button to connect with Trooper Russo. Static crackled before her voice came through. “Russo here.”

“Trooper, this is Sheriff Shepherd. Anything on your end?”

“Negative. We’ve been monitoring the north end for hours. No sign of drug running. My unit has been rotating plainclothes, marked, and patrols. No hits.”

“Nothing here, either. Seems a little too quiet for my liking. They know we’re here.”

“Makes sense that they would scatter if they spotted us. We have multiple squad cars touring the town, plus your cruiser and mine.”

“Too many dry wells,” Thomas said.

“You realize what that means, right? If they know we’re closing in on them, they’ll change patterns and lie low. That makes the game more dangerous.”

“Because we won’t see them coming.”

21

Chelsey opened the door to Wolf Lake Consulting, the bell announcing her and Raven’s return. The aroma of baked blueberry muffins enveloped them.

“Smells like heaven in here,” Raven said.

Along the far wall of the office, Scout and Naomi were elbow-deep in stacks of ancient case files. Scout’s glasses slid halfway down her nose, and she pushed them up.

“You made it back,” Scout said.

Naomi straightened and massaged her neck. “Just in time. The second batch of muffins came out of the oven ten minutes ago. Snack?”

Chelsey managed a tired smile. “I could eat five.”

“Or six,” Raven added, sinking into a chair.

“Go for it. If LeVar was here, they’d be gone by now.”

“Help yourselves.” Naomi gestured toward the cooling rack on a side table. “You two look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

Chelsey grabbed a muffin. “You could say that.”

“Did you get anything from Mr. D'Intino?” Scout asked as she flipped through a folder.

“Not much,” Chelsey said. “He’s as incompetent as we feared, and about twice as frustrating. D’Intino claims he found nothing on Randy Mercer during his investigation.”

“Classic D'Intino,” Raven said.

Naomi pulled off her apron and draped it from a wall hook. “Dead ends and paranoia, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Raven said, reaching for another snack. “Except for one tidbit about Mercer having investment accounts. Weird, because D’Intino searched all the local brokerage houses and banks and found nothing.”

“This guy could have hidden his accounts under an alias. That’s not impossible, but it’s tricky to pull off domestically.”

Scout set down a stack of folders. “How do you open an account without using your real name?”

“Okay, here’s how it works,” Naomi said. “If someone wants to keep their money hidden in a domestic account, there are a few ways to do it legally. Or at least, ways to make it appear legitimate. First, they could set up a trust. The trust itself becomes the entity that holds the account, and the actual owner’s name doesn’t have to be visible unless someone digs through the paperwork.”

Chelsey pulled up a chair. “Randy could have set up a trust?”

“It’s possible. Here’s another option: a shell company. Register a shell company, use that company to open an account. Technically, it’s the business’s money, not Randy’s.”

“And if someone tries to follow the trail?”

“They hit walls. Complex layers of ownership, names that lead nowhere. And if he had a smart lawyer or financial adviser helping him, it could all be perfectly legal. If Mercer went through this much effort, he wasn’t just hiding money. He was hiding himself.”

Scout joined them around Raven’s desk. “Then we need to find out if there’s a trust or shell company tied to Randy Mercer’s name.”

“And if you can’t find his name, start looking for patterns,” Naomi said.

“What patterns?” asked Chelsey.

“Search for companies that formed just before he disappeared and financial accounts that suddenly became active or dormant. Follow the shadows.”

Chelsey met Raven’s eyes. For the first time since leaving D'Intino’s office, a spark of determination lit within her. “Then let’s shine a light on those shadows.” She reached for her notebook and flipped through the pages until she found what she was searching for. “There was one legitimate brokerage house mentioned in the original report the sheriff’s department filed ten years ago,” she said. “It’s called Branson Wealth Management.”

“Branson?” Naomi asked.

“Correct. Apparently, Randy Mercer had an account there under his own name, but after he disappeared, there was nothing left. Not a single cent.”

“So he cleaned out the account before vanishing?” Raven asked. “Where did the money go?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

Naomi tapped her chin. “Branson Wealth Management has been around for a while. Since the ’80s, I think. They’re smaller than the major firms, but well-regarded. Branson specializes in high-net-worth clients and people looking for custom investment strategies. Shepherd Systems has used them off and on for certain diversified accounts.”

“Shepherd Systems uses them?” asked Scout.

“Not regularly, but yes. When we need discreet handling of assets or want access to specific funds not available to the public, we go through Branson. They have a reputation for discretion and provide complex investment packages. Their advisors know how to navigate the gray areas legally and can set up accounts that are difficult to trace.”

“But someone removed the money,” Chelsey said.

“Branson Wealth Management keeps records. Even if the money was moved, there’s a paper trail.”

“Think they’ll talk to us?” Raven asked, skepticism creeping into her tone.

“Doubtful,” Naomi said. “Not without the right leverage. But if we can prove Randy’s disappearance involved foul play, or that he had enemies, Branson might cooperate, especially if it helps protect their reputation.”

Chelsey considered their next steps. “I suppose we should start with those records. Branson won’t deal with us unless someone greases the wheels. I’ll call Thomas.”

She pulled out her phone and dialed her future husband, knowing he was on a stakeout with LeVar and Aguilar. The line buzzed twice before he answered.

“Thomas here.”

“It’s me,” Chelsey said. She could picture him instantly and wished they were together. “How’s it going?”

“Quiet,” Thomas said, a touch of frustration seeping into his voice. “No signs of drug running or gang activity. Just kids and squirrels. You?”

Chelsey glanced at Raven and Naomi, who were deep in discussion. “We paid a visit to Chuck D'Intino. Complete waste of time, just as I expected. He had nothing useful.”

“Figures. Did you learn anything from his investigation?”

“Sort of. D'Intino mentioned Mercer had accounts, and we found out he had a legitimate one with Branson Wealth Management. The sheriff’s report said it was empty when he disappeared.”

There was a pause on the other end as Thomas considered this. “Branson? Shepherd Systems works with them.”

“Right. Naomi explained that Branson handles high-net-worth clients and isn’t known for being forthcoming. I was hoping you might talk to them since Shepherd Systems has a working relationship.”

“I could. But there might be a better option.”

“Better than the owner of Shepherd Systems?”

“A more effective option. My mother works with Branson and knows their people better than I do. If anyone can get them to open up, it’s her.”

Chelsey bit her lip, feeling a rush of nerves. Lindsey Shepherd always set Chelsey on edge. “Your mother, huh?” She turned to Raven, who gave her a questioning look. “That’s… great, I guess.”

“Don’t let her rattle you, Chelsey. Mother isn’t a people person,” Thomas said. “But she likes you. And with the wedding coming up, maybe a call will break the ice.”

Break the ice or light it on fire.

Lindsey Shepherd was formidable—intelligent, shrewd, and protective of her only child.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful. She’ll help you. Just tell her everything you learned from the official report. If there’s a way to get Branson to cooperate, she’ll find it.”

“Thanks, Thomas. Watch yourself, okay?”

“You too,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

She ended the call, feeling a mix of apprehension and resolve. Reaching out to Lindsey Shepherd always made her cringe, but if calling helped crack Randy Mercer’s case, it was worth it. And with the wedding so close, there was no better time to build a bridge.

“Everything good?” Raven asked, breaking Chelsey’s reverie.

“Define good,” Chelsey said, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “I need to call Thomas’s mother.”

“Lindsey Shepherd? Brave. I’ll get more muffins ready for when you need comfort food.”

“I’m probably going to need it.”

22

Dinnertime was fast approaching, and Thomas wondered how long he’d sat in this cruiser with his two deputies.

On the basketball court, the game continued. A teenager in baggy shorts caught the ball, tossed a pass behind his back, and found a teammate, who executed a perfect layup. The other team’s players chided the boy for acting like a hotdog.

Then the tenor changed. The game stopped when a lone figure approached the chain-link fence. He walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, head down, but there was a coiled tension in the way he moved, like a snake ready to strike.

“See that?” Thomas asked.

Aguilar straightened, following his sightline. “I got him. Suspect at nine o’clock.”

LeVar leaned in from the back, eyes narrowing. He, too, could be a predator when needed. “He’s got that walk.”

“What walk?” Thomas asked.

“The one that says, ‘anyone who messes with me gets shot.’”

Thomas was about to radio Trooper Russo when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Unknown number.

He hesitated, then swiped to answer.

“Shepherd.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

No sound on the other end. Just dead air, like a held breath. The same as before.

He ended the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

“Who was that?” Aguilar asked, her eyes never leaving the approaching figure.

“No one,” Thomas said, his unease deepening. “Don’t let that guy out of your sight.”

The figure reached the edge of the court and stopped outside the fence. He observed the players, his posture too casual to be genuine. It was a predator’s calm.

“I know that face,” LeVar said. “That’s Tariq Morello.”

The name rang familiar. “One of the 315 Royals?”

“He used to run point on drug drops. Smart, slippery. He’s not here to watch basketball.”

Aguilar shifted, her fingers inching toward the radio. “That’s the confirmation we needed. A leading member of 315 Royals is in Hartford Springs.”

Morello leaned against the fence, eyes cold. Then he nodded to one kid. The boy dribbled closer, glancing nervously over his shoulder. It was a handoff, hidden beneath the guise of a game.

LeVar reached for the door handle.

“Patience,” Thomas said. “We need proof.”

Thomas’s phone buzzed again. He ignored the caller and kept his eyes locked on Morello.

Aguilar reached under the seat and lifted a professional-grade camera with a zoom lens. Through the lens, the details would snap into sharp focus—the boy’s nervous hands, the small package passing between them, and Tariq Morello’s face. Thomas just hoped Aguilar would capture the proof they required. She clicked off several shots, her finger steady on the shutter.

“Got him,” Aguilar whispered. “Drugs. Definitely a handoff.”

Thomas grabbed the radio. “This is Sheriff Shepherd. We need backup at the Brookside Court in Hartford Springs. 315 Royals activity confirmed. Suspect is Tariq Morello. He’s not alone. Move units now.”

“Copy that, Sheriff. Units en route.”

Morello’s head snapped up. His eyes found the cruiser. A split second later, he turned, hissing a command to the boy. The kid froze, panic flashing across his face before he sprinted from the court.

Thomas shoved the door open. “They’re running.”

The basketball court erupted into chaos. Players scattered, sneakers pounding the asphalt, shouts mixing with panicked yells. Morello slipped through an opening in the fence. The boy followed, stumbling as he tried to keep up. Thomas, Aguilar, and LeVar burst out of hiding and weaved through the crowd.

“Sheriff’s Department!” LeVar yelled. “Clear away!”

“Aguilar, cut him off,” Thomas said, pointing toward an alley that opened at the far end of the park.

“On him,” she said, running faster than Thomas could ever hope to run.

LeVar passed Thomas. It took all the sheriff’s will to keep up with his deputies.

They raced after the suspects. Morello glanced back and cursed. He pushed the boy ahead of him, urging him to go faster as they disappeared around a corner. Thomas felt the burn in his legs but didn’t slow. They had photographic evidence of the handoff, and he wouldn’t let the criminals slip away.

LeVar leaped the fence a second before Aguilar threw herself over the barrier. Thomas crawled through the gap, knowing he was losing ground. Ahead, Morello and the boy darted through the alley and disappeared around a building.

Thomas emerged in a part of town where the sun never shone. The alley opened onto a street lined with old buildings, most of them abandoned, with shattered windows and doors hanging askew. Graffiti scrawled in jagged letters covered brick walls, claiming territory long forgotten by the rest of Hartford Springs. Trash piled tall against the buildings, a stench of decay rising as Thomas pounded past.

After taking the wrong turn, LeVar and Aguilar doubled back. This allowed Thomas to catch up.

“That way,” Thomas said, indicating the space between two brick structures.

Sweat glistened on LeVar’s brow. They moved as one, tracking the shadows ahead. Aguilar took a parallel path, trying to flank their targets.

Morello veered, leading them deeper into the maze of decrepit buildings. He grabbed the boy by the arm, yanking him forward. Thomas and LeVar followed. Another alley twisted and gave way to gloom.

“This way’s a dead end,” LeVar said. “It has to be.”

The air stank of mildew and rot. Thomas knew Morello wouldn’t lead them here without an escape plan. Ahead, the footsteps grew distant. Then silence.

Thomas slowed, signaling for LeVar to do the same. The quiet was deafening, as if the town had gone into hiding.

“Careful,” Thomas whispered. “They’re close.”

An old metal drum clattered to the ground. Thomas whipped around, heart hammering. Shadows danced along the brick walls. Too many angles, too many places to hide. Morello was in his element here, and they were the intruders.

Thomas and his deputies found a courtyard hemmed in by low-income apartments. The remnants of an old playground stood crooked in one corner, a rusted slide leaning like a broken spine. Morello and the boy stood at the far end, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Morello’s lips twisted into a snarl.

“He’ll kill you,” Morello said.

“Hands on your head!” Thomas yelled.

The gangster didn’t even flinch. He wasn’t frightened of Thomas or his deputies. Something was wrong.

“Give it up, Morello,” LeVar said, aiming his gun. “It’s over.”

Morello’s eyes shot to a side path, a brief tell. “Nothing is over until he says it is.”

“Show me your hands,” Thomas said.

The gangster yanked the boy in front of him. One tattooed arm snaked around the boy’s neck.

“Let the boy go,” Aguilar said.

“Back off, or I’ll snap his neck.”

One shot was all it would take. But Thomas didn’t dare pull the trigger. At this distance, he might hit the boy.

As Aguilar and LeVar circled around to flank the gangster, Morello tossed the boy to the ground and darted behind the first apartment building.

Aguilar and LeVar surged forward, but the shadows swallowed Morello whole, leaving behind only the echo of his steps. Thomas’s instincts screamed at him to pursue, but the boy sprawled on the cracked concrete demanded their attention.

The teen’s chest heaved, and his hands trembled as he pressed himself flat against the ground. Tears streaked his dirty face. “Please,” he gasped. “Let me go. You don’t understand. He’s coming.”

“Who?” Thomas asked. “Who’s coming?”

The boy’s eyes darted around the courtyard, as if searching every shadow for a monster only he could see. His lips quivered, but no words came. Whatever terror gripped him went beyond fear of an arrest. It was primal, raw.

“Get him up,” Aguilar said.

LeVar lifted the boy to his feet. Aguilar secured a pair of cuffs around his wrists.

“We’ll protect you, but you need to talk,” Thomas said.

The boy shook his head. “You can’t protect me. No one can.”

Thomas searched their surroundings. This place was a labyrinth of decay. There could be shooters hiding in every window.

Then he saw it.

A grotesque painting stretched across a brick wall at the far end of the courtyard. The face, twisted and monstrous, stared out from the decaying stone, its eyes impossibly wide, its mouth gaping in a scream that never ended. Dark crimson paint dripped from the corners of its mouth, streaking down like blood, as if the walls were weeping.

“What the hell is that?” Aguilar whispered.

“If we stay, he’ll come,” the boy said.

“Who will come?”

No answer.

Thomas stepped closer. The painting’s eyes seemed to follow him.

“Talk to me,” Thomas said. “Who’s coming after us?”

“Hollow John.”

Aguilar gasped. LeVar’s twisted his head to stare at the boy.

“Who is this Hollow John?” Thomas shook the teen’s shoulders. “Is he one of the Royals?”

“We need to get out of here,” LeVar said. “I don’t like all these windows.”

Thomas looked up at the towering apartments. A clicking sound reached their ears, coming from the first apartment. As if someone had cocked a gun.

“Get the kid back to the cruiser,” Thomas said.

As they began leading the boy away, Thomas threw another look at the face. For a moment, he swore he saw the crimson mouth twitch, as if it were readying a scream. Then it was just stone and paint again.

But the feeling of being watched never left him.

23

Heads snapped up as Thomas led the teenager into the Hartford Springs police station. A few officers stood up from their desks while others grimaced, clearly unhappy to see the sheriff.

The boy didn’t struggle. He seemed too frightened to fight.

Aguilar and LeVar walked to either side of Thomas, their presence a silent wall of protection against the stares that met them. Every eye in the room tracked their movement, expressions ranging from wary to outright hostile. Conversations faded, leaving only the low hum of machinery and the scuff of boots against the linoleum floor.

Officer Larsen was the first to appear. His eyes swept over Thomas before settling on the boy. “This is what you bring us? Some scared kid?”

Thomas wasn’t in the mood to argue. “He was part of a handoff with Tariq Morello. The 315 Royals are moving product again.”

“This boy isn’t a gangster. Morello probably slipped him enough cash to deliver the drugs to someone else.”

Larsen reached out, taking the boy’s arm. The teen flinched.

“JJ,” Larsen called over his shoulder.

Officer JJ Lynch emerged from a side office, his face drawn and hollow. Thomas felt a pang of sympathy. Lynch still wore the weight of Noah Vale’s death. Lynch’s eyes met Thomas’s before he turned his attention to the boy, who twisted and struggled like a scared mouse.

“What the heck has him so worked up?” Larsen asked.

“He won’t talk,” Thomas said. “The kid claimed someone was coming for us.”

“Who? The boogeyman?”

“I’d like to find out. The kid mentioned a name. Hollow John. Does that mean anything to you?”

The boy lowered his head. A tear crawled out of his eye.

Larsen chuckled without mirth. “That’s a stupid story the locals on the wrong side of town tell each other.”

“Humor us.”

“Why? It’s a bunch of crap.” When Thomas looked at Larsen expectantly, the officer shrugged. “Fine. Supposedly, there’s this phantom that comes out of the graveyard and gets the kids addicted to narcotics. Happy now? I told you the story was garbage. And you made me scare the boy.”

“I’ll take him,” Lynch said, guiding the teen away. The boy cast one last, desperate glance back at Thomas before disappearing down the hallway.

As soon as they were out of sight, Larsen turned back to Thomas, his posture rigid. “Officer Noah Vale died for this? For you to ask me about campfire stories? You didn’t even bring us Morello.”

Thomas set his jaw. “Until a few days ago, you refused to believe Noah was telling the truth.”

“Don’t you dare use Noah’s name. He was one of us.”

The room went deathly quiet. Aguilar stiffened, but Thomas raised a hand, stopping her. He kept his focus on Larsen, refusing to back down.

“I cared about Noah.”

“So you say.”

Thomas reached into his jacket and pulled out a SIM card. He handed it to Larsen. “This will stop the Royals before they overrun Hartford Springs.”

Larsen snatched the card and pushed into a slot on his computer. The photographs loaded. Aguilar’s images showed Morello at the basketball court and the package exchanging hands. They finally had proof that Noah Vale had been right.

“You can see for yourself,” Aguilar said. “Hartford Springs has a gang issue. We’re not making this up.”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced at LeVar, then back at Thomas. “I’ll bring the photographs to Chief Milham. But don’t think for a second that you’re welcome around here.”

“I want to speak with the boy,” Thomas said.

“Like hell.”

“Give me one reason why I can’t talk to him.”

“I don’t need to give you a reason, Sheriff. He’s in our custody now. He’ll be processed, questioned, and whatever information he tells us is our business.”

So much for the task force and the spirit of cooperation.

“That boy could be the key to unraveling what Morello and the Royals are planning. I’m not asking for the world. Just grant me fifteen minutes with him.”

Larsen stepped closer, his face inches from Thomas’s. “No. You don’t get a shot to ruin someone else’s life. These teens pass narcotics back and forth and get addicted, and the parents blame a phantom because it’s easier than admitting they failed to raise their children.”

“The longer you keep that kid isolated, the more information we lose.”

“Not happening,” Larsen said. “You think walking in here with some pictures gives you authority over Hartford Springs PD?”

The door to Chief Milham’s office whipped open. Milham stepped out, his eyes moving over the scene in a sweep that missed nothing. Officers averted their gazes and pretended to concentrate on their work.

Milham stared. “Problem, Officer Larsen?”

Larsen’s mouth tightened again, but he backed off. “No problem, sir.”

“Then why do I hear raised voices in my station? If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were a bunch of rowdy drunks in a bar. Aren’t we supposed to solve problems together?”

The fight drained out of Larsen and his shoulders drooped. “Sheriff Shepherd wanted access to the boy. I was just making it clear—”

“What were you making clear, Larsen?”

Larsen’s jaw worked, but he knew better than to push. “Nothing, sir.”

“Good. Because the last thing we need is another border war when we have a gang operating under our noses.” Milham shifted his attention to Thomas. “Sheriff, I appreciate your desire to interview the suspect, but you’re a better asset in the field. My team will handle the boy’s questioning for now. If we find actionable intel, I’ll make sure you’re looped in.”

“Don’t hold back on us,” Thomas said. “This goes deeper than Tariq Morello.”

“I won’t keep anything from you.” Milham whirled on Larsen. “You’re dismissed, Officer Larsen. Go brief your team on the photographs. And do something useful and stop fighting with the county.”

For a moment, defiance warred with duty. Then Larsen said through gritted teeth, “Yes, sir.” Without another word, he stomped away.

As he disappeared down the hallway, Milham rubbed his eyes. “This won’t get easier, Sheriff. They’re taking Officer Vale’s death personally, and I don’t have time to smooth their hurt feelings. You did well.” Milham took in Aguilar and LeVar. “All of you.”

After the officers scattered, Thomas led Aguilar and LeVar into the conference room, the murmur of conversations fading behind them.

“I’ve never seen someone that terrified,” Thomas said.

“Think the kid was afraid of Morello?” LeVar asked.

“No, someone else. Whoever he thinks is coming for him—”

“—is bad news,” Aguilar finished. “He kept saying ‘he’s coming.’ What was that all about?” Darkness passed through her eyes. “I didn’t like that painting back there, Thomas. Just thinking about it gives me the creeps.”

LeVar leaned against the wall. “That mural doesn’t fit with the Royals’ style. I knew those guys. They mark territory with graffiti, symbols, and tags. But that painting was straight out of a horror movie.”

“Then who are we looking for? We need to know who we’re up against,” Aguilar said.

“That’s exactly why I want to interview the kid,” Thomas said. “Someone painted that mural to intimidate everyone who lives in the area.”

“And whoever that painting represents,” LeVar added, “he’s behind the crime in Hartford Springs.”

24

Chelsey set the office phone on its cradle. Good lord, talking to Lindsey Shepherd always stole the wind from her lungs. Though Chelsey and Lindsey had grown closer over the last year, the mother would never accept that anyone could care for her son the way she could. To Lindsey, Thomas would always be her little boy.

Munching on another blueberry muffin, Raven entered the office and licked her fingers. She pulled up when she saw Chelsey’s face.

“That bad?” Raven asked.

“That woman could chase away grizzly bears.” Chelsey reclined and set her sneakers on the desk. “What’s that? Your fifth muffin?”

“Fourth. Give me some credit.”

“Besides terrorizing bears, did Mrs. Shepherd give us anything useful?” asked Raven.

“I have to hand it to her. She got us a phone call with Branson Wealth Management.”

“For real? I love that woman.”

Chelsey rolled her eyes.

As Raven rolled a chair up to the desk, Chelsey adjusted the position of her laptop, making sure the camera was angled just right.

The video call connected, and a man’s face appeared on the screen. He was in his early fifties, with neatly combed hair, thin-rimmed glasses, and a precise smile that hinted at a lifetime of negotiation. The nameplate on his office desk read “Paul Whitaker – Senior Financial Advisor.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Byrd, Ms. Hopkins,” Paul Whitaker said.

“Thank you for speaking with us, Mr. Whitaker,” Chelsey said. “We understand you’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy to speak with a friend of Lindsey Shepherd.”

Raven grinned at Chelsey.

“Before we proceed, I need to be clear about one thing,” said Whitaker. “The only reason I’m speaking to you today is because of our relationship with Shepherd Systems. I value their business, and this is a matter of trust. Everything discussed must remain strictly confidential. Are we in agreement?”

“You have our word,” Raven said. “Discretion is a cornerstone of what we do.”

Whitaker leaned back in his chair, seeming to weigh their sincerity. Satisfied, he folded his hands.

“Very well. You’re here because of Randy Mercer, I presume. I’ve reviewed the account history you inquired about. I’ll be candid: It’s an intriguing situation.”

“Intriguing how?” Chelsey asked.

“Randy Mercer grew his portfolio tenfold in less than a year.”

“What? Is that possible?” Chelsey asked.

“It is if you make the right investments.”

“Mercer turned wealth into riches. That suggests he was…what? A great stock picker?”

“Not exactly. Randy Mercer never owned stocks, Ms. Byrd. His account activity showed a distinct pattern. He preferred options trading.”

“Options? That’s different.”

“Different and dangerous,” Whitaker said. “Options trading can be highly lucrative, but also quite volatile. When done correctly, it allows investors to control large positions with relatively small amounts of capital. This leverage can lead to exponential gains in a short period of time. Mercer knew this, and he exploited his advantage.”

“How does that work? I mean, in layperson’s terms.”

“Think of it this way. Buying options gives you the right, but not the obligation, to buy or sell an asset at a predetermined price. For example, if Mercer believed a particular stock would rise significantly, he could purchase call options at a fraction of the cost of the stock itself. If he was correct and the stock’s price skyrocketed, the value of those options could increase many times over.”

“With a smaller investment, he stood to make huge returns,” Chelsey said.

“Precisely. Options provide leverage. In Mercer’s case, he was either lucky or exceptionally skilled. He made substantial gains over a short period. However, with great reward comes risk.”

“What kind of risk?”

“Leverage cuts both ways. The same tools that magnify gains can also amplify losses. If a trade moves against you, it’s possible to lose everything. Many options traders end up in debt because they can’t cover their losses. Mercer walked a tightrope with remarkable skill, but one misstep could have been catastrophic.”

“Options trading explains the sudden spike in his account value,” Raven said. “He made money fast.”

“Options can make fortunes and destroy them in the blink of an eye. Mercer’s actions suggest he was playing a high-stakes game.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t selling option premium more reliable than buying options, like Mercer did?”

Chelsey stared at Raven, as if her friend had grown tentacles. She knew Raven was smart with her finances, but this?

“You’re not wrong, Ms. Hopkins,” said Whitaker. “Selling option premium is considered a more consistent strategy, especially for experienced traders. It relies on a fundamental principle called time decay. You see, all options lose value as they approach their expiration date, assuming nothing drastic changes in the underlying asset’s price.”

“Selling options means you profit as they lose value?” Chelsey asked, looking at Raven for confirmation.

“Yes,” Whitaker said. “When you sell an option, you collect the premium. If the option expires worthless, which often happens, you keep the premium as profit. The odds can be in your favor, provided you understand market behavior and aren’t exposed to significant volatility.”

“Sounds like Mercer wasn’t in it for slow, steady income, though. He was chasing big wins.”

“Randy Mercer was buying options, not selling. High risk, high reward. Whatever he needed the money for, he wanted it in a hurry.” Whitaker shifted closer to the camera. “Mercer’s account with Branson Wealth Management raised a few flags. When it was first established, it appeared standard enough to pass routine scrutiny. But shortly before he disappeared, significant transactions occurred.”

“Where was the money moved?” Raven asked.

Whitaker hesitated, as if weighing how much more to reveal. “To a series of intermediary accounts. Each was linked to a shell company, all of them registered within a month of each other. On the surface, they seemed unrelated. But the timing, the volume of money, and the abrupt way the accounts were closed makes me suspicious. Mercer was hiding assets, and he was thorough.”

Chelsey’s pen stopped. “Do you know why?”

“I’m afraid that’s a question I can’t answer. Branson does not involve itself in the motives of its clients, only their financial strategies. But I can tell you this—whatever he was preparing for, it wasn’t something he intended to return from.”

“And the funds? Are they traceable?”

“Not anymore. Mercer was meticulous. I’ll send you what I have. Remember, I can’t have any of our conversation tied back to Branson, or to me. Should it come to light, I’ll deny any involvement.”

“Understood,” Raven said. “Thank you for your trust.”

After the call ended, Chelsey closed the laptop, her eyes unfocused. Across from her, Raven frowned.

“Mercer was scrambling,” Raven said. “Whatever he was planning, he knew time wasn’t on his side.”

“The way Whitaker phrased things, it sounded like Mercer was desperate. But for what? Was someone threatening him?”

“Maybe this mystery person wanted Mercer’s money.”

“But who? Alan Bishop?” Chelsey asked.

“Doubtful. Obviously, Mercer was on the run. The question is, from what?”

On her notepad, Chelsey had scribbled fragments of what Whitaker had said. “If someone was after him, why not go to the police? Or at least tell Melany where to find the money? If he was so meticulous about everything else, why leave her in the dark?”

“Maybe he thought telling Melany would put her at risk. If he was hiding assets through shell companies, then he knew his enemies would come looking for his accounts.”

Chelsey considered that. “Or perhaps Mercer didn’t trust anyone, not even his own wife. If he thought Melany might spill the truth under pressure, he would have kept her in the dark.”

“It makes no sense. Melany was barely getting by when she came to us. Randy could have helped her before the bad guys closed in. This seems like a desperate man making last-ditch efforts to save himself, and not considering his wife.”

“Either way, it’s messy. What if he was being blackmailed? If someone threatened to expose him, ruin him, or hurt Melany? Moving everything into hidden accounts makes sense if you think you’re about to lose it all.”

“What kind of leverage would someone have on a man like Mercer? From everything we’ve learned, it seems like his practice garnered respect. Nobody ever sued his company, and even Alan Bishop admitted that Randy Mercer was great at his craft.”

And yet he’d vanished from the face of the earth ten years ago. Whatever secrets Randy Mercer had hidden, Chelsey was ready to bring them to light, no matter what shadows she had to face.

25

Around the bullpen, subdued conversations buzzed in Thomas’s ears. His legs bounced with restlessness as Aguilar paced in front of him. LeVar sipped from a cup of coffee but kept looking at the exit. He wanted to chase the 315 Royals, but Thomas couldn’t leave.

“We should canvas the town,” Aguilar said. “Every second we waste gives Morello and his crew time to disappear.”

“We’re not leaving without that SIM card,” Thomas said.

“You think it’s worth it to sit here, waiting for Larsen, Barone, and the others to decide when they’re done with it? We got the pictures. You don’t need a ceremony.”

“It’s not about ceremony,” Thomas said. “That SIM card is my sole copy of the photos. I’m not leaving without it.”

“You don’t trust them, do you?”

“What do you think?”

LeVar gave a nod of agreement. “If that evidence vanishes or gets buried, we’ll have to start over.”

The seconds ticked by, stretching into minutes. Then the door to the back office opened, and Officer Larsen approached with the SIM card pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“I made a copy of the images,” Larsen said, his tone clipped. He placed the card on the desk in front of Thomas, the officer’s eyes jumping up to meet his. “Do what you need to do.”

Thomas picked up the card. “Thank you, Officer Larsen.”

“No, thank you for saving the world.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm. Were you the only person to handle the SIM card?”

“Why does that matter?” Larsen asked.

“It’s a simple question.”

“No. Officer Barone went through the pictures while I handled a call. Satisfied?”

Great. Barone hated Thomas because of Noah’s suicide.

“Yes, Officer Larsen.”

Larsen muttered under his breath as he walked away.

Thomas rose. “We’re out of here.”

Outside, evening wrapped the sky in a gray quilt. Once they were in the cruiser, Thomas slipped the SIM card into a secure compartment, then grabbed the radio.

“Trooper Russo, this is Sheriff Shepherd.”

“Go ahead, Sheriff,” Russo replied.

“Any activity at your end of town?”

“Nothing. It seems like we missed all the fun. Did you get anything out of the teen you captured?”

“The police have him now, and they aren’t willing to share. Got a question for you: What do you know about a figure named Hollow John?”

The pause on the other end was long enough to make the hair on the back of Thomas’s neck prickle.

“Hollow John, you say?”

“The name came up in connection to a mural near the basketball court.”

“Hollow John isn’t real, Sheriff. It’s folklore. People around Hartford Springs tie Hollow John to disappearances, murders, and now the drug ring. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good, because Hollow John isn’t real. It’s just a story people tell when the lights go out and they need someone to blame.”

“Like the movie Candyman?” Thomas asked.

“It was actually a short story before it became a movie. Anyhow, you know how legends spread. A town like Hartford Springs falls apart. Crime rises, drugs flood the streets, people vanish, and folks need something to point to.”

“And they create a monster named Hollow John.”

“Unfortunately. People need a reason to explain why everything keeps going to hell. The myth grows legs, and suddenly people see him in their neighborhoods.”

“Fear makes an effective cover,” Thomas said, thinking aloud.

“It’s easier for people to believe there’s a boogeyman in the shadows than to accept that Hartford Springs rotted from the inside. Corruption, poverty, broken families, gangs. The actual monsters don’t need a name.”

“I’ve seen it before. Communities create ghosts to avoid looking in the mirror.”

“Well, you look into the mirror and say his name three times,” said Russo.

“Haha.”

“Here’s something to consider. If we’re dealing with someone hiding behind Hollow John’s name, then this isn’t folklore anymore. It’s a mask.”

“But who is wearing the mask?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

Thomas looked at LeVar, who was listening. “The 315 Royals have always been dangerous, but they aren’t supernatural. But if Tariq Morello or one of his cronies is using Hollow John to keep people terrified, then we aren’t chasing a legend anymore.”

“A savvy move, if you ask me,” Russo said. “Fear keeps people quiet and makes them think twice about calling the police.”

“Why can’t they call the police?”

“Because Hollow John will steal their breath while they sleep. Come on, Sheriff. Haven’t you heard the stories?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

Thomas heard someone talking in the background.

“We’re about to circle the west side, Sheriff,” Russo said.

“I’ll let you go. Thanks for the nightmares.”

“Anytime. Give me a shout if you see anything on your end.”

After the radio went silent, Thomas looked at LeVar, who was staring out the window with a vein pulsing on the side of his head.

“LeVar?” Aguilar asked. “What’s going on inside that brain of yours? You don’t agree with Trooper Russo?”

“She’s not entirely wrong,” LeVar said. “But Hollow John didn’t start in Hartford Springs.”

Thomas gave him a curious glance. “You’ve heard of this guy before?”

“The legend spread out of the bigger cities, like Rochester and Syracuse. It was whispered about in Harmon for as far back as I can remember. The name shifts, but the stories are always the same.”

Aguilar unbuckled her seatbelt. “These stories aren’t new to you?”

“As I understand it, he is Hollow Jack in Rochester.”

“I’ll never look at my dog the same way again,” Thomas said, but LeVar didn’t laugh.

“I’ve also heard other names—Red Hollow, Shadow Keeper. My mother called him The Crooked One. She warned Raven and me that The Crooked One would get us if we joined gangs. As you can see, I didn’t listen.”

“The stories are all the same? That he steals your breath while you sleep?”

“Yep.”

“I feel ill.”

LeVar reached into the shadows of his past. “Back when I was a teen, about fourteen or fifteen, there was this kid in Harmon named Marcus Alvarez. Everyone called him Marky. He was like the older brother I never had. Smart, always looking out for the younger ones in the neighborhood. Then one day, he starts saying he’s seeing things.”

“Seeing things?” Aguilar asked.

“Marky claimed there was this man wearing a coat that dragged along the ground, face pale as bone. He claimed he saw him watching from alleyways, the rooftops, even in his own shadow. At first, everyone figured Marky was freaking out. The Royals were pressing the Kings hard, and Marky was in over his head. But then he started having episodes.”

A chill settled over the car. “What kind of episodes?” Thomas asked.

“He’d wake up screaming, clawing at his throat, swearing Hollow John was trying to steal his breath. Said the man whispered his name while he slept.” LeVar’s eyes darkened. “It got worse. One night, he vanished. Cops found him a week later in an abandoned building, eyes wide open, as if he’d seen something too horrible to comprehend. No marks on him. No cause of death they could find.”

“Come on, LeVar,” Aguilar said. “You don’t buy that Hollow John killed your friend.”

“’Course I don’t. The Royals had a hit out on Marky. Anyone who took him out would be set for life. When half the city wants to kill you for a payday, you tend to get paranoid. If you ask me, Marky panicked.”

Thomas frowned. “You believe Marky scared himself to death?”

“That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. I sure as hell don’t believe a ghost suffocated my friend. The mind is a powerful weapon. You make it serve you, or you allow it to become your enemy.”

“Truer words have never been spoken.”

“After Marky, everyone believed in Hollow John. Parents warned their kids to stay indoors. Fear ruled the streets. But now I have a second chance.”

“A second chance?” asked Aguilar.

LeVar checked his service weapon.

“To put a bullet in Hollow John. For real this time.”

26

When the clock ticked past midnight, the A-frame bedroom filled with silver light, the sickle moon slicing through the curtains like a blade. Jack’s steady breathing came from the foot of the bed in a rhythmic counterpoint to Chelsey’s quiet slumber beside Thomas. Tigger curled on a cushion under the window, his tail twitching occasionally.

Thomas’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t know why at first. The house felt corrupt, as if something black and viscous were pouring from the walls. Jack’s ears twitched, and though the dog didn’t stir, the subtle change was enough to put Thomas on edge.

Sliding out of bed as quietly as he could, he grabbed the flashlight from the bedside table. He didn’t bother with shoes. His bare feet made less noise on the hardwood floor. Looking back at Chelsey, he opened the door.

The house creaked, a soft, subtle groan that made his chest tighten. He moved into the hallway, which overlooked the living room and entryway. Unbidden memories clawed out of their shallow graves. He recalled the night Jeremy Hyde had broken in, the sheer terror of knowing a killer was inside his sanctuary. All this surged back in vivid flashes. The memory tightened his grip on the flashlight.

He stopped outside the spare bedroom, suddenly wishing he’d grabbed the gun. The door was closed. His instincts warned him that someone was inside.

Thomas stared at the closed door, his breath slowing but deepening, the kind of breath you take when bracing for a plunge into ice-cold water. The hallway seemed darker now. Shadows stretched unnaturally. They slithered as if alive. He reached for the doorknob, his palm sweating, when the floorboards groaned at the end of the hallway. For one frozen heartbeat, he didn’t see the upstairs.

He saw him.

The hallway stretched into eternity, the walls narrowing and pressing closer. Standing at the far end was a figure draped in black. Hollow John. Tall and impossibly thin, his silhouette wavered like smoke. Where there should have been a face was a mask of bone-white nothingness, and a mouth that didn’t exist yet seemed to smile, jagged and cruel. His coat dragged over the floor, the frayed hem whispering secrets to the darkness.

Thomas couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Hollow John was real. The nightmare face from the mural had followed him home. This monstrosity would kill Thomas and Chelsey, just as it had stolen the breath from LeVar’s teenage friend.

The air held the coppery tang of blood and the reek of decayed leaves. Hollow John inclined his head, as if deciding whether Thomas would make a good meal. Then the mouth…God, the mouth…began to open, cracking the smooth white surface like breaking porcelain. No sound came, only a yawning void that pulled at the edges of Thomas’s sanity.

A whisper of something that wasn’t so much a voice as white-hot panic filled his head.

Run. Run. Run.

Thomas blinked, and Hollow John vanished. The hallway appeared normal again. He realized his trembling hand still hovered over the knob to the spare bedroom.

Slowly, he turned the knob and inched the door open. The room was empty. Everything was as it should be.

Moonlight spilled across the room, illuminating the bed and the dresser. The furniture reflected in warped shadows against the walls.

He approached the window. From here, the lake road appeared as a narrow ribbon of asphalt that ran parallel to the water and disappeared into the night. The road was usually empty at this hour—but as Thomas peeked between the curtains, a vehicle crept out of the darkness. The driver kept the headlights off.

The unknown vehicle was a battered old van, its dark blue paint dulled by time and grime. Its side panels were dented, and rust had chewed away at the wheel wells. A strip of duct tape secured the back window. The outline caught the silver light and seemed to glow. The van rolled past without slowing. He noted the lack of plates on the front. It was too dark to make out the driver, but Thomas saw a shape behind the wheel.

He crouched and remained in the shadows. From his vantage point, he could see the van, but the driver couldn’t see him.

Or at least, that is what Thomas told himself.

The van disappeared around the bend.

Thomas waited by the window until exhaustion made his body sag. The van hadn’t returned. Maybe it had just been a lost driver.

Driving with his lights off?

He thought of the two phone calls and the silence on the other end. He recalled the mural’s grotesque face. And he remembered the sensation of being watched after Tariq Morello escaped.

Logically, Thomas knew Hollow John was nothing more than a campfire tale. But in the dead of night, the mind twisted reason into the inconceivable.

Thomas scrubbed a hand down his face. He needed sleep.

The hallway was quiet now. Shadows receded into their corners.

He slipped into the bedroom. Chelsey was still asleep, her breathing soft and steady, one arm curled under her head. Jack lifted his head. The dog’s ears perked as Thomas approached. Jack padded across the mattress and licked Thomas’s face.

“Hey, boy,” Thomas whispered, scratching behind Jack’s ears. “No monsters. Go back to sleep.”

Jack seemed to consider this command, then circled back to his spot and flopped down with a huff.

Thomas opened the drawer of his nightstand and removed the gun. He held it for a moment, feeling its weight, his thumb brushing over the cold metal. He never left it loaded. It wasn’t safe.

But tonight…

His attention landed on the safe in the open closet, where he kept the ammunition. Just this one time.

No. He slid the gun back into its place and curled on his side, facing the bedroom door. If anything came through, he wanted to see the danger before it saw him.

Jack’s legs ran. The dog was already asleep and chasing rabbits.

Thomas stared at the ceiling and wished he could turn off his thoughts as quickly as Jack did.

Hollow John was nothing more than a legend. The mythical killer was a convenient excuse for people who refused to face their problems.

Sleep didn’t come that night. Only the slow creep of dawn told Thomas morning had arrived.

And with it came a pale, bloodless light that looked too much like that faceless thing from the hallway.

27

April mornings in Wolf Lake could fool you. They began frosty and harsh yet ended with a preview of summer. These days were impossible to dress for. Whatever you wore, you regretted the decision.

With the engine of his silver Ford F-150 running and the defroster cranked, Thomas scraped a thin layer of ice from the windshield and bounced on his toes, wishing Chelsey would hurry. She usually didn’t work on Saturdays, but with the Randy Mercer investigation becoming more interesting, she planned to meet Raven and Scout at eight o’clock.

With her black leather jacket unzipped, Chelsey exited the A-frame and locked the door with Jack by her side. Her hair was still wet from the shower. One hand held Tigger, who sulked inside his crate.

“You cleared my windshield?” she asked, twirling the key ring around her finger.

“I did.”

She pressed her lips against his. “I love you.”

“For scraping off the ice?”

“For everything, Thomas Shepherd.”

“Well, I love you too. Now let’s go before we freeze out here.”

He followed her Honda Civic in his pickup, yawning every few seconds. A thermos of coffee rested in the cupholder, now empty. He’d already consumed a large cup this morning. Aguilar, who always encouraged him to skip the caffeine rush and choose green tea, would be furious if she saw.

In the village center, Chelsey’s car turned into the parking lot of Wolf Lake Consulting. Thomas pulled in beside her, killed the engine, and grabbed his hat from the passenger seat. Chelsey adjusted the bag over her shoulder.

“You didn’t have to follow me, you know,” she said.

“I didn’t want you driving alone,” Thomas replied simply.

“You need to stop worrying so much. The 315 Royals aren’t likely to lay siege to a private investigation firm.”

“It pays to be safe.”

Jack woofed in agreement.

Inside, Scout sat at a desk in the corner. The teenager had the weekend off, which meant she could work on the company’s website and help the investigators. Chelsey and Raven paid Scout well. Not that the girl needed it. She would have come here, regardless.

At a neighboring desk, Raven flipped through a case file with one hand while holding a coffee mug in the other.

“Morning,” Raven said without looking up. “Y’all look chipper.”

“I’m always chipper,” Chelsey said, heading toward the small kitchen. “Let me get breakfast going. You want eggs?”

“You’re cooking for us?”

“Why not? You didn’t eat, did you?”

“You know me too well,” said Raven.

“Then place your order before the kitchen closes.”

“Scrambled, please.”

Thomas glanced at Scout, who waved and turned her attention to a set of papers strewn across the desk. “What are you working on, Scout?”

“While the website updates, I’m starting my Kane Grove housing application. I want to submit the papers before all the dorms fill up.”

“Smart. I remember those days.”

He considered telling Scout about his days at SUNY Cortland, but she looked too immersed in the application.

Thomas followed Chelsey into the kitchen, where she removed a carton of eggs and a block of cheddar cheese from the refrigerator.

She glanced over her shoulder as Thomas reached for the coffee pot. “Thomas,” she said in that tone, the one she used when he was pushing his luck. “You’ve already had two cups this morning. Don’t overdo it.”

He poured himself a mug anyway, the dark liquid steaming as he lifted it to his lips. “I need to stay alert.”

“You need to not give yourself a heart attack.” She cracked a half-dozen eggs into a bowl. “Caffeine’s not a substitute for sleep, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, unwilling to tell her about his hallucination in the hallway the previous night.

But maybe she should know about the van.

What would he say? That a slow-moving vehicle crawled past and never returned?

“If you drink another cup, I’m telling Aguilar.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes, I would.”

“But this is liquid gold.”

Chelsey groaned, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Motivated,” he corrected, leaning against the counter as the warmth of the coffee spread through him. Even now, he felt his senses awakening. “There’s a difference.”

She tsked but didn’t argue, her attention shifting back to the skillet. “Fine, but don’t blame me if your heart starts racing.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

She was right to worry, but he needed his energy. Today, he would catch Tariq Morello and figure out who was behind the narcotics trade in Hartford Springs.

Raven set the table with mismatched plates and mugs. Scout had finally pulled herself away from her desk, drawn in by the aroma, and perched at the edge of a chair, watching the food with hungry anticipation.

Thomas set his coffee on the table and sat across from Scout. Jack padded over to the table, his tail wagging as he stationed himself optimistically near Chelsey, who pointed at him with a spatula.

“Don’t even think about it, Jack,” she said.

The dog slumped to the floor with a dramatic growl, earning a laugh from Scout.

“All right,” Chelsey said, sliding the skillet onto a trivet in the center of the table. “Eggs, toast, and coffee. Except for you, Thomas. You’re already on your third cup. Eat up, everyone. We’ve got a lot to tackle today.”

“Ladies first,” Thomas said.

“Bless you,” Raven said, grabbing a serving.

“What? You’re not going to accost me for being chivalrous?”

“Thomas, I appreciate chivalry. What I don’t like is someone claiming a boat has estrogen.”

Scout choked on her food and coughed into her hand, laughing.

As their plates filled and the initial clatter subsided, Thomas said, “Let’s talk about our cases.”

“We’re still chasing Randy Mercer’s money,” Raven said. “If Paul Whitaker was right about Mercer using shell companies to stash assets, we’ll need to search for business filings, incorporation dates, and stuff like that. Problem is, some of those records aren’t public.”

Chelsey buttered a slice of toast. “We’ll have to get creative. I suggest we cross-reference names, dates, and property records.”

“If we can link those shell companies to a specific person or firm, we can figure out who Mercer was working with…or running from. What about you, Thomas? Any updates on the 315 Royals?”

“Tariq Morello is on the run,” Thomas said, “but I don’t think he’s the top dog.”

Jack lifted his head.

“Then who is?”

“Someone else is pulling the strings. If I could convince the locals to work with the state and county, we might actually catch the bad guys.” He winked at Raven. “I notice that you never complain when I only refer to criminals as males.”

“What is it with you this morning?”

“He was up all night,” Chelsey said, patting Thomas’s arm. “Future hubby gets grumpy when he doesn’t get his beauty sleep.”

“Good thing you learned this before the wedding.”

Thomas reached into his pocket for his wallet. His fingers brushed the hard edge of the SIM card. Darn it. He’d forgotten the card was still in his pocket. He held it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Scout,” he said, catching her attention as she polished off her eggs. “I need you to do a favor for me.”

“Sure. What is it?” Scout asked.

“This.” Thomas held the card out to her. “It’s from Aguilar’s camera. These are the photos we took during the stakeout in Hartford Springs. Can you copy the files to your computer and keep the card safe until I return from work?”

“No problem. What do you want me to do with the card after I make copies?”

“Have Chelsey lock it in the safe,” Thomas said. “I’ll grab it later. If anything happens to the original, I’ll know where to find the copies.”

A bell rang over the entrance.

“Company?” Chelsey asked.

“That would be Aguilar and LeVar,” said Thomas.

Aguilar rounded the corner with LeVar behind her. Both wore their uniforms. Before Thomas could hide his coffee, Aguilar spotted the mug.

“Really, Thomas?” Aguilar said, tutting as she slipped off her jacket. “Pounding coffee after everything I’ve taught you? Tea is healthier and gives you fewer jitters, and it’s better for your heart.”

“Told him the same thing earlier,” Chelsey said. “But you know Thomas.”

Thomas grunted, taking another sip of his coffee as if to spite them. “I love me some green tea, but I didn’t sleep last night.”

Aguilar set her hands on her hips. “Probably because you drank too much coffee yesterday. It’s a vicious circle.”

“So you always tell me.”

LeVar chuckled, grabbing a piece of toast from the platter. “Better make sure you’ve got extra adrenaline shots in the cruiser, just in case.”

“Are you three done? Or should I schedule a wellness lecture at the sheriff’s department?” Thomas placed the mug in the sink.

“As long as you’re upright and functional, I’ll let it go,” Aguilar said. “This time.”

Chelsey rinsed a plate in the sink. “Good luck, Aguilar. He’s impossible to reform.”

“I accept that challenge.”

As the kitchen cleared, LeVar waited while Chelsey cleaned up the last of the breakfast dishes. Raven sat at the table, scrolling through notes on her tablet.

“Hey, before we head out, can you give me a quick rundown on the Mercer investigation?” LeVar asked. “I know I’m on deputy duty for now, but maybe I can help. What do you have so far?”

“Here is what we know,” Chelsey said. “Randy Mercer was using options trading to grow his money. Before he disappeared, we believe he moved his assets into a series of shell companies. That’s the theory, anyway. If he was careful, he funneled the money through intermediary accounts.”

“You think someone helped him hide his money?”

“That’s a good question. Mercer didn’t trust people, and if he believed someone wanted to take him out, he might have kept his account activity on the down low. Either way, we’re having a heck of a time tracing the money.”

“Okay, so you’ve got shell businesses, fast cash, and missing assets. Have you found any companies that fit the bill?”

“Not yet,” said Chelsey. “Most of the registration data we’ve found doesn’t match the criteria we’re searching for. They’re just empty shells, nothing operational.”

“I’d bet there’s at least one invoice or transaction trail that you can tie back to his homebuilding or his trading wins. Just saying, shell companies don’t look so shell-y if they’re buying office supplies or paying a consulting firm. Start small, and you might find a crack in the armor.”

“We’ll keep it in mind, LeVar.”

“Good,” LeVar said, standing upright and adjusting his jacket. “Let me know if you find anything. I can’t sit in on the case right now, but I’ll keep my ears open. Just in case.”

“Thanks, LeVar,” Chelsey said, her voice warm. “Be careful in Hartford Springs.”

“I will.”

Thomas grabbed his hat from the back of the chair. He wished he could convince LeVar to work with Wolf Lake Consulting through the weekend and stay away from the 315 Royals. Chelsey and Raven would be happy to have him. But a dead gang had risen from the grave, and it was time to plunge a stake through its heart.”

“Speaking of challenges,” Thomas said. “Hartford Springs is waking up.”

Aguilar and LeVar nodded, the banter ceasing as everyone shifted into work mode.

“Stay safe,” Chelsey said, kissing Thomas again.

“I’ll be back.”

She placed a hand under Thomas’s chin and lifted his head.

“You had better.”

28

Five miles outside of Hartford Springs, Thomas filled the cruiser’s gas tank at a station along the highway. The frost had melted, and the spring warmth made him wish he’d worn a lighter jacket.

Climbing into the vehicle, he turned the key in the ignition.

“We’ll hit the usual spots,” Thomas said, looking at Aguilar and meeting LeVar’s eyes in the mirror. “The Royals will lie low today, but they left breadcrumbs. Tariq Morello is too careful to expose himself, but his runners might not be as disciplined.”

Aguilar tapped a notebook against her knee. “We’ll need plainclothes surveillance. The uniform presence yesterday spooked them. They know we’re watching.”

“Morello is probably already vetting everyone he works with,” LeVar said. “But too heavy a hand can cause an unintended effect. Runners who feel the pressure get more nervous and can slip. We just have to be there when it happens.”

Thomas pulled onto the road. “That’s smart, LeVar. We’ll divide the surveillance once we get there. Let’s—”

His phone rang in the cupholder, cutting him off. The Bluetooth connected, and the caller’s name appeared on the console.

“Larsen,” Thomas said. “I wonder what he wants.”

“It had better not to be to harass you about Noah Vale,” Aguilar said.

Thomas answered. “Sheriff Shepherd here.”

“Sheriff,” Larsen said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of reluctance. “Got some news for you about the teen you brought us.”

“Tariq Morello’s runner?”

“Yeah. Nathan Drake,” Larsen said. “Seventeen. Kid’s been skating on the edge for years. I’m referring to minor stuff—shoplifting, trespassing, joyriding—mostly when he was younger. Last year, he got picked up for possession of marijuana, but nothing serious enough to stick him in juvenile detention. Not until now.”

“He’s not a stranger to trouble, but this is his first real dive into gang activity.”

“Seems that way. He’s not a hardened case. But Drake isn’t as green as he looks. He knows when to keep his mouth shut. That’s why it surprised me when he said he wanted to talk.”

Thomas jerked the wheel. “He’s ready to speak to the police?”

“Not to us. Only you.”

“Why me?”

“Beats me,” Larsen said. “The second we tried pressing him, he clammed up. But when I asked if he was ready to tell us anything, he said—and I quote—‘I’ll tell Sheriff Shepherd.’”

Aguilar looked across the seat at Thomas. “Did he say why?”

“Nope. But the kid’s jittery. Skittish like a deer with a wolf at its heels. He knows something, and it’s eating him alive. If I were you, I’d get here before he changes his mind.”

“We’ll be there,” Thomas said. “Make sure no one else pushes him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Larsen said. “Just don’t waste time. If this kid shuts down, it’s on you.”

The call ended with a click.

“So a local kid, scared out of his wits, asks to speak to you. That’s not suspicious at all,” Aguilar said, giving them a wink. “Does he think Morello can get to him while he’s in jail?”

“If he’s frightened enough, he might.”

“Or he thinks Hollow John will finish the job,” LeVar said.

“This again?” Aguilar asked. “There is no Hollow John.”

“If Nathan Drake believes, that’s all that matters.”

A few minutes later, Thomas led his deputies through the Hartford Springs PD parking lot. He searched for the state trooper cruisers. Trooper Russo wasn’t here. Which meant he would have to face the officers alone.

He pulled his hat low against the light. Aguilar and LeVar didn’t speak.

Inside, officers clustered in small groups, their conversations halting when Thomas walked by. He didn’t miss the pointed stares or the whispering that followed.

Barone was near the coffee machine, leaning against the counter. He wasn’t subtle. The officer’s eyes narrowed as he murmured something to a younger officer beside him. Whatever it was, it drew a chuckle from his companion.

Larsen approached, his posture as stiff as his tone. “Sheriff, the kid is ready, but you’re the only one going in. Aguilar, Hopkins, you’ll stay with us.”

“Where is Drake?”

Larsen jerked his thumb toward the back. “Interrogation room two. Follow me.”

The hallway seemed longer than Thomas remembered. Larsen stopped outside the door. “The kid hasn’t told us anything since he got here,” Larsen said. “It seems he’s waiting for you.”

“Let’s hope he hasn’t changed his mind.”

Opening the door, Larsen gestured for Thomas to enter. The interrogation room was cold and bare, the walls painted a drab gray. A metal table sat in the center, flanked by two uncomfortable-looking chairs. The door closed behind Thomas with a metallic click.

For a long time, he sat alone, listening to the clock tick. The sounds of the station became distant. He checked the time. Ten minutes had passed. Fifteen.

Thomas removed his phone and prepared a text for LeVar and Aguilar. Had everyone forgotten he was here? Or was Larsen playing mind games?

The door opened, snapping Thomas out of his thoughts. Barone stepped inside, leading Nathan Drake, who hesitated at the threshold like someone being dragged toward his doom.

“Your special guest,” Barone said. He shot Thomas a hateful look before stepping out and shutting the door behind him.

Nathan sat in the chair opposite Thomas, his cuffed hands fidgeting in his lap. His eyes darted around the room, never settling, as though he feared they weren’t alone.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Thomas asked.

Nathan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re the only one I’ll talk to.”

“That’s why I’m here. But why me?”

“Because you were there. You know.”

“Where?”

“You saw the mural,” Nathan said.

Thomas studied Nathan carefully, noting the tension in the boy’s shoulders. The mural again. Whatever it represented to Nathan, it was more than just a symbol.

“All right,” Thomas said. “Let’s start at the beginning. You were at the basketball court yesterday. Tell me what you were doing there.”

“I wasn’t doing anything besides passing through and stopping to play ball.”

“Passing through. You expect me to believe that? We saw Tariq hand you a bag of narcotics.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“No, you don’t,” Thomas said. “But you asked to talk to me. So let’s talk. If you fear Tariq Morello and the Royals, I can help. Give me something to work with.”

Nathan stiffened at the name. “I’m not scared of Tariq Morello.”

“No? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re protecting him.”

“I’m not protecting him.” Nathan glanced nervously at the door, then lowered his voice. “I’m telling you, Morello isn’t the one you should be worried about. He’s nothing.”

“Who is calling the shots?”

The quiet stretched between them like a live wire.

“You don’t get it,” Nathan said. “The Royals aren’t in charge. Someone else is.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Nathan,” said Thomas. “You took the handoff. If you want me to believe you’re not as guilty as Morello, tell me who’s giving the orders.”

Trying to seem smaller, Nathan hunched his shoulders. “No. He’ll kill me.”

“Nobody can kill you in here.”

“He can.”

“Who is this person?”

“The face in the mural,” Nathan said. “It’s him.”

“Are you trying to convince me that a ghost is pushing drugs in Hartford Springs and using the Royals?”

“He’s no ghost.”

“You’ve seen this man?” Thomas asked.

“Nobody meets Hollow John. Not really. You don’t find him; he finds you.”

Thomas kept his expression neutral. This was insanity. “So you’ve never seen him? Yet you’re sure he’s the one calling the shots?”

“Nobody wants to meet him. He knows everything, and he’s always watching. If you screw up, you’re just gone. No one ever finds you again.”

“And yet, here you are, talking to me about this Hollow John. Either you know something, or you’re just wasting my time. Which is it?”

“You don’t believe in him,” said Nathan. “I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.”

“You’ve told me enough to make me curious. Give me a name. I’ll arrest this guy.”

“You don’t get it. He’ll find out I talked, and that will be it for me.”

“What do you think will happen when Hollow John finds out about this conversation?” Thomas asked.

“I’ll go to sleep…and I won’t wake up.”

“Nathan, you’re too old to believe in myths.”

“Get me out of here.”

“How? You’re in police custody. Don’t worry. No one can touch you here.”

“Hollow John doesn’t care about walls or cops. He gets to people. Always. Please, Sheriff, you have to move me. Anywhere but Hartford Springs.”

The sheriff hesitated, weighing his options. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that Nathan was in danger. But the logistics of moving a prisoner weren’t simple.

“I can’t move you, Nathan,” Thomas said carefully. “You’re a prisoner.”

“Put me in a different jail, a safe house. I don’t care. Please.”

Thomas exhaled. He wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep, especially after he’d failed Noah Vale. But if Nathan possessed valuable information, keeping the teen alive was crucial.

“Listen, I can’t make guarantees, but I’ll talk to the chief. You’re alone in your cell, right?”

“You think it matters?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I have the cell to myself,” Nathan said.

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Sit tight. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Nathan didn’t answer.

A knock on the door pulled the teen’s head around. Barone had returned to bring Nathan to his holding cell.

“Conversation time is over,” Barone said. “I hope to hell this kid gave you something important.”

Thomas didn’t reply. According to Nathan, a monster was pushing drugs in Hartford Springs.

29

As the lunch hour approached, Chelsey called up a spreadsheet. The names of potential shell companies scrolled past her eyes, but she hadn’t found one that clicked.

Naomi entered with a shopping bag dangling from her hand.

“Looks like someone scored a bargain,” Raven said from her desk.

“Please, it’s just a spring jacket,” said Naomi.

Scout hugged her mother and took a seat. “I didn’t think you were coming until later.”

“Chelsey messaged me about hitting the road, and we don’t want you alone in the office.”

“Still? I’m practically a college student.”

“You’re sixteen, and I’m allowed to mother you.”

“We won’t be gone long,” Chelsey said. “You guys can go through these spreadsheets while Raven and I are on the road.”

Naomi elbowed her daughter. “Ready to conquer the world and catch some criminals?”

Scout grinned. “I suppose.”

“Good,” Naomi said, pulling out her own laptop and setting it on the table.

“I feel better knowing you’re keeping an eye on Scout,” Chelsey said.

“Any excuse to hang out with my daughter is a good one. How is the hunt for Mercer’s money going?”

Chelsey made a pained noise. “Slow. I’m combing through potential shell companies, but it’s next to impossible to catch someone who doesn’t want anyone to find him.”

“What did Branson Wealth Management say?”

“They gave us the rundown on Mercer’s accounts,” said Raven. “He was into options trading. High risk, high reward. He made a fortune.”

“Shepherd Systems wouldn’t touch those strategies. We prefer stability over flash.”

Scout glanced up, intrigued. “What strategies do you use?”

“Nothing fancy,” Naomi said. “Index funds, blue-chip stocks, laddered bonds. Instruments that grow steadily over time without taking a ton of risk. It’s not glamorous, but it’s reliable.”

“Okay, Randy Mercer won his share of trades,” Naomi said. “Where did he put the money?”

“If only we knew,” Chelsey said. “One of the first things I did when we started looking into shell companies was check for records tied to public agencies.”

“Through the Freedom of Information Act?”

“You bet. FOIA can be a goldmine for tracking companies if they’ve had any dealings with government contracts, tax filings, or legal investigations. Sometimes, they bid on public contracts to make their operations look legitimate, and those records leave a trail.”

“How did you get the ball rolling?”

“It’s a bit of a process. First, I submitted FOIA requests to agencies that would have been active in Nightshade County ten years ago, such as state-level offices, municipal agencies, and county procurement divisions. I also filed requests with the IRS to check if any companies incorporated during that time had suspicious tax filings.”

“And did you find anything?” Scout asked.

“Not much. I combed through vendor lists, contract bids, and records from public works projects. None of the companies we’ve identified show up in those databases.”

Naomi frowned. “That’s disappointing. It might be worth checking private-sector filings. Some industries require licensing or permits for dormant companies. Construction, real estate, finance.”

“Mercer did real estate construction.”

“There you go.”

“Can you access FOIA private-sector records?” asked Scout.

“Not exactly,” Raven said. “FOIA only applies to public agencies. For private companies, we’d need to rely on databases, permits, or insider knowledge. It’s a lot trickier.”

Chelsey closed the spreadsheet. “And a lot slower.”

“Melany Mercer needs to find out what happened to her husband,” Scout said. “What path are you taking next?”

“We’ll start by examining corporate filings. Public records and business registries will give us the basics. Chelsey and I are looking for names of registered agents, directors, and officers of companies started around the time Randy disappeared. They’re not always the real owners, but it’s a start.”

“We can pull those from the Secretary of State filings for Nightshade County and neighboring areas,” said Chelsey.

Naomi said, “Cross-referencing those names with people Mercer knew could reveal connections. Even if they used someone as a proxy to hide their identity, it might lead us to an associate or a suspect.”

“That’s the idea,” Raven said, pointing at Chelsey’s notes. “It’s like tugging a loose thread. If we yank hard enough, the mystery might unravel.”

“There must be tons of corporations registered in the area.”

“We’ll narrow it down,” Chelsey said. “I want to concentrate on companies incorporated around the time Mercer started moving his money. And we’ll cross-check with the industries Mercer was involved in, like real estate and construction.”

“I hope you find out what happened to him.”

Chelsey glanced at the clock. “It’s almost eleven. The records office closes at noon on Saturdays. Raven, we need to get moving if we’re going to learn anything useful today.”

Raven grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. “Scout, keep digging on your end. Anything you find in those filings, send it to my email. Naomi, can you keep her focused? You know how she gets when she finds something interesting.”

“Hey!” Scout protested, looking up from her laptop with mock indignation.

Naomi laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep her on task.”

“We’ll call if we’re running late.”

Outside, Chelsey climbed into the driver’s seat of her Civic. Raven unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it on the backseat.

“This Randy Mercer disappearance is giving me a weird vibe,” said Chelsey.

“Weird vibes, eh?”

“We’ve been treating this like a murder or kidnapping case. Randy Mercer made an enemy, hid his money, and then someone caught up to him. But what if it’s not that simple?”

“You’re suggesting there’s more to the story?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a gut feeling. Everything Randy did was aimed at raising as much cash as possible in a short period.”

“To what end?”

“That’s the part I can’t figure out,” Chelsey admitted. “What if he was trying to cover up bad deals, illegal investments, or even some kind of double-cross?”

“That means he disappeared on his own. But why would he abandon his family?”

“To protect them? Heck if I know.”

The records office appeared ahead at the edge of the village. The building was squat and gray and sat between a bank and a coffee shop.

Chelsey pulled into a parking spot, killing the engine.

The records office used strip lighting that made Chelsey’s head pound. Rows of file cabinets lined the walls. A man in his late fifties waited behind the front counter, his shirt neatly pressed and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. His nameplate read Edward Kessler, Clerk.

“Can I help you?” Kessler asked, glancing up from a pile of forms with a polite, if slightly distracted, smile.

Chelsey displayed her ID. “We’re looking for corporate filings from about ten years ago for companies incorporated in Nightshade County that might have ties to real estate or construction.”

“That’s a tall order. Anything specific you’re hoping to find?”

“Unusual patterns,” Raven said. “Companies that might have dissolved quickly, or whose filings don’t align with typical business operations.”

Kessler retrieved a binder from under the counter. “This will get you started, but you’ll have better luck with the digital archives,” he said, gesturing at the computer terminals. “The older records are in our database, but some of them might still be in hard copy. I can pull those for you if needed. Keep in mind, we close in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks,” Chelsey said.

Raven took the terminal beside Chelsey. A stark and simple database search engine looked back at them. Chelsey entered the parameters: companies incorporated between twelve and ten years ago, listed in Nightshade County, tied to real estate or construction.

The results populated. Chelsey scanned names, dates, and registered agents.

“Doesn’t look promising,” Raven said.

“Plenty of noise. Most of these appear legit. Small firms and family businesses. Nothing stands out.”

The clock on the wall ticked closer to noon. Chelsey narrowed her search, looking for companies that dissolved within a few months of incorporation. “Got something. Harmony Ridge Development LLC. Incorporated ten years ago and dissolved after eight weeks. The registered agent is James Cotter.”

“Check the associated filings.”

Chelsey opened the record and scrolled through a scanned PDF of incorporation documents. “This says they were supposed to be a construction firm, but they never completed a single project. No known employees, no listed office address except for a PO box.”

“That’s suspicious,” Raven said. “But is this Mercer in disguise?”

“Nothing here ties the company to him. Cotter signed all the documents, and there’s no mention of Mercer or any of his associates.”

“Let’s check Cotter. He might show up in other filings.”

Chelsey typed the name into the database and pulled up a list of results. Several other companies appeared, all with similar patterns. They incorporated, dissolved quickly, and had no operations.

“This guy is definitely running shells, but some of Cotter’s filings go back over twenty years, way before Mercer’s disappearance.”

“So it’s a dead end.”

Kessler cleared his throat.

“We’re down to thirteen minutes,” Chelsey said. “Go back to the original list. There has to be someone we missed.”

Raven’s fingers paused mid-scroll, her eyes narrowing at an entry that caught her attention. “Chelsey, take a look at this.”

Chelsey leaned over, glancing at the screen. The company name stood out in bold lettering.

Silverleaf Holdings LLC. Incorporated ten years ago, dissolved nine years ago.

“That’s interesting.”

By clicking the record, Raven opened a detailed summary. “A little over a million dollars was funneled into this company shortly after its incorporation. Then, poof. The money left within a year, and the company dissolved.”

“Did the money go to any known accounts? Transfers?”

“Not that I can see. But check this out. The dissolution paperwork was filed by the registered agent. That could lead us somewhere.”

Chelsey pointed at the screen. “Check the registered agent’s name. It must be in the filings.”

Raven navigated to the dissolution documents, pulling up the scanned PDF. She skimmed the page before stopping at the signature line. “Here we go. The agent was William Edgar.”

“William Edgar,” Chelsey repeated, jotting the name on a pad. “Not a name I recognize. Let’s see if he shows up in other filings.”

A search in the database for any companies tied to Edgar yielded nothing.

“Silverleaf Holdings is worth investigating,” Chelsey said. “Why funnel that much money into a company and then dissolve it a year later?”

“Check the address on the dissolution document. Sometimes these registered agents use their personal addresses, especially if they’re small-time.”

“Here it is. 414 Harborview Road.”

“That’s in Millport,” Chelsey said. “We can pull the property records and see if Edgar still owns it. If it’s a fake address, that’s telling too.”

“Good thinking,” Raven said.

“I’m very sorry,” Kessler said. “It’s time to close the office.”

“No problem. We were just leaving.”

30

Chief Milham sat behind his desk, a weary expression creasing his face. Larsen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes hard and unyielding, while Barone stood near the door, his posture stiff and disdainful.

Thomas felt them all staring.

“The kid is back in his cell,” Barone told Thomas. “What’d you get out of him?”

The sheriff resisted the urge to argue. He closed the door and removed his hat, setting it on the edge of his chair. “Let’s talk about that.”

“You’re not going to tell us you wasted twenty minutes and got nothing, are you?” asked Larsen.

Milham began rubbing his temples. The chief looked as though he was barely holding it together.

“Did the little hood give you a sob story?” Barone asked.

“Nathan Drake is scared out of his mind.”

“What does that even mean? Did he tell you who’s running the show? Or is he just whining about Tariq Morello?”

“Drake claims Morello isn’t the one in charge.”

Larsen tossed up his hands. “Who is?”

“Hollow John.”

Barone let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Hollow John? Are you kidding me? We’ve got criminals on our hands, and you’re chasing a campfire story?”

“Enough, Barone,” Milham said, though he lacked conviction. “Sheriff, you have to give us more. My officers need something tangible to act on.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, Sheriff. The kid is playing you, and you’re falling for it. I’m not surprised.”

Thomas didn’t react, though the jab hit harder than he let on. “Chief, you’ve got a problem in Hartford Springs. I’ve been telling you since I got here. Your department missed the signs of gang activity and drug trafficking for months. Hollow John might be a myth, but someone is using that name to control your streets. And they’re doing it right under your noses.”

“With all due respect, Sheriff, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Larsen said. “We patrol those streets. If there was gang activity, we’d have seen it. This all started when you came to town.”

“Are you blaming me, Officer Larsen? Every time I bring evidence to this department, I get pushback. You’re too busy pointing fingers to see what’s happening. Nathan Drake didn’t create this mess, and neither did I. But someone did, and it’s on all of us to clean it up.”

Barone sneered. “Don’t lump us in with you, Sheriff. Hartford Springs was a quiet town until you rolled through.”

“Barone, shut up,” Milham snapped.

Thomas studied the chief for a moment. Milham wasn’t in control of his officers. That much was clear. The station felt like a collection of fractured egos held together by a crumbling hierarchy. It was no wonder they hadn’t spotted the drug problem or the gangs creeping into Hartford Springs.

He stood. “I’ll handle the investigation with the troopers. If your officers can’t work as a team, there’s no point in having them in the field.”

Milham didn’t respond, his face a mask of weariness and defeat. Barone opened his mouth as if to retort, but a sharp glance from the chief silenced him.

“Oh, no,” Larsen finally said. “You aren’t locking us out. This is our town. You have no right.”

“It’s my county,” Thomas said.

“We already witnessed how you botched Officer Vale’s assessment. The last thing this town needs is you in charge.”

The chief slammed his palms on the desk. “Enough! All of you.” Milham took a breath to compose himself. “The sheriff’s department and the New York State Troopers will run point on the investigation.”

“That’s not—”

“Keep your mouth closed, Officer Larsen. Sheriff, my officers will handle the patrols. Your teams will direct the operation and learn everything about what’s going on inside Hartford Springs. Any evidence you find, you will share with us.”

“That’s agreeable,” said Thomas.

“He’d better share that information,” Barrone said. “This is our town. We make the arrest.”

Seeing no point in furthering the debate, Thomas said goodbye to Milham and ignored the other two on his way out the door. He found Aguilar and LeVar waiting in the station lobby, both standing off to the side to avoid the officers milling about. Aguilar pushed off the wall the moment he stepped out of Chief Milham’s office.

“More problems?” Aguilar asked as Thomas approached.

“More than you would believe,” Thomas said, adjusting his belt. “Barone thinks I’m chasing fairy tales. Larsen wants to fight me over Officer Vale’s death, and Milham can’t control his own officers.”

“What else is new?”

“This department is dysfunctional. It’s no wonder they missed the Royals and the drug activity. They’re too busy worrying about fighting border wars to see what’s happening in their town.”

“The day is young,” LeVar said. “Where to?”

Thomas pulled out his phone and scrolled to Trooper Russo’s number. “Now we act. Russo and her partner are staking out the west side of town. We’ll bring them in.”

He hit the call button, and after a few rings, Russo’s voice came through. “Sheriff Shepherd, I was just about to check in with you.”

“Trooper,” Thomas said, stepping toward the doors to find a quieter space. “I need you and your partner to meet us two blocks east of the basketball court. There’s an alley off 14th Street. You’ll see my cruiser.”

“What’s the plan?”

Thomas glanced back at Aguilar and LeVar. “We’re going after Hollow John.”

A long pause ensued. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Thomas said. “And I don’t care who is hiding behind Hollow John’s name. We’re shutting them down.”

“All right. We’ll be there in fifteen.”

31

The squad cars parked along the curb two blocks east of the basketball court, their lights off to avoid drawing attention. Thomas stood by his cruiser with Aguilar and LeVar and waited. Trooper Russo and her partner, a stocky man named Burns, climbed out of their vehicle.

Russo placed her hands on her hips. “This is the big plan, Sheriff? Strolling into one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Hartford Springs, hoping someone spills their guts about Hollow John?”

“If you have a better idea, I’m listening,” Thomas said.

Burns surveyed the streets as if he expected trouble.

“Nobody will talk to us. Not to you, not to me, not to anyone in uniform. They’ll shut their doors, pull their blinds, and act like we don’t exist. That’s if we’re lucky. Do you know how many guns are in that neighborhood?”

“These people are living in terror. Once we unveil Hollow John and prove he’s only a man, they’ll see.”

“We can’t solve this from a distance,” said LeVar. “If nobody is talking, it’s because they believe the streets belong to Hollow John and the Royals. Cut off the monster’s head, and the body will follow.”

“You have a flair for the dramatic, Deputy Hopkins,” Russo said. She turned to Thomas. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The five of them moved together, the neighborhood lurking ahead like a beast waiting to swallow them.

Two apartment towers came into view, their gray concrete facades streaked with grime and soot, as if the buildings had been crying for years. The windows stared down like hollow eyes. An alley between the towers yawned with a black throat. Here, the sunlight didn’t exist. Everything stank of mildew and garbage.

A playground stood across the street. Rusted swings creaked in the wind, and the slide held jagged edges where the metal had warped and split. Graffiti scrawled across the walls depicted cryptic symbols and phrases, including the unmistakable silhouette they’d seen before in the mural—a grotesque, skeletal face.

Debris littered the ground. Thomas stepped over shattered bottles, cigarette butts, and scraps of clothing, worried his boot would land on a needle. A thud from an apartment made LeVar twitchy enough to rest his hand on his service weapon. Somewhere, a child cried.

Thomas stopped in the middle of the cracked sidewalk. Someone was watching them. He turned to Russo.

“We go in tight,” he said. “Nobody strays, and everyone watches each other’s back. Aguilar, you take point with me. LeVar, stay to our six. Russo, you and Burns flank us and monitor the upper windows.”

Russo nodded, her gaze flicking to the darkened glass above. “If there’s anyone up there, they’ll see us coming a mile away.”

“Doesn’t matter. They already know we’re here.”

Aguilar tapped the body camera clipped to her chest. “Cameras rolling?”

“Rolling,” Russo confirmed, double-checking hers.

“Good. Let’s move,” Thomas said.

They fell into formation and moved into the mouth of the alley. Shadows pressed in. Across the street, the wind kicked the creaking swings into motion. It made Thomas imagine Officer Noah Vale hanging in his apartment.

A few figures lingered in the doorways, their faces obscured by hoodies. They watched without speaking as the group passed.

Russo muttered under her breath, “I told you. This place is a war zone. No one will talk.”

A crumbled sidewalk led to the east tower. Thomas’s eyes landed on another mural of Hollow John. A half-naked woman cowered at the monster’s feet.

Thomas surveyed a row of windows moving across the first tower. To reach the residents, he would have to lead the team up a stairwell. A bullet hole marred the door.

The stairwell was narrow and dark. A light flashed on and off at the top of the next landing. Damp and musty air made him want to gag. The stairwell carried the faint smells of mildew and burned plastic. Each step echoed, a hollow sound that seemed to stretch endlessly upward.

Thomas took the lead. Aguilar was close behind. LeVar took up the rear, his eyes darting between the shadows above and the hallway they’d just left. Russo and Burns flanked the group.

“Watch your footing,” Thomas said.

The steps were slick with some kind of residue, and the rusted railing wobbled under his grip.

“Not sure this place is structurally sound,” LeVar said.

Aguilar glanced back at him, her flashlight sweeping over a section of the wall where the concrete had buckled. “Yeah, no kidding. I’m surprised it hasn’t been condemned.”

As they ascended, the sounds of the neighborhood faded. They were halfway up when a loud crack made Thomas step backward.

“Stop!” Thomas yelled.

Above them, the ceiling groaned, followed by a rumble. Pieces of plaster and dust rained down, and then a section of concrete broke free and crashed at their feet.

“That could have been our heads,” Aguilar said.

“Move!” Russo shouted, grabbing Burns and yanking him back against the wall as another slab came down.

Thomas lunged to the side, pulling Aguilar with him. The chunk of ceiling smashed into the stairs where they’d been standing, sending shards of concrete skittering down the steps. LeVar pressed himself flat against the wall.

Thomas turned. “Is everyone okay?”

“Unharmed,” Aguilar said, brushing dust off her shoulder.

Russo and Burns nodded, though Burns appeared ready to turn back.

“This building is a deathtrap,” Russo said. “You still think it’s worth the risk, Sheriff?”

“I want to find out who’s running narcotics in Hartford Springs,” Thomas said.

Squeezing around the debris, he gestured for Aguilar to move forward, and the team continued upward. They reached the next floor, the hallway stretching out in despair. The walls were yellowed with grime, and water stains bled down from the ceiling. The hallway stank of cigarette smoke and spoiled food.

Thomas led the group to the nearest door, its paint chipped and peeling. He knocked.

“Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

A shuffling sound came from behind the door. The lock clicked. A pair of wary eyes peered through the gap.

“What do you want?” a man asked.

Thomas held up his badge. “We’re investigating the drug activity in this area. I’d like to know what you’ve seen.”

The door inched open, revealing a hunched man in a Rolling Stones T-shirt. His hair was unkempt, his face deeply lined.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble. But we know this neighborhood has been dealing with gang activity and drugs. The runners come past the towers. If you’ve seen anything, or if anyone threatened you, I can help.”

“You don’t get it. Nobody here talks. It’s not safe.”

“If nobody talks, things will never change,” Aguilar said. “Don’t you want to make the neighborhood safe?”

“You can’t change anything. Not here. Not with them.”

“Who’s ‘them’?” Thomas asked.

“You should leave. Before he learns you’re here.”

Before Thomas could respond, the man shut the door. The click of the lock came next.

“I’m not surprised,” Russo said. “No one here wants our help.”

Thomas stared at the closed door before turning to the others. “They’re scared, but all we need is one person to come forward. Someone has seen this Hollow John. And once we have a description, we’ll know who to target.”

The team continued down the hallway as they searched for another door to knock on. Thomas stopped in front of apartment 218.

This time, the door opened before Thomas finished knocking. The woman who answered appeared frail and jittery. Her stringy hair hung in a loose bun. She clutched a threadbare robe around her, the veins in her hands standing out like a road map.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice holding defiance and fear.

“Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department,” Thomas said, holding up his badge. “We’re investigating gang and drug activity in this building. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Her suspicious gaze lingered on the badge, then swept from Aguilar to LeVar, Russo, and Burns. “Why should I talk to you? Won’t change anything.”

“That’s not true. If you tell us who is leading the gangs and peddling drugs, we can clean up this neighborhood.”

The woman hesitated, her fingers twitching on the edge of her robe. Then, with a look down the hallway, she stepped back and made room for them. “Come in before someone sees. Make it quick.”

The apartment was as dark as night, with curtains drawn over the windows. A tattered sofa sat against one wall, its fabric worn to the stuffing in places. The woman gestured for them to sit, but none of them moved.

“The cops don’t come here for a reason,” the woman said as she paced past the window. She wrung her hands. “You’re not welcome in the towers.”

“We’re here to arrest the criminals who are causing these problems. People are scared, and they have a right to feel safe in their homes. If you know who’s in charge of the gangs, I need you to tell me.”

“I know who’s running things. It’s him.”

“Him?” Aguilar asked. “Give us a name.”

“Hollow John.”

“This again?”

“He ain’t no ghost story. Hollow John is flesh and blood, as real as you and me.”

“You’ve seen this man?” Thomas asked.

“Sure have. He comes at night. Always at night. He doesn’t show his face, but everyone knows it’s him. They all do whatever he tells them.”

“The 315 Royals?”

“I dunno their names. No-good gangsters, all of them.”

LeVar stepped closer. “What does this man do when he comes? Does he meet with the Royals?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ll do anything he says, as if he’s the king of their little army. He doesn’t just give orders, though. He knows things. Things he shouldn’t.”

“Knows things?” Russo asked, her skepticism obvious.

The woman looked at the door, as if she feared being overheard. “He knows if people are talking about him. Anyone who sees his face ends up dead. That’s why no one wants to talk. You don’t cross Hollow John.”

“Have you seen his face?” Thomas asked.

“Can’t. He only comes when it’s dark.” She got a puzzled look on her face. “But something doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m listening.”

“One second, you’ll see him in the alleyway between the buildings. Then he steps into the shadows and reappears beside the road.”

“Like a ghost,” Russo said, sneering. “Come on.”

“It’s true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

The woman seemed to shrink under their collective gaze, her paranoia intensifying.

“Is this man local to the area?” Thomas asked.

“I’ve said too much. If he finds out…” She shook her head and backed toward the sofa. “You need to leave. Now. Get out before you bring him here.”

Thomas made a calming gesture. “As long as we’re here, you’re safe.”

“And the second you leave?”

“We’ll send the police to monitor the two towers.”

“They won’t help us,” the woman said. “Do you know how many times people have called the cops about Hollow John? Funny how those folks end up missing. Get out of here before someone takes me too.”

Further pleas for the woman to talk failed. Understanding he’d learned as much as he would, Thomas motioned for the others to follow him into the hallway. As they stepped out, the woman slammed the door. The deadbolt slid into place.

“Paranoid,” LeVar said.

“She was as high as a kite,” Aguilar said.

Russo studied the corridor. “I agree. If I took as many drugs as she did, I’d see Hollow John disappear and appear as well.”

They banged on more doors. Each time, the knocks were met with silence or the shuffle of someone retreating into their apartment.

“Nobody here wants to talk,” LeVar said.

“They’re scared,” LeVar said, looking over his shoulder.

Burns grunted. “Or they’re just waiting for us to leave so they can get back to business as usual. These people aren’t the gang’s victims. They’re customers.”

Thomas didn’t respond. The sense of failure gnawed at him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman’s claims.

Hollow John, appearing and disappearing like a shadow.

When they finally emerged into the daylight, the air felt sharper, freer, as if they’d surfaced from some underwater nightmare.

“Where to next?” Aguilar asked.

Before Thomas could answer, his phone rang. Claire Brookins’ name appeared on the screen. Why would the medical examiner call him?

“Thomas here. Go ahead, Claire.”

“Thomas,” Claire said, “I need to speak with you at the lab.”

“I’m busy in Hartford Springs. Can it wait?”

There was a pause, and when Claire spoke again, her voice carried a weight that made Thomas straighten. “It’s about Officer Noah Vale.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. “What about Noah?”

“I’d rather discuss it in person.”

32

Chelsey waited with Raven inside her Honda Civic, the engine off and the interior warmed by the sunlight shining through the windshield. They remained three houses down the road from 414 Harborview Road, careful to avoid drawing attention. The street was pristine, lined with manicured lawns and trees of varying sizes. Every house wanted to compete for the cover of a real estate magazine.

William Edgar’s house stood out, not because it was flashy, but because it was understated in a way that spoke of quiet money. A sleek stone facade, charcoal-gray shutters, and a black door with polished silver hardware gave it a modern, minimalist aesthetic. The driveway was empty, though the double garage might have held two vehicles. Trimmed hedges bordered the property, and a tasteful wreath adorned the front door.

“Doesn’t scream ‘criminal mastermind’ or ‘murderer,’ does it?” Raven asked.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Chelsey replied.

“I hate this waiting game,” Raven murmured.

“Surveillance is glamorous, isn’t it?”

“Ever since we left the records office, I’ve had a feeling about this guy.”

“Shell companies don’t register themselves. Edgar’s name is all over the filings. He either knows what happened to Mercer, or he was involved in making him disappear.”

Raven adjusted the camera perched on the dashboard and angled it toward the house. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Chelsey opened a manila folder. Inside were photographs of William Edgar, taken from public records and a social media profile that hadn’t been updated in two years. Edgar was a middle-aged man with thinning sandy hair. The man’s face should have held a few wrinkles, especially over the brow. To Chelsey, it appeared as if the man leveraged medical surgery to retain his youthful look. Wire-rimmed glasses gave him a serious, studious look.

She glanced up from the photos to the street, where several people were out for a walk. “Unless this guy had another nip and tuck, I don’t see him on the sidewalk.”

“Maybe he’s inside, sitting in one of those minimalist chairs, sipping overpriced coffee while his million-dollar secret gathers dust.”

“Or,” Chelsey countered, “he’s not here at all, and this address is just another layer of the lie.”

They stared at the house. Drawn shades kept them from seeing inside.

“Do you think William Edgar killed Randy Mercer?” Raven asked.

“Talk about jumping to conclusions.”

“We know Mercer withdrew more than a million dollars from his brokerage account. A few months later, this company came into being, funded by seven figures of cold, hard cash.”

“Give me your theory.”

“Okay, suppose Mercer gave Edgar the money to keep it safe.”

“For a guy as untrusting as Randy Mercer, that might be a stretch,” Chelsey said.

“Just go with it. For whatever reason, Mercer trusted Edgar.”

“And once Edgar had the money, he made Mercer disappear.”

“Bingo.”

“I’ll buy the possibility.”

A jogger passed on the sidewalk, her earbuds in and her pace steady. As the jogger rounded the corner and disappeared, Edgar’s garage door opened. Both women sat up straight.

The sleek, black garage door lifted, revealing the rear end of a silver Lexus SUV. The vehicle began backing out, its glossy surface gleaming in the afternoon light. Tinted windows made it impossible to see who was inside.

Chelsey squinted. “The driver looks like a woman, wouldn’t you say? And those are kids in the backseat.”

“Two of them,” Raven said, leaning forward to get a better view.

“No sign of William Edgar, though.”

The SUV pulled onto the street and drove away. Chelsey started the Civic and eased into the road, keeping a careful distance. As they trailed the vehicle through the neighborhood, she glanced at her partner.

“Might as well make use of the time. You want the rundown on William Edgar’s family?”

“You found it already?”

“That’s what laptops and wireless connections are for. William Edgar has a wife and two daughters,” Chelsey said, keeping her eyes on the SUV. “Wife’s name is Eleanor Edgar. She works as a freelance interior designer. Her website is pretty sharp, with a lot of black-and-white aesthetics. They’ve been married for nine years.”

“Does anything about this woman suggest she is an accomplice to murder?” Raven asked.

“Nothing that obvious. But if Edgar is hiding Mercer’s money, Eleanor might know a thing or two. She has a motive.”

“Definitely. Ever since William Edgar came into her life, she’s lived it up. What about the kids?”

“Teenagers. Lily is fourteen, Madison is twelve. Both go to Millport Academy, a private school that costs more per year than most colleges.”

“Because of course they do.”

Chelsey shrugged. “Edgar’s shell company was sitting on a million bucks before it dissolved. Great for keeping up appearances.”

They turned onto a busier road. The SUV maintained a steady speed ahead of them.

“Wait, the girls’ ages suggest—”

“Excellent catch. Eleanor remarried. They aren’t William Edgar’s kids.”

Raven glanced at Chelsey. “Anything else?”

“Not much. The family appears clean. No priors, no scandals, no signs of financial trouble. On paper, they’re as picture-perfect as the house.”

“Doesn’t mean Edgar’s hands aren’t dirty,” Raven said. “For all we know, he murdered Randy Mercer, stole the money, and the wife and kids were none the wiser.”

The vehicle signaled and turned into a shopping plaza.

As Chelsey slowed the Civic, she kept her eyes on the silver SUV; it parked near a trendy organic grocery store. The woman stepped out, wearing a stylish jacket that screamed suburban affluence. Two young girls hopped out from the back, their laughter audible through the glass.

“Definitely Eleanor Edgar and the kids,” Chelsey murmured. “No sign of William.”

“Hang back,” Raven said, adjusting the angle of the dashboard camera to keep the SUV in frame. “While we wait, give me the rundown on William Edgar.”

“Born in Jamesville, a town outside Syracuse. He went to a private high school and won a scholarship, then graduated magna cum laude in finance from NYU before obtaining his MBA from Wharton.”

“Impressive,” Raven said. “Too impressive?”

“Edgar started out at a mid-tier investment firm, then left after three years to start his own consulting business, specializing in asset management. On paper, his track record is flawless. I couldn’t find any financial scandals or legal troubles.”

“Sounds like a cover-up,” Raven muttered.

“He’s too clean. Most people working high-stakes finance for as long as Edgar has would have at least one blemish on their record—an SEC investigation, a lawsuit, whatever. But Edgar’s file reads like a sanitized PR piece.”

“What about his shell companies?” Raven asked.

“Silverleaf Holdings is the only one we’ve tied to him so far. But that company alone raises red flags. It was set up with a million-dollar infusion, dissolved within a year, and the company left no trace of where the money went.”

Eleanor and her daughters disappeared into the grocery store. The SUV sat in the parking lot.

“I have a bad feeling about this guy. Everything about his background is perfect, he looks twenty years younger than he should, and his sole earnings come from businesses that don’t seem to exist.”

“Are we wasting time following the family?”

“Yeah. Take us to Jamesville.”

33

The cruiser rumbled up the highway leading to Wolf Lake as the familiar landscape blurred past Thomas’s window. His thoughts swirled in a way that made it difficult to focus on the drive.

For the first time that day, his mind wasn’t occupied with the 315 Royals or Hollow John. Instead, it was with Noah Vale, the rookie officer he’d mentored and failed. Thomas hadn’t thought about Noah all day, and the realization made him nauseous.

He’d been so focused on the chaos in Hartford Springs, on gang activity and cryptic murals, that Noah had slipped to the back of his mind. Now Claire’s call had pulled him back to a reality he’d been avoiding.

Whatever she had to say, it wouldn’t be good.

The engine groaned as he climbed a hill. Through the windshield, the county coroner’s office came into view.

Thomas pulled into the parking lot. After gathering his thoughts, he pushed through the glass doors into the lobby.

Claire Brookins exited the lab and stopped when she saw him. Then she pursed her lips and approached, her expression guarded. Her usual sharp wit was nowhere to be seen. Instead, her eyes were shadowed with something Thomas couldn’t quite place.

“Thomas, thank you for coming so quickly. I apologize for pulling you away from Hartford Springs.”

“You made it seem like this couldn’t wait.”

“Unfortunately, that’s correct,” she said, gesturing for him to follow. “Let’s talk in the lab.”

He followed her down the hallway. An intern in a white lab coat hustled past.

When they reached the door to the lab, Claire paused. Her hands gripped the clipboard she was holding. “What I’m about to tell you will raise a lot of questions.”

“This investigation already has too many questions. What harm could a few more do?”

Claire ushered him into the lab.

“I’ve been reviewing Noah’s autopsy report,” she said. “There are...discrepancies. Things that don’t add up if we’re looking at a straightforward suicide.”

“What discrepancies?”

“Thomas, are you willing to view the photographs? I realize he was your friend.”

“I was his mentor,” Thomas said, correcting her. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Officer Vale could have become a friend. The rookie had possessed all the requisite skills to become an excellent officer. “Perhaps I was his friend. Show me the pictures, Claire.”

A series of photographs were laid out on the counter, beside a printed copy of Noah Vale’s autopsy report. Her clipboard clattered as she set it down, and she motioned for Thomas to step closer.

“Allow me to walk you through this,” she said. She picked up the first photograph, a high-resolution image of Noah’s neck taken during the autopsy. The ligature mark was stark against his pale skin—a thin dark band encircling his throat.

“Here’s the first discrepancy,” Claire said, pointing at the mark. “In a typical hanging, the ligature mark would be diagonal, angling upward toward the location of the knot. That’s because the body’s weight pulls the noose upward, creating a high point of pressure. But look at this.” She traced her finger along the photograph. “The mark is almost horizontal.”

Thomas’s heart was a triphammer in his throat. “This wasn’t a suicide?”

“These marks suggest the ligature wasn’t under tension from the body’s weight,” Claire explained. “Instead, it was applied manually or under controlled conditions. This is common in staged hangings where someone is already deceased before being hanged.”

Had someone murdered Noah? Why?

“Tell me more.”

Claire set down the photograph and picked up a second image, this one showing the tissue beneath Noah’s skin. “We conducted a detailed analysis of the bruising patterns under the ligature mark. In cases of hanging, you’d expect to see deeper contusions caused by the sustained pressure of the body’s weight. But here…” She pointed to the photo. “The bruising is superficial, suggesting the pressure was brief.”

“So you’re saying he was already dead?”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “That’s my working theory. There’s more.” She reached for another document, this one detailing the results of her internal examination. “The hyoid bone here”—she pointed to an anatomical diagram—“was fractured.”

Thomas frowned. “Isn’t that normal in hangings?”

“It can be. But the nature of the fracture matters. In suicides, the force is usually distributed over time, creating clean breaks or stress fractures. But in Noah’s case, the fracture was sharp and localized, consistent with manual strangulation.”

“What about his hands? Did you find defensive wounds?”

“No. Which makes sense if he was incapacitated first. I ran a toxicology screen as well.”

“What did you find?”

“Traces of a sedative,” Claire said. “Low enough that it wouldn’t have killed him outright, but high enough to render him defenseless. Whoever did this made sure he couldn’t fight back.”

Thomas ran a hand over his face, the weight of the revelation settling on his shoulders. “And the police say Noah committed suicide.”

Claire never blinked. “Based on the initial scene and lack of struggle, it looked convincing. But once I started digging deeper, the evidence spoke for itself.”

Someone had murdered Noah Vale, and they had gone to great lengths to cover it up.

“You say the killer sedated Noah. Did you determine the sedative used?”

“It’s called midazolam,” she said, tapping a copy of the toxicology report.

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Yes. It’s a fast-acting benzodiazepine. It’s typically used in medical settings for sedation before procedures, but it’s also trafficked in the narcotics trade.”

“So it’s not something you’d only find in a hospital or pharmacy?”

“Midazolam is a controlled substance, but it’s not uncommon to find it on the streets, especially in places with gang activity. Dealers sometimes use it to incapacitate people or spike drugs. The dose found in Noah’s system wasn’t lethal, but it was enough to leave him vulnerable.”

The Royals. And Hollow John.

The pieces aligned, forming a picture Thomas didn’t want to see. “The 315 Royals might be dealing this midazolam.”

“Highly probable. The drug trade overlaps with other criminal activities, and midazolam isn’t difficult to obtain if you know the right people.”

“The Royals are in Hartford Springs. They’re pushing drugs and working the streets, and now we have a sedative tied to Noah’s murder. You think they murdered Noah Vale?”

Claire closed the folder. She kept a poker face, but it was obvious she wanted to say more. “It’s not my place to speculate. The evidence points to foul play. Whoever did this had access to a substance linked to the narcotics trade. If you’re already investigating the Royals, I’d say it’s worth considering.”

If Hollow John had murdered Noah, this was more than a gang problem. The investigation was becoming personal.

“I need a copy of your findings, Claire. Everything. Give me the photos, toxicology, and your notes. Anything that suggests someone murdered Noah Vale. I’ll need proof. Hartford Springs PD won’t take my word for it.”

“I prepared copies. I knew you’d want them.” She handed him two folders. “Thomas, watch your back. Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks.”

“They didn’t do a good enough job. Not with you as the examiner.”

Her cheeks colored. Claire was the finest medical examiner Thomas had ever encountered. Nightshade County’s first ever female ME had just proved a killer was loose.

34

Thomas stopped in the Hartford Springs police department parking lot. He sat for a moment, staring at the unfriendly fortress as Claire’s findings ran through his thoughts in an endless loop.

The evidence folder lay on the passenger seat, a damning revelation he wasn’t eager to deliver to a room full of officers who resented him. Yes, this was proof that Noah hadn’t hung himself. But they would still blame Thomas for the rookie’s death. They didn’t need a reason.

LeVar, Aguilar, and the troopers were running surveillance near downtown. Thomas would have to face the music alone.

Finally, Thomas summoned the courage to exit the cruiser. As he crossed the lot, he realized he hadn’t missed the signs that Noah might take his own life.

Yet that only made Thomas feel worse. This wasn’t about his feelings. His mentee was still dead, and that grief would never leave Thomas.

At the front desk, Officer JJ Lynch looked up from a clipboard. His face hung with the fatigue of someone carrying more weight than he could handle, but his expression hardened when he saw Thomas.

“You’re back,” Lynch said.

“I need to speak with Chief Milham.”

“Now isn’t the best time.”

“Officer, all I need is ten minutes alone with the chief.”

“It won’t happen. He’s in his office, talking with Barone and Larsen.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. Of course, those two would be there. He shifted the folder under his other arm. “This meeting requires privacy.”

Lynch glanced at the folder, then back at Thomas. His shoulders stiffened. “What’s this about?”

The sheriff wanted to tell Lynch the truth: that Noah Vale hadn’t taken his own life, that someone had murdered the rookie and staged the scene. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

“After I speak with the chief, I’ll tell you what I learned.”

Lynch studied him for a long moment. “Is this about Noah?”

“I can’t say.”

“Sheriff, Noah Vale was my partner,” Lynch said. “If you have evidence related to his suicide, don’t hold out on me.”

“In due time. Tell your chief I’m coming in.”

“You should know, Barone and Larsen are gunning for you. They want the sheriff’s department off this case. They’ve been stirring the pot since the last time you talked to Milham.”

Thomas’s lips thinned. “I appreciate the warning, but this is bigger than both of them.”

“I’m warning you, Sheriff. They’ve got Milham under their thumb. You walk into that office with evidence pertaining to Noah’s suicide, and they’ll give you a fight. Our department ordered you not to interfere with the forensic team.”

“And I didn’t. I’m going in, Lynch. Make sure no one interrupts the meeting once I’m in there.”

“Good luck, Sheriff. You’ll need it.”

Thomas headed toward Milham’s office. He could already hear Larsen and Barone arguing with Milham.

He stopped at the door, squared his shoulders, and knocked. The voices stopped, and a beat later, Milham’s voice called out. “Who is it?”

“Sheriff Shepherd.”

More grumbling.

“Come in.”

The chief sat behind his desk, his face tired and reddened from debating. Barone leaned against the wall, not concealing his disdain for Thomas. Larsen rose from his chair, ready to fight.

“This is hardly the time,” Milham said.

Thomas shut the door behind him. He held up the folder. “We need to talk. Privately.”

Milham’s brows knitted together. “About what?”

“Not with them in the room.”

“Whatever you have to tell me, my officers can hear. They’re part of the investigation too.”

“No. You need to see this first.”

Larsen’s face hardened. “If this is about the case, we have every right to be here. We’re not stepping out because the sheriff says so.”

Barone smirked, leaning against the wall. “You know, Shepherd, if you’ve got something to hide, maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t be in the room.”

Thomas didn’t rise to the bait. “Chief, this isn’t about jurisdiction. I brought you evidence. Let me show you what I’ve got, and if you think it’s irrelevant, I’ll listen. But this needs to be a private discussion.”

Milham massaged his eyes. “Larsen, Barone, step outside.”

Larsen leaped out of his skin. “Chief—”

“That’s an order,” Milham snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If this is as important as the sheriff claims, I need to hear it without your distractions.”

Barone pushed off the wall, his grin morphing into a scowl. “You’re wasting your time, Chief. Shepherd’s just trying to cover himself.”

“Out.”

When the officers were out of the office, Milham leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “You’ve got my attention, Sheriff. This had better be good. What’s in the folder?”

Thomas removed the autopsy photos, toxicology report, and Claire’s notes. He slid the first photograph toward Milham, pointing to the ligature mark on Noah’s neck.

“This is the first red flag,” Thomas said. “In a suicide by hanging, the ligature mark is almost always diagonal, caused by the weight of the body pulling against the noose. But this mark is horizontal.”

Milham frowned as he studied the photograph. “Horizontal marks don’t automatically mean foul play. If Officer Vale incorrectly tied the knot or used an unconventional setup, it could explain the marks.”

“Claire Brookins analyzed the bruising under the skin. It’s superficial. If Noah hanged himself, we would expect deeper contusions caused by sustained pressure.”

“That’s suspicious, I’ll admit. But not definitive. What else?”

Thomas slid the toxicology report across the desk. “Noah had midazolam in his system. It’s a sedative used in medical settings, but also trafficked by gangs. The dose wasn’t lethal, but it was enough to incapacitate him.”

Milham studied the report. “You’re saying someone drugged Officer Vale before strangling him and staging the scene?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Thomas said.

“And what if Noah took the drug himself? Maybe he was struggling, couldn’t face whatever was haunting him, and used it to make the process easier.”

“That’s a possibility. But the fracture in his hyoid bone suggests otherwise. It’s consistent with manual strangulation, not hanging.”

The chief’s face darkened as he processed the information. He flipped through the notes. “Let’s assume you’re right, and someone killed Noah. Why stage it as a suicide? Why not just make him disappear?”

“To destroy his credibility,” Thomas said. “Noah was the only person who believed the Royals were trafficking drugs in Hartford Springs. His suicide would call his state of mind into question and undermine his authority. No one would take his leads seriously.”

“It’s compelling, but it’s only a theory. I need more than suspicious ligature marks and a toxicology report to prove someone murdered my officer.”

Why was Chief Milham fighting him?

“You won’t do anything with the evidence? If not, I’ll have no choice but to share it with the state troopers.”

“That’s not what I said. I’ll review the findings with my forensic team.”

“Someone murdered Noah Vale to shut him up. Whoever did it is still loose in your town. More people will die.”

Milham didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the folder. Finally, he nodded. “Leave the folder. I’ll take it from here.”

“I want copies.”

“As you wish.” Milham picked up the phone. “Larsen, Sheriff Shepherd is bringing you an evidence folder. Make copies for him.”

35

Chelsey steered the Honda Civic off the main highway and onto a winding two-lane road bordered by dense woods. The trees, their leaves beginning to bud, seemed to close in around them as they approached Jamesville. Nestled in a valley just outside Syracuse, Jamesville had a charm that could either soothe or suffocate, depending on your perspective.

“Small-town vibes,” Raven said, looking out the window. “Bet everyone knows everyone’s business.”

“Which could help us,” Chelsey said. “People here will remember William Edgar, and small towns don’t forget the past as easily as he might want.”

As they crested a hill, the village of Jamesville came into view. It was postcard-perfect. A cluster of old-fashioned homes with porches draped in Easter decorations caught the sunlight. Past it, a few small businesses lined the main street, and a weathered church steeple rose against a backdrop of rolling hills. A diner with a retro sign reading "Sharon’s Place" sat at the edge of the town square, its parking lot half-full even on a weekday afternoon.

Chelsey slowed the car as they entered the village proper, passing a general store, a barber shop, and a hardware store. The buildings were neat but showed their age—peeling paint here, a sagging awning there.

Raven glanced at the GPS, then at the printout from their research. “Edgar’s childhood home is supposed to be on Hemlock Lane. Take a left at the light.”

The directions made Chelsey turn onto a residential street where modest houses sat back from the road, separated by wide lawns dotted with leafless elms.

“Here we go,” Raven said, pointing. “This is his place.”

The house in question was a small two-story Colonial, painted a pale blue that had faded over the years. The shutters were crooked, and the porch sagged in one corner. It looked lived-in but neglected, as if whoever owned it now had neither the means nor the motivation to keep it pristine.

“Not exactly the house of a future finance mogul,” Raven said when Chelsey killed the engine across from it.

“Everyone starts somewhere.” Chelsey unbuckled her seatbelt. “Let’s see if anyone remembers him.”

As they passed Edgar’s old house, Chelsey glanced at the mailbox, which bore the name "Thompson" in peeling black letters. A woman tended a flower bed a few doors down.

“She might remember our suspect.”

The woman, a middle-aged figure in gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed hat, looked up as they approached and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Afternoon,” Chelsey said. “We’re looking for some information about the people who used to live in the Colonial. Specifically, a William Edgar. Did you know the family?”

The woman straightened, leaning on her trowel as she inspected Chelsey and Raven. “William Edgar, you said? Doesn’t ring a bell. But I’ve only been here about fifteen years, so maybe he was here before my time.”

“That could be. Do you know anyone who’s been here longer? Someone who might remember the family?”

“Oh, sure. If you want the town historian, you need to talk to Mr. Avery. He’s been here forever. Mr. Avery lives just down the road, in the yellow house with the white picket fence.”

“Thank you,” Raven said. “We’ll stop by.”

The woman waved them off and returned to her flower bed as they headed back to the car. Chelsey pulled the Civic farther down Hemlock Lane and stopped in front of a charming yellow house. The fence was freshly painted, and a row of tulips swayed in the breeze.

“This has to be it,” Raven said, stepping out of the car.

They approached the front porch, where a man in suspenders was rocking in a wicker chair. His eyes crinkled as he looked up, squinting at them over his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Afternoon,” Chelsey said. “Are you Mr. Avery?”

“That’s me,” he replied, his voice gravelly but warm. “What can I do for you?”

Chelsey climbed the steps. “We’re looking into the history of a family who lived in the blue Colonial down the way.”

“I’m sure I can help. Over the years, I’ve seen families come and go. But I’ve always been here. What’s the name?”

“William Edgar and his parents. Do you remember them?”

Mr. Avery frowned. “Edgar, you said? Can’t say that name sounds familiar. That house belonged to the Buckleys when I was growing up.”

“The Buckleys?” Raven asked.

“Yep, friendly folks. Had two sons—Earl and Robbie. Earl moved out to California, and Robbie passed away about twenty years ago. That house has changed hands a couple times since then, but I don’t recall any Edgars living there.”

Though Chelsey kept her expression neutral, the sinking feeling in her gut was impossible to ignore. “You’re sure? According to the records, William Edgar lived here about three decades ago.”

“Thirty years ago, it was the Buckleys’ place. I remember because Robbie was still around back then. He got into some trouble but straightened out before…” He trailed off, his face clouding with old memories. “Anyway, no Edgars. Sorry, miss.”

“Perhaps it was a different house.”

“Nope. That name doesn’t ring a bell.”

Was this man mistaken? His memory seemed fine.

Chelsey and Raven peppered Avery with questions, but his answers remained the same. No one named Edgar had ever lived here.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Avery.”

The old man settled back into his rocking chair as they returned to the car. Once inside, Raven turned to Chelsey. “So much for Edgar’s hometown history. Either his records are wrong, or someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to rewrite them.”

Chelsey started the engine and checked the mirrors. A bicyclist raced past.

“Or William Edgar never lived in that house at all.”

Raven leaned back in her seat, her expression thoughtful. “If that’s the case, the question isn’t just why he lied. What else is he hiding?”

For a man with a questionable background, William Edgar sure had a beautiful family and a ton of money. Had he murdered Randy Mercer and stolen the cash?

36

Thomas met LeVar and Aguilar a block from Noah Vale’s old apartment.

“You pulled us off the surveillance team,” LeVar said. “What’s the story?”

Aguilar looked just as confused.

Blowing out a breath, Thomas removed the copies of Claire’s report. Without briefing them, he asked them to read through the findings. No sooner did they finish than LeVar’s mouth fell open, and Aguilar walked away clutching her hair.

“Do you realize what this means, Thomas?” Aguilar asked. “The Royals knew Noah was onto them and put out a hit.”

“Not the Royals,” said LeVar. “Hollow John.”

“That remains to be seen.” She whirled around to face Thomas. “The police blew the investigation. Since they overlooked crucial evidence, what else did they miss?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” Thomas said. “The first step is to gain access to the apartment.”

“So why are we a block away?”

“Because Milham and his officers will never let me inside.”

“Shep,” LeVar said. “What do you intend to do?”

“Break the rules.”

“Now we’re talking.”

Thomas pressed the phone to his ear as the wind tugged at his jacket. Thomas waited as the line rang, his gaze fixed on the apartment down the road.

“Russo,” said the voice on the other end.

“Trooper Russo, it’s Sheriff Shepherd. I need your help.”

“Anything. What do you want me to do?”

“Noah Vale’s apartment. I need a key.”

It took a while for Russo to reply. “And you’re asking me because Milham won’t give it to you?”

“They don’t trust me. But I need to see that apartment, Russo.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because Officer Noah Vale didn’t hang himself.”

“Excuse me,” Russo said. “Can you repeat that?”

“You heard me. Someone murdered Vale, and the police missed it.”

“I assume you have evidence, because I’m not putting my head on the chopping block for a theory.”

“When you bring me the key, I’ll show you everything the medical examiner gave me.”

Russo moaned. “Thomas, you’re asking me to go behind the chief’s back. That’s going to cause a battle.”

“Noah deserves the truth. I want a proper walkthrough and investigation.”

Another pause. Then Russo spoke again, her voice laced with reluctance. “You’re putting me in a tight spot, Sheriff. But I trust you. I’ll make a call and see if I can get the key. Just don’t make me regret this.”

“Meet us outside the apartment when you have it.”

“On my way,” Russo said, and the line went dead.

Thomas slid his phone into his pocket and turned to LeVar and Aguilar. “Russo will get the key.”

“You think Milham will cooperate?” Aguilar asked.

“I do. He respects the state troopers and won’t want to cross them.”

“Yet he doesn’t give a hoot if he ticks off the county.”

“Right.”

Thirty minutes later, Russo called to confirm she had access to Noah Vale’s apartment. Certainly, Chief Milham knew the troopers intended to search for anything his team had overlooked. And he must suspect Thomas was pulling the strings. No matter. As long as the police didn’t interfere, Thomas and his team would find additional proof that a killer had gotten to Noah.

They climbed into their cruisers and drove to Noah Vale’s apartment complex, parking just out of sight of the main entrance. Evening was falling, and the cold caused Thomas’s windshield to fog. The heater hummed.

Finally, headlights appeared in the distance, and a state trooper cruiser pulled up alongside him.

Russo stepped out. Her partner wasn’t with her. She held a silver key as she approached.

“This better be worth it,” she said, her tone sharp but not unkind.

“It will be,” Thomas replied, taking the key. “Thank you.”

Thomas unlocked Noah’s apartment. He pushed the door open, revealing the darkened interior. The space was sparsely furnished, standard issue for a single man in law enforcement. Nothing seemed out of place, but Thomas knew better than to trust appearances.

“All right,” Thomas said. “We’re looking for anything the forensic team missed. Focus on areas that aren’t immediately obvious, like hidden compartments, vents, and places where evidence could have been tucked away in a hurry.”

Aguilar pulled on a pair of gloves. “I’ll check the bedroom.”

“I’ve got the living room,” LeVar said.

“And I’ll handle the kitchen,” Russo said.

Thomas tried to piece together the narrative of Noah’s last hours before joining Aguilar in the bedroom. The lead deputy crouched beside the heating vent and unscrewed the cover. She shone a flashlight inside.

“Anything?” Thomas asked.

“Dust,” Aguilar sneezed, pulling her head back. “A lot of it. Nothing else.”

She moved to the nightstand, pulling out drawers and inspecting the bottoms for false panels. Still, she found nothing.

“How are you doing in the kitchen?” Thomas called to Russo.

“Just getting started,” the trooper said. “Want to help?”

“On my way.”

Russo opened a cabinet under the sink. The trash can was empty, but she inspected the walls of the cabinet itself. Nothing.

She opened the refrigerator. Condiments, a carton of milk, and a couple of takeout containers were slowly spoiling. Thomas searched the pantry and found a few cans of soup and a half-empty box of crackers.

They sprayed luminol on the walls and floor. LeVar dusted for prints. Thomas checked the doors and windows and found no sign of forced entry.

An hour passed with little to show for their efforts. LeVar opened the entertainment center, flipping through DVDs and opening drawers. “Either Noah lived like a monk, or someone went through this place with a fine-tooth comb.”

Thomas leaned against the wall, his mind working through the possibilities. “His killer was careful. This guy knew what the police would look for.”

LeVar wiped his brow with the back of his hand and looked around. “Anyone else think it’s warm in here? Like, way too warm?”

“It’s not the heat. The thermostat isn’t even on,” Thomas said, inspecting it.

Russo set a hand against a vent. “He’s right. The system is off.”

After thinking for a moment, Thomas pointed downward. “The heat is rising. It must be coming up from the downstairs apartments.”

“Even so, how did Noah sleep in this sauna?” LeVar asked. “Wouldn’t he have cracked a window?”

“Good question. That explains the lack of forced entry,” Thomas said.

Thomas and Russo hurried to the bedroom with Aguilar and LeVar. The window was closed, and the drop to the concrete below appeared deadly. Thomas slid open the pane and leaned out to inspect the outside.

Below, a series of lamps along a walkway illuminated a ledge that ran the circumference of the building, just wide enough for someone to climb.

“You see that?” Thomas pointed down. “That ledge. Our killer used it to climb inside.”

“Risky, but possible,” Aguilar said. “And Noah probably kept it open to cool off the bedroom.”

“But the police reports stated the window was closed,” said Russo.

“He closed it before he left,” LeVar said.

“The killer?”

“Yeah, Hollow John.”

Aguilar examined the window frame more closely. “Let’s dust it again.”

LeVar buttoned his jacket. “And I’ll check the ledge. If Hollow John grabbed the ledge, he might have left a print.”

As the team set to work, Thomas thought about the extraordinary lengths the killer had gone to. But even the most careful criminals made mistakes.

He just had to find one.

37

Chelsey’s Honda Civic idled at the curb with the headlights off. Chelsey and Raven sat in the dark, the skeletal silhouettes of bare trees clawing at the sky. Night had settled over Millport. There was no sign of William Edgar.

“He has to come out sooner or later,” Chelsey said.

“Unless he’s holed up for the night,” Raven said. “Rich guys like Edgar can set their own hours.”

Chelsey didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on the house. The shades were drawn, and the daughters’ silhouettes moved past now and then. One girl jumped around, as if she was playing one of those dancing video games. The sleek exterior of the home, pristine and modern in daylight, now looked cold and unwelcoming under the streetlights.

An approaching engine pulled Chelsey’s eyes to the mirrors. A silver sedan cruised past. The headlights washed over the Civic. Moments later, a delivery van followed, its taillights glowing red as it disappeared down the street.

“The traffic is dying down,” said Chelsey.

“That will make it easier to spot Edgar if he shows his face.”

They didn’t have to wait much longer. The garage door of 414 Harborview Road opened with a mechanical whine, spilling pale light on the driveway. A man emerged, pushing a garbage can. Even in the gloom, the angular features and sandy, thinning hair of William Edgar were unmistakable.

Chelsey shut off the engine. “That’s him.”

Raven grabbed the camera on the dashboard, angling it to get a clear shot of Edgar as he rolled the garbage can to the curb. He didn’t waste time. His head swiveled, as if he was checking his surroundings.

Then he froze.

Chelsey’s breath caught as Edgar turned his head toward them. His eyes locked on the Civic, his expression shifting from neutral to wary in an instant.

“Do you think he made us?” Chelsey whispered.

Raven didn’t lower the camera. “No question about it. We’ve been parked here too long.”

Edgar’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he hurried inside the garage. The door rolled down.

“Weird.”

“That wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“He knows someone is watching,” Chelsey said. “And now he’s spooked.”

Raven gave her a sidelong glance. “What’s the play?”

“We wait. No sense in driving off when he already knows we’re onto him.”

“Chelsey, there’s no chance he’ll come out again. Not tonight.”

“Correct. But by staying, we send a message. We’re on the hunt, and he isn’t getting away with murder.”

The clock ticked past nine. A cat in pursuit of a mouse scurried across the street.

Chelsey adjusted her seat, hoping against hope that their suspect would reemerge. The garage remained dark, but behind one of the drawn shades, a light turned on. A man’s silhouette appeared. He was holding a phone.

“Edgar is up to something,” Raven said, lowering the camera. “You think he’s calling the cops?”

“Doubt it. He’s more likely calling someone he trusts to deal with us.”

“Like who? A fixer?”

Chelsey shrugged, but her fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel. “Could be anyone. We’ll know soon enough.”

Minutes ticked by before headlights appeared at the far end of the road, growing brighter as a vehicle approached. A chill ran down Chelsey’s back as a black SUV slowed to a stop in front of Edgar’s house.

“We’ve got trouble,” Raven muttered.

The SUV’s engine hummed as the driver’s door opened. A tall man in a dark jacket stepped out, his broad shoulders and purposeful stride suggesting he wasn’t here to chat. He carried himself with the cool confidence of someone used to handling messy situations.

“Yep, he’s a fixer.”

“Stay calm. Let’s see what he wants.”

The man strode down the driveway. His face was hard and impassive under the streetlights, his dark jacket unzipped to reveal a neatly pressed shirt. He approached the Honda Civic with the confidence of someone who had been in situations like this before—and always emerged the winner.

“Here we go,” Raven said. “Want me to kick his butt?”

“Uh, no.”

The man stopped a few feet from the driver’s side window and gestured for Chelsey to lower it. His expression didn’t shift. He wore a mask of professional authority that Chelsey found intimidating.

She hesitated but rolled the window down halfway. “Can I help you?”

“You can,” the man said, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge. “I’m with Orion Security, private protection for Mr. Edgar. You’re on private property, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“We’re parked on a public street. I don’t think we’re violating any laws.”

“You’re here to bother my client. That makes it my business. And if you don’t leave, I’ll make a call to my law enforcement contacts. They’ll be happy to ensure you’re on your way. This neighborhood doesn’t take kindly to strangers hanging around after dark. Names?”

“Names?”

“Give me your names,” the man said.

“I’m Chelsey Byrd, and this is Raven Hopkins. We’re with Wolf Lake Consulting.”

“Why are a couple of PIs bothering Mr. Edgar?”

“We’re conducting an investigation. William Edgar might be tied to a missing person case.”

The man’s expression didn’t waver. “William Edgar is a respectable man. You’re sniffing in the wrong location. My concern is ensuring Mr. Edgar’s privacy and safety. If you have questions for him, I suggest you go through the appropriate channels, assuming you’re authorized to ask those questions.”

“We’re not going anywhere unless you want to explain why a so-called security consultant is so eager to keep us away,” Raven said.

Chelsey wished Raven wouldn’t challenge this man.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said. “I’m giving you a warning. Don’t come back. Don’t bother Mr. Edgar again. And don’t think for a second that my people won’t know if you do.”

“Your people?” Chelsey glanced at Raven, then back at the man. “You’re making this a bigger issue than it needs to be. Does Mr. Edgar have something to hide?”

He lifted a phone. “I’m calling the police in three seconds. Three, two, one—”

“Fine. We’re leaving.”

38

The night wrapped around Thomas as he leaned out the bedroom window in Noah Vale’s apartment. LeVar eased onto the narrow ledge. His boots scraped against the weathered stone.

Thomas worked his jaw back and forth as he watched LeVar inch his way along the precarious path.

“LeVar, you don’t need to prove a point,” Thomas said. “Come back in. We can figure this out another way.”

LeVar looked over his shoulder. “Relax, Shep. I’ve got this. You want a print, right?”

Behind Thomas, Russo and Aguilar hovered.

The trooper rubbed her forehead. “This is insane. We’ve got protocols for a reason. If he falls—”

“Don’t even say it,” Aguilar said, her eyes glued to LeVar. “LeVar, come back inside. Now.”

LeVar ignored them, his flashlight sweeping across the brick and mortar as he crouched. “I’ll find the evidence. People don’t just climb up a ledge without leaving something behind.”

“I don’t want you to fall.”

“Oh, you actually care about me, Aguilar?”

“Don’t push it.”

“You know,” LeVar said, “Hollow John wouldn’t leave a fingerprint, right? He’s a ghost.”

“Funny, LeVar. Now would you come inside before you’re a ghost too?”

The wind picked up. Above the junior deputy’s head, a gutter rattled.

“That’s enough,” Thomas said. “Get back inside before—”

“Got it!” LeVar yelled. He straightened, balancing as he pulled a dusting kit from his jacket pocket. “There’s a print on the ledge, and I don’t think it came from a pigeon. Or a ghost.”

“I don’t like him being out there alone,” Aguilar said.

Thomas hesitated for a moment before deciding. “LeVar, hold tight. I’m coming out.”

“What?” Russo asked. “Sheriff, we don’t need two people risking life and limb.”

He didn’t listen to the state trooper. As he hoisted himself out onto the ledge, his boots found a tenuous grip on the narrow surface. Holding his breath, he inched toward LeVar, one hand gripping the wall for balance. The drop would shatter every bone in his body.

“You’re crazier than me, Shep Dawg,” LeVar said.

“Or maybe I just don’t want you to fall,” Thomas said. “Where’s this print?”

LeVar pointed to a faint smudge on the brick, almost invisible under the beam of his flashlight. “Right there.”

“It has to be from our killer.”

“Bet. Who else would be out here? I doubt the super spends much time on the ledge.”

“Stop making jokes and finish the job. Here.” Thomas removed a strip of clear tape and pressed it over the print. He peeled it away slowly, preserving the ridge patterns. “You did well, LeVar. I’ll get this analyzed. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to get off this ledge before both of us hit the concrete.”

“See? Told you I had this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a habit of scaling buildings.”

The two men climbed into the apartment, where Russo and Aguilar grabbed their arms and steadied them.

“You’re both idiots,” Aguilar said. “Do you realize how much you scared us?”

“Could have broken your necks,” Russo said.

“Relax, we’re fine,” LeVar said, brushing dust from his jacket. “And now we’ve got the killer’s print.”

Now that he was on solid footing, Thomas could breathe again. He stared at the tape, his thoughts swirling. Something gnawed at him.

LeVar and Aguilar’s voices faded into the background as realization rocked him back on his heels.

The killer had been meticulous. Except for the horizontal ligature mark, everything about Noah’s death had pointed to suicide. And no evidence was left behind.

Whoever had killed the officer knew how the police thought and what they would look for. This wasn’t the work of a street-level thug or even a savvy gangster like Tariq Morello.

His stomach tightened. The thought was unthinkable, but it had been staring him in the face all along. The killer could be one of them. Someone inside the system.

Russo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Thomas?”

He looked up, finding all three of them staring at him. “What?”

“I said, what’s the plan?” Russo asked, gesturing to the tape in his hand. “We’ve got the print. Where is it going?”

He couldn’t take it to the Hartford Springs police department, not with Larsen and Barone gunning for him, not with the possibility that one of them was a killer. The entire department was compromised.

“Your lab,” he said, holding the tape out to Russo.

She blinked in surprise. “My lab? Why? The Hartford Springs forensics team is already working on the case. They have the equipment and hold jurisdiction.”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

“Sheriff, what aren’t you telling me?”

Thomas hesitated. The trust between them had been hard-earned, but what he suspected wasn’t something he could voice. Not yet.

“Talk to us, Shep,” LeVar said.

Aguilar glared at Thomas as if she were reading his thoughts.

“I need this to stay out of Hartford Springs PD’s hands for now,” Thomas said. “I’m not risking this evidence with the police.”

Russo studied him for a long moment. Then she took the tape from his hand. “I’ll run the print through the state lab. But you owe me an explanation when this is over.”

“You’ll get one,” Thomas promised.

She turned and headed for the door.

“What’s going on, Thomas?” LeVar asked. “Why can’t we trust the PD with this?”

“Not here, not now. Someone inside the investigation is pulling the strings. And if I’m right, that print will lead us to Noah’s killer.”

“It’s a cop,” Aguilar said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

If Thomas was wrong, the investigation would blow up in his face.

But if he was right, Noah Vale’s murderer was closer than any of them realized.

39

Two deputies on the graveyard shift worked inside the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. Thomas, LeVar, and Aguilar passed them on their way to his office. The usual hum of activity had died down for the night.

Thomas stared at his phone screen. He’d missed three calls from Chief Milham.

Staring at the screen, Thomas thought he owed the chief an explanation. By now, Milham must have learned that Thomas was inside Noah Vale’s apartment with Trooper Russo. But he couldn’t tip his hand.

A troubling thought seeped into Thomas’s mind. Was Chief Milham Hollow John?

“Are you going to call him back?” Aguilar asked.

“Not tonight,” Thomas said, dropping the phone onto his desk. “Milham can wait until I know who we’re dealing with.”

LeVar pulled up a chair and sat, his posture casual but his expression serious. “You think he’s just angry about us investigating the apartment, or does he suspect we know who murdered Officer Vale?”

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “The chief isn’t stupid. Milham’s been doing this long enough to know when someone’s holding back. One thing is for certain: We need Russo to tell us who that print belongs to.”

“It’s almost midnight, Sheriff,” Aguilar said. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

“No, I’ll stay. Go home. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

LeVar shook his head. “You really think we’re leaving you to catch a murderer alone? Not a chance.”

Aguilar smirked, pulling up another chair. “If you’re staying, we’re staying. Someone has to make sure you don’t fall asleep at your desk.”

“You’re both as stubborn as they come, you know that?” Thomas asked.

“Comes with the territory. Besides, if someone’s gunning for us, I’d rather we stick together.”

“You make a valid point.”

The names of the Hartford Springs officers churned in his mind as Thomas stared at the blank notepad in front of him, each carrying its own weight of suspicion. Aguilar sat to his right, legs crossed, and LeVar slouched against the wall, twirling a pen between his fingers.

“I think better when I put my ideas on paper,” Thomas said, writing. “Noah didn’t take his own life. Someone staged the suicide. And if we’re right about this print leading us to the police, we need to think about who had the opportunity and the motive.”

“Chief Milham tops the list,” said Aguilar. “He runs the department. If he wanted to cover something up, he’s in the perfect position to do it. Milham controls the reports and can make evidence disappear.”

LeVar shook his head. “But why? What does Milham gain by taking out a rookie cop?”

“Maybe Noah had dirt on Milham.”

“If you ask me, the chief is too mousy to harbor secrets or murder one of his own,” Thomas said. “Milham’s problem is he lets his officers run wild.”

“Which brings us to Larsen,” Aguilar said. “He’s the one who found Noah. Larsen had the first crack at the scene and plenty of time to doctor the evidence.”

That made sense.

“Larsen was critical of Noah Vale,” Thomas said. “And he never misses an opportunity to point out that Noah died on my watch.”

“Classic deflection.” LeVar tapped the pen against his knee. “Then there’s JJ Lynch, Noah’s partner. He knew Noah better than anyone.”

“But why would Lynch kill his partner?”

“Put him on your list,” Aguilar said.

“Done,” Thomas said.

Thomas wrote Larsen’s and Lynch’s names. For now, he omitted Chief Milham.

“But what about Barone? He’s the loudest voice in the room, and he hates you.”

Yes, Barone.

“He refused to let me near the crime scene. Maybe he knew I would find evidence linking him to the apartment.”

“He’s your man, Thomas,” Aguilar said. “I don’t trust that guy.”

“Barone’s hostility toward me makes him the most obvious suspect. He’s defensive, combative, and went out of his way to shut me out.”

“But if he did it, what was the motive? Personal vendetta? Protecting someone else?”

“Could be both,” Thomas said.

When the phone rang, all three of them jumped.

Aguilar stared at Thomas. “Russo is calling. It’s time for the unmasking.”

“This is it,” Thomas said, picking up the phone. Aguilar and LeVar hovered over his desk, their expressions mirroring his anticipation.

“Trooper Russo,” he said. “What have you got?”

“Nothing yet, Sheriff,” Russo said. “The state system is hanging. It’s been glitching all night, and they’re working on getting it back online. Might be another hour before we get a match.”

Thomas closed his eye. “An hour?”

“At least,” Russo said. “Believe me, I’m just as annoyed as you are. But we won’t get answers until the system decides to cooperate.”

“Thanks for letting us know. Call me the second you hear something.”

“You’ll be the only call I make,” Russo promised. “Hang tight.”

The sheriff set down the phone.

“Well, that’s a buzzkill,” LeVar said.

Aguilar chewed her lip. “We’re stuck until their system catches up. Figures. Since we’re in limbo for a while, do you mind if I make a sandwich?”

“Help yourself,” Thomas said. “I put a package of roast beef in the refrigerator this morning.”

“Want me to make you one?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take a sandwich,” LeVar said, raising his hand.

“Why am I not surprised?”

As Aguilar left the office, the phone on Thomas’s desk rang again.

“Russo already?” LeVar asked.

“Has to be,” Thomas said, snatching the phone. “Sheriff Shepherd.”

The voice on the other end made his stomach sink.

“Sherrif, it’s Chief Milham.”

If the chief was calling this late, something serious had happened. “How can I help you, Chief?”

“We’ve got a situation. Nathan Drake escaped.”

Thomas blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

“Drake is gone. He’s not in his cell, and we have no idea how he got out. Larsen thinks he must have been carrying a tool or something, and we missed it during the body search.”

Impossible.

“You’re telling me a seventeen-year-old escaped your holding facility, and nobody saw him leave? How the hell does that happen, Chief?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Milham said. “All I know is that the midnight shift found his cell empty. Nobody tampered with the lock.”

“But you have security cameras.”

The chief cleared his throat. “They went on the fritz about an hour before Drake vanished.”

“Nobody visited him?”

“No.”

“The cameras went down an hour before you lost the one person who might tell us who Hollow John is. Convenient timing, don’t you think?”

“Don’t start with me, Sheriff. I don’t have answers for you. My officers are combing the area, but Drake probably joined the other hoods near the apartment towers.”

LeVar mouthed, “What’s going on?”

Thomas held up a hand to quiet him. Nathan Drake had been terrified, practically begging for protection. Someone had either helped him escape—or silenced him before he could talk.

“Chief, where is Officer Barone?” Thomas asked.

“Barone? Why would you ask about him?”

“Just tell me.”

“Barone had a family emergency. He left the station a little over an hour ago.”

“Around the time Nathan Drake disappeared from his cell?”

“Yeah. What are you insinuating?”

“Someone murdered Officer Noah Vale, and your officers claimed it was a suicide. Now you have an escaped teen linked to the drug ring Vale was investigating. Ask yourself who in your department had a reason to keep Nathan Drake quiet. And then ask why.”

When Milham spoke again, his voice was grim. “You’re saying Nathan Drake’s escape ties back to Vale’s death?”

“I’m saying your department has a larger problem than Nathan Drake.”

The line went silent.

“Chief?”

“I hope I’m misinterpreting, but it sounds to me like you believe Barone killed Vale. You had better have better proof than a suspicious ligature mark.”

The cards were on the table. Thomas knew he should have kept Milham in the dark until that fingerprint came back. But too many clues pointed to Barone.

“Find Officer Barone, Chief.”

“I’ll call him, but you are way off base with this.”

The call ended, leaving Thomas with the dead tone ringing in his ears.

“Nathan Drake escaped?” LeVar asked.

“Yeah. And Barone left the station, claiming he had a family emergency.”

Aguilar stood in the doorway with two sandwiches. “What did I miss?”

“You’d better sit down,” Thomas said.

40

Thomas needed answers. Russo still hadn’t called about the fingerprint, and they had to find something that linked Barone to Nathan Drake’s escape. The officer could have compromised the security cameras, then released Drake from his cell and told him to run.

“You’re sure about this, Sheriff?” Aguilar asked as she accessed a law enforcement internal database.

“I’m not sure about anything,” Thomas admitted. “But Barone is the piece that doesn’t fit. He’s angry, combative, and he prevented me from investigating Noah’s apartment.”

“Even if he’s hiding something, Barone can’t be Hollow John,” LeVar said. “That’s a stretch.”

“Is it? Someone staged Noah’s suicide, and I have a difficult time believing the murder was a gang hit. If Barone wants to scare people into silence, using Hollow John as a cover isn’t far-fetched.”

Aguilar appeared skeptical. “You’re saying Barone is the boogeyman of Hartford Springs? Hollow John is supposed to be this terrifying, larger-than-life figure. Barone doesn’t have that kind of presence.”

“Look, I don’t like the guy any more than you do,” said LeVar. “But this feels like a leap. Barone doesn’t scream ‘criminal mastermind.’”

“Find me something that ties Barone to the 315 Royals,” Thomas said. “Or prove that I’m wrong.”

Aguilar scrolled through Barone’s personnel file. “Disciplinary records. He’s got a couple of warnings for insubordination, but nothing major. No gaps in his work history, no transfers that stand out.”

“Check his finances.”

“Why?”

“Something tells me he’s earning more than the police department can pay him.”

LeVar navigated through Barone’s financial records. A moment later, he let out a low whistle. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

“What is?”

LeVar pointed to a line item on the screen. “Check it out. Barone bought a 2021 Dodge Charger last month. Fully loaded.”

“Is that an expensive car?” Aguilar asked.

“Are you from the planet earth? Yeah, it’s a $50,000 car. Barone bought it on a cop’s salary. That doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe he has savings or a side hustle. Or he’s in debt up to his ears.”

“No monthly payment,” LeVar added. “The dude paid cash. He shouldn’t be able to swing that unless he’s got money coming in from somewhere else.”

“The narcotics trade,” Thomas said.

“Bro, are you—”

LeVar stopped short. Thomas could tell from the look on the junior deputy’s face that he suddenly understood. Officer Barone was running drugs in Hartford Springs. It explained why the police hadn’t realized the Royals were in town. Barone would have told the gangsters how to avoid detection and warned them whenever a patrol was near.

Aguilar leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “It’s circumstantial. You’re building a case on a car loan and a terrible attitude.”

The ringing phone left no time to debate the issue. Thomas read the name on the screen.

“It’s Russo. This is it.” He lifted the phone. “Shepherd here.”

“It’s Russo,” the trooper said. “The system is online, and the results came back on that print.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a match. The print belongs to Officer Barone.”

The words hit like a hammer. Aguilar’s fingers fell still on the keyboard, and LeVar sat upright, his expression shifting to shock and anger.

“Barone,” Thomas said. “You’re certain?”

“Positive. The ridges were clear enough to leave no doubt. That print puts him on the ledge outside Noah Vale’s apartment,” Russo said. “Thomas, what the hell is going on?”

“It’s worse than we thought. Barone murdered Officer Noah Vale.”

“Why would he kill a fellow officer?”

“Because Vale was the only officer who believed the Royals were behind the narcotics trade, and Barone was running the Royals. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Does Milham know?”

“He will,” Thomas said. “I’ll call him as soon as we get off the phone.”

“If Barone realizes we’re onto him, he’ll bolt.”

“I agree. Meet me at the towers in one hour.”

Russo hissed. “At this time of night? That’s a death wish.”

“If we want to catch Barone, that’s where we’ll find him.”

After the call ended, LeVar pulled on his jacket. “So, it’s him. Barone is our killer.”

“I don’t see another explanation.” Thomas eyed his deputies. “I want both of you in full protective gear. We’re returning to the towers.”

41

Thomas led his deputies to the sheriff’s department armory. Inside the secure room, rows of gear lined the shelves—vests, helmets, tactical belts, and other equipment meant for the rare times their work required heavy protection.

“We’re not going in unprepared,” Thomas said, turning to LeVar and Aguilar. “Grab the reinforced vests and the ceramic plates. I don’t care if it feels like you’re carrying an extra twenty pounds. You’re wearing them.”

His deputies stared at each other but didn’t argue. They began suiting up.

LeVar pulled a tactical vest from the rack and examined it. “Level IV plates. These things stop rifle rounds, right?”

“Correct,” Thomas said. “Front and back. And don’t forget the side plates. I want every inch of your torso covered.”

Aguilar slipped into a vest and secured the straps over her shoulders and at her sides. She adjusted the fit, tugging it snug against her body. “Feels like wearing a concrete slab. But if it stops a bullet, I’m not complaining.”

The weight of the vest dragged LeVar’s chest and shoulders down as he donned it. “I could do without the ‘death trap’ vibe at the towers, though. What’s next? We need helmets, right?”

“Hundred percent,” Thomas said.

“Hey.”

“You rub off on me, LeVar.” Thomas handed each of them a high-cut tactical helmet equipped with padding and chin straps. “If there’s gunfire, this will save your skull.”

Aguilar frowned as she adjusted the straps. “These things pinch. Feels like my head’s in a vise.”

“Better a pinch than a hole.”

LeVar chuckled, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Shep Dawg, I think you just invented the worst bumper sticker ever.”

Thomas ignored him, pulling a vest from the rack for himself. He slipped it on and began fastening the straps.

“You’re not leaving without side plates,” Aguilar said, holding a pair out to him.

Thomas gave her a tired look but took the plates, sliding them into the pockets on either side of the vest. “Satisfied?”

“Almost,” Aguilar said, crossing her arms. “You’re wearing a helmet too.”

Thomas grabbed a helmet and fitted it over his head. “There. Now let’s move.”

LeVar finished gearing up and checked the Velcro on his gloves. “What’s the plan when we get to the towers? If Barone’s there, he won’t go quietly.”

“He’ll want to confront us head-on. That gives us an advantage.”

Aguilar picked up her sidearm, sliding it into her holster before grabbing a shotgun from the rack. “Let’s hope he doesn’t bring backup. The Royals won’t hesitate to make a stand.”

His gaze hard, Thomas nodded. “That’s why we’re doing this by the book. The state troopers will meet us in forty-five minutes. We’re not taking any unnecessary risks. Everyone stays together, and no one moves without my say-so.”

The three of them stood ready, their gear adding a layer of gravity to the moment. In Thomas’s mind, the towers loomed. During the day, the apartments made him squeamish; at night, they would be nothing short of terrifying.

They were halfway to the door when Chelsey entered the building. She stopped when she saw them. Her mouth hung open. “Thomas, what are you doing?”

“Chelsey, it’s almost one in the morning. You should be asleep at home.”

“How can I sleep when you don’t answer your messages?”

Thomas checked the phone and realized he’d turned off his notifications. Aguilar cocked an accusatory eyebrow at him.

“My mistake,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to worry you, but we have a situation.”

He could see the worry on her face.

“You wouldn’t put on tactical gear unless…Thomas, you aren’t going to Hartford Springs at this time of night, are you?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Let the police handle it.”

“I’m in this mess because of the police. Look, I don’t have time to explain.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Oh, no. I won’t sleep while the man I love risks his life. Let me come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

Chelsey started to argue, but LeVar led her a few steps away and said something that seemed to satisfy her.

“You had better call me the second this is over,” Chelsey said.

“I promise. Sorry, hon. We need to leave.”

The team pushed through the door and piled into Thomas’s cruiser. As Thomas clipped his seatbelt, he turned back to LeVar. “What did you say to Chelsey?”

“Nothing, Shep. Drive.”

“Tell me, LeVar.”

He blew out a breath. “That I’ll make sure nothing happens to you before your wedding day.”

42

The night was pitch-black as Thomas, Aguilar, and LeVar pulled into the rendezvous point two blocks from the towers. A cluster of state trooper vehicles was already waiting, their engines idling. Trooper Russo stepped out of her cruiser, followed by her partner Burns and half a dozen additional troopers, all geared up in tactical vests and helmets.

Russo approached. “Sheriff, my team is here. How do you want to handle this?”

Thomas adjusted his helmet. “We’re dealing with two objectives tonight: capturing Barone and disrupting the Royals’ drug trade. But let’s be clear. Innocent people live in those buildings, and their safety comes first.”

“Understood. We can’t let this turn into a war zone. How do you want to approach?”

Thomas gestured for everyone to gather around the hood of his cruiser. He removed a folded map of the towers from his pocket and spread it out. Overhead, a streetlight flickered.

“The towers have two main entrances on the ground floor,” Thomas said. “We’ll divide into three teams. Russo, you and Burns will take four troopers and cover the north entrance. I’ll take Aguilar and LeVar and cover the south. The remaining troopers will form a perimeter to ensure no one slips out.”

“What about backup?” Burns asked. “Do we have additional units on standby?”

“Not tonight,” Russo said. “This is as good as it gets. We’re stretched thin.”

“We have to get this right the first time,” Thomas said. “Russo, once we’re inside, your team will take the first tower. We’ll take the second. Floor-to-floor searches, quiet and controlled. We’re not looking to start a firefight.”

“And if Barone or the Royals resist?” Russo asked.

“Neutralize the threat. The last thing I want is collateral damage.”

Russo glanced at her troopers, then back at Thomas. “What’s the contingency if Barone isn’t in the towers?”

“We’ll regroup and reassess,” Thomas said. “But if he’s not here, he’s close. Barone has too much riding on his little operation. He’ll want to get rid of us and reestablish the narcotics trade in Treman Mills or some other town.”

Burns worked a knot out of his shoulder. “Do you really have proof that Barone murdered Officer Vale? All that fingerprint says is he was on the ledge.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to arrest a fellow officer unless I was sure.”

The group exchanged tense glances before Russo spoke. “All right. You’ve got your orders. Follow Sheriff Shepherd’s lead.”

NATHAN DRAKE DARTED THROUGH AN ALLEYWAY, his breath coming in gasps as his sneakers slapped against the pavement. The lights of the basketball court shone in the distance, the chain-link fence glinting under the streetlights. He didn’t stop, didn’t dare look back.

He’d been running since he slipped out of his cell. The door had been inexplicably ajar when he awakened. It hadn’t made sense until freedom beckoned.

You stay here, you die. That nagging thought had been all he needed to slip out of the police station before the officers realized their mistake.

Now, with the towers ahead of him, Drake searched for Tariq Morello. Tariq would help him. The gangster wouldn’t leave one of his runners out to dry, especially not someone like Nathan, who knew just enough to be useful but not enough to be dangerous.

A rustle behind him made Drake freeze mid-step. He turned, his chest heaving, and searched the empty street.

Nothing.

The shadows shifted, but it was only the breeze nudging a garbage bag across the ground. Nathan swallowed and forced himself to move again. He couldn’t stop until he found a safe harbor.

Drake rounded a corner and ducked into an alley flanked by dumpsters and sagging fire escapes. The smell of rotting food and something chemical clung to the air, making his nose burn. He pressed himself against a brick wall.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

He peered around the corner toward the towers, but no one was there. He’d expected to see Tariq, or at least a couple of the Royals holding down their usual spots near the lot. Instead, the place was strangely vacant.

Where was everyone?

Footsteps scuffed behind him. This time, it wasn’t the wind or a stray animal. Someone was following him.

And he didn’t have a weapon.

The alley stretched into an endless corridor of shadows and feeble light. He took a step back, then another, his eyes darting from one dark corner to the next.

A figure moved at the far end of the alley.

“Tariq?”

The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it stopped, half-shrouded in shadow, and seemed to tilt its head as if studying him.

Drake’s legs tensed, ready to run, but his feet felt like lead. “I don’t want any trouble, okay? I just need to lie low until the cops stop looking for me. That’s all.”

The stranger stepped forward until Drake made out the outline of a hooded jacket. The figure stuffed his hands into his pockets. Was he packing a gun?

“Tariq? That you?”

The whisper seemed to come from everywhere at once, hissing on a snake’s tongue.

“You know who I am, boy.”

The words slithered through the air, wrapping around him like smoke, soft and sinister. They didn’t belong to Tariq. They didn’t belong to anyone human.

Drake’s mind screamed for him to move, to run, but his legs locked, useless and frozen. The voice—it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Hollow John. He was real.

“I never saw your face,” Drake protested.

The figure tilted its head, the motion unnatural, like a marionette pulled by strings. Slowly, it took another step forward, its face still obscured by the hood. But there was something about its posture—crooked, wrong, like the bones didn’t fit right under the skin.

The shadows around the figure seemed to ripple, bending and stretching. The figure appeared to lurch forward, though it hadn’t moved.

“I can’t allow you to talk,” it said.

Drake stumbled back, his heel catching on a crack in the pavement. He went down hard. Pain lanced up his wrist as it shattered against the pavement. The world tilted, the monster feeling impossibly far away one moment and suffocatingly close the next.

No. Drake was hallucinating.

It was the dark and the fear playing games with his mind.

Yet, as the stranger approached, Drake couldn’t pretend the monster wasn’t real.

The hood turned the figure’s eyes into empty, black voids that pinned the boy in place. His wrist hung cockeyed, but he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Not with death so close.

Hollow John spread his arms wide, as if inviting the boy to share an unholy embrace.

That’s when a hand reached out of the night and clasped Drake’s mouth from behind. The boy had no chance to fight before two powerful arms wrapped around his throat and snapped his neck.

43

Thomas led the deputies and troopers through the apartment complex surrounding the towers. The hum of distant traffic was the only sound, broken occasionally by the creak of an unsecured gate. Darkness pooled beyond the streetlights, making every turn a potential ambush.

He held up a fist, signaling for the team to halt. Russo, Aguilar, and LeVar stopped. The troopers fanned out.

Ahead, the alleyway snaked between the two towers. Movement caught Thomas’s eye. A silhouette shifted in the dark.

“Hold,” he whispered. He pointed toward the figure. “There.”

The team froze, weapons raised, eyes locked on the shadow. Aguilar stepped to Thomas’s right with a shotgun braced against her shoulder. LeVar took a knee and aimed his service pistol.

“Come out!” Russo called. “Hands where we can see them!”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, a figure emerged from the night. A man in his late fifties shuffled into the light. He grasped a rusty shotgun that looked older than he was. His eyes were wide.

“Drop the weapon,” Thomas said.

The man froze. “Wait, wait. I’m not one of the Royals.”

“Drop it!” Russo ordered, stepping forward, her weapon trained on his chest.

The man hesitated, then bent to set the shotgun on the ground. He raised his hands, his fingers trembling. “I live here. Apartment C-12. My name’s Henry Fulton. Don’t shoot.”

Thomas stepped closer, his weapon still drawn. “What are you doing out here with a gun, Mr. Fulton?”

Henry licked his lips and glanced around the alley. “Some of us tenants, we’ve had enough of the gang activity. We’re keeping watch and making sure they don’t bring their mess too close to our doors.”

“You’re running a vigilante group?” Russo asked.

“We’re not vigilantes. We’re just tired of waiting for the cops to care. Someone has to protect the people who live here.”

LeVar lowered his pistol. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But you’re going to get yourself killed walking around in the dark with a shotgun.”

His shoulders slumping, Henry looked away. “What choice do we have?”

Russo secured the man’s weapon. Burns stepped forward and patted him down.

“Clean,” Burns said.

Good. Thomas wanted to trust this person.

“Have you seen anything tonight, Mr. Fulton?” Thomas asked. “Anyone who doesn’t belong here?”

“About an hour ago,” Henry said. “Tariq Morello and three of his boys. They were at the far end of the lot, near the playground.”

“Did you see where they went?”

“They headed toward the towers,” Henry said. “Couldn’t see much after that. Didn’t stick around. Figured it was safer to keep out of sight.”

“Wise move,” Aguilar said.

“Get back to your apartment,” Thomas said. “Stay inside and lock your doors. We’ll take it from here.”

Henry hesitated. “I want my shotgun.”

“No can do. Talk to me after all of this is over.”

As Henry disappeared inside, Russo muttered, “This place is a powder keg waiting to go off.”

“To the towers. Move.”

In the south tower, the smell clinging to the air was like a cocktail of neglect. Thomas led the way, his boots quiet on the floor as the team moved toward the stairwell. LeVar was just behind him, Aguilar bringing up the rear.

The narrow space was lit by a single dying bulb. Shadows made the stairway feel tighter than it was. Echoing footsteps filled the space, a rhythmic reminder of how exposed they were.

LeVar stiffened. “Thomas. Up there.”

Thomas followed his gaze. On the landing of the second floor, a figure leaned against the railing, his posture casual. But there was nothing casual about the smirk on Tariq Morello’s face.

“Morello,” LeVar said.

The gangster’s eyes gleamed with amusement. Why wasn’t he running from them? Then he bolted up the stairs.

“Don’t let him get away,” Thomas said, taking the steps two at a time.

They raced upward, the stairwell narrowing as they ascended. Thomas could hear Morello above; every sound ricocheted off the walls.

The third-floor landing came into view. Morello reached it first and disappeared behind the corner.

The sheriff stepped into the hallway. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and the smell of urine was strong.

He saw them. Gangsters. Dozens of them with guns. They lined the hallway.

The 315 Royals were here. And Thomas had led his deputies into a bloodbath.

Tariq Morello stepped forward. “You’re a long way from Wolf Lake, Sheriff.”

Thomas’s grip on his weapon tightened. “Show me your hands. All of you.”

They all looked at each other and laughed. Behind Thomas, Aguilar called for backup. Even with the state troopers, they were outnumbered.

The laughter stopped. Then, as if on cue, the gangsters closed in.

The sheriff didn’t know who fired the first shot. One second, he was face-to-face with Morello; the next, he was face-down on the floor with Aguilar dragging him around the corner.

A bullet ripped through the wall. Plaster rained on Thomas’s head.

Aguilar and LeVar fired suppressive shots, desperately trying to keep the gangsters at bay. They were all going to die.

As the 315 Royals charged, a swarm of shadows filled the stairwell. Russo’s team had arrived.

Gunfire erupted. The shots drove the Royals down the hallway. One bullet found its mark and drove a gangster against the wall, where he slumped and bled.

Another Royal hit the floor in a spray of crimson. The tide turned. Thomas and his deputies surged forward with the state troopers dropping the gangsters, one by one.

Aguilar and LeVar fired controlled shots, the crack of their weapons deafening in the confined space. The gangsters scrambled for cover, some returning fire, others retreating into the surrounding apartments.

“Tariq Morello!” Thomas shouted, his eyes locking on the gangster at the far end of the hall.

“Get Morello! We’ve got them now!” Aguilar yelled over the noise, reloading her shotgun.

Thomas darted after Morello, weaving past a fallen door splintered by a stray bullet. He barreled through an open apartment door just in time to see Morello leap onto the windowsill. Was the gangster insane? It was a three-story drop.

“Don’t do it, Tariq,” Thomas said, skidding to a stop.

“Catch me if you can, Sheriff.” With a laugh, Morello launched himself out the window.

Thomas raced to the sill, his stomach lurching as he looked down. The fire escape below rattled violently, but Morello wasn’t on it. A single streak of blood on the sill glistened in the moonlight.

Three floors below, a patch of empty concrete mocked the sheriff. Morello was gone.

44

Thomas sprinted around the south tower, his breath clouding in the night. The firefight raged on the third floor and spilled into the stairwells. He blocked out the cacophony.

Tariq Morello couldn’t have gotten far. The blood trail Thomas followed confirmed the gangster was injured.

As Thomas rounded the corner of the second tower, he froze. Morello slumped against the brick wall, clutching his leg. His face was twisted in pain, sweat slicking his forehead. His jeans were torn, revealing a jagged, swollen mess of a shin that told Thomas the gangster’s escape had come at a steep cost.

“End of the line, Morello,” Thomas said as he raised his weapon.

Morello looked up. “Took you long enough.”

“Hands where I can see them. Now.”

The gangster winced but complied, raising his hands slowly. “What are you going to do? Arrest me without your friends to help?”

Thomas kept his weapon trained on Morello. He pulled out his cuffs, snapping one end around the gangster’s wrist. “You’re done, Tariq. Whatever game you’ve been playing, it’s over.”

“Game?” Morello let out a rasping laugh. “Oh, Sheriff. You watch too many movies.”

“Who is Hollow John?”

The crunch of gravel behind him made Thomas’s gut twist. He turned his head to see a figure emerging from the shadows, a gun in hand.

Officer Barone stepped into the light. He kept the gun low but pointed toward Thomas, the implication clear.

“Looks like you found Hollow John, Sheriff,” Barone said.

“I knew it was you.”

“Did you, now?”

“You don’t give a crap about Chief Milham’s orders. The only reason you kept me out of Noah’s apartment was so you could cover yourself. But you missed the fingerprint on the ledge.”

“No matter,” Barone said. “You’re going to die now, Sheriff. And as far as Hartford Springs is concerned, Hollow John will remain nothing more than a legend.”

“The troopers have your print. Everyone is searching for you.”

“Think I care? When Hollow John disappears, nobody finds him. Not even you.”

Before Thomas could react, Barone pressed the barrel against Morello’s forehead and pulled the trigger. A splash of blood. The silencer muted the gunfire, though it was loud enough to make Thomas’s ears ring.

Now the gun was pointed at Thomas again.

“Why would you kill Morello?”

“Because he saw our faces.”

“Our faces?”

Thomas’s blood ran cold as he processed Barone’s words. He remembered the story of Hollow John appearing in two different locations outside the towers. Hollow John wasn’t a ghost. There were two people wearing his mask.

In the darkness, another voice spoke.

“Drop your weapon, Sheriff. It’s two against one.”

Thomas didn’t have to turn to recognize the voice. Officer JJ Lynch.

Slowly, Thomas raised his hands. Lynch had been Noah’s partner.

“Two of you,” Thomas said. “It makes sense now. Noah Vale trusted you, Lynch. He probably told you everything about the Royals.”

Lynch’s voice was tight, almost regretful. “He did. And that was his mistake.”

Thomas lowered his weapon. “How could you kill your friend?”

Barone chuckled. “Why does anyone do anything, Shepherd? Money. Power. Noah stood in the way. He thought being a cop meant something. But when you dig into the Royals’ cash flow, you find opportunities.”

“Noah figured out what was happening in this town, and instead of helping him, you silenced him.”

“He didn’t leave me a choice,” Lynch said. “No matter how many times I told him there wasn’t a drug problem, he wouldn’t let it go. Then he figured out why the patrol units were never around when the Royals did their business.”

“Because they had two police officers looking out for them.”

“Bravo.” Barone told Lynch, “Remove his helmet. I don’t care if this gets messy.”

Lynch did as Barone said. Now Thomas had nothing to protect his head.

“I’m going to take you down,” the sheriff said.

“And I’d like to see you try. Let’s finish this, Lynch. It sounds like the fight in the tower is almost over.”

Thomas stared at Lynch. “Don’t listen to him. There’s no point in running. If you disappear with Barone, the police will know you worked together.”

“Shut up.” Barone stepped closer, the silencer on his pistol aimed squarely at Thomas’s forehead. “Enough talking. Time to say goodnight, Sheriff.”

Thomas tensed, ready to die. All he needed was a split-second opening, a mistake, anything to turn the tide.

Before Barone pulled the trigger, his head snapped around to footfalls racing out of the south tower. Lynch cursed under his breath.

“Deputies and state troopers,” Thomas said. “If you pull the trigger, both of you will die.”

Barone growled, his pistol still trained on Thomas. “We need to go.”

But Lynch hesitated, his gaze darting toward the approaching army.

Thomas seized the moment. In a blur, he dropped to the ground, rolled to the side, and kicked Barone’s feet out from under him. Barone’s shot went wide.

Thomas retrieved his service weapon and fired twice, hitting Barone in the leg to send him sprawling with a shout of pain. Lynch turned, his gun shaking as he tried to aim, but the hesitation cost him.

Armed officers swarmed around Lynch and Barone.

“Drop your weapons!” Russo shouted, her voice commanding.

Lynch froze, his gun slipping from his grasp. He sank to his knees, his face pale and defeated.

Thomas rose to his feet.

Barone writhed on the ground, clutching his leg.

“You were right about Barone,” LeVar said. “But—”

“Yes, we were chasing two Hollow Johns,” Thomas said, staring at the two officers.

45

At six in the morning, Chelsey fit the key into the door of Wolf Lake Consulting and fought off a yawn. Thomas hadn’t arrived home until four, and now he was asleep in their bed, with Jack and Tigger snuggled against him.

Thank goodness Thomas had come home to her. Upon arriving, all he’d said was the state troopers and police had arrested two police officers for masterminding a narcotics operation in Hartford Springs. Sworn officers turning against their department and the public seemed unthinkable, yet it had happened. Chelsey suspected Thomas held back on the details to keep her from worrying.

Now, as she hung her coat in the hallway closet, she was surprised to sniff toast coming from the kitchen. She peeked out the window, and sure enough, LeVar’s Chrysler sat against the fence. How had she passed the car without noticing?

LeVar worked at the counter, spreading peanut butter onto his toast. A plate with another half-eaten slice lay on the table next to a mug of coffee.

“Shouldn’t you be at home, catching up on sleep after all you went through?” she asked.

“Morning to you too, Chelsey. You know me. I don’t need much sleep. Just enough caffeine and carbs to keep me going.”

Chelsey raised an eyebrow. “You were in a firefight, arrested two dirty cops, and it’s not even twelve hours later. You should pass out for at least a day.”

LeVar chuckled, taking a bite of toast. “Tried that. Lay down, closed my eyes, and all I saw was Barone’s ugly mug and those Royals scattering like roaches. Figured I’d come here and clear my head.”

“And your idea of unwinding is raiding the kitchen?”

The boy gestured dramatically at the toast and coffee. “This is hardly a hotel-quality continental breakfast.”

“Hartford Springs must have been difficult for you.”

He leaned back against the counter. “You know, Chelsey, I’m good at shaking off the adrenaline. But last night hit different. Dirty cops? Man, that mess hit close to home. Got me thinking about how easy it is for good people to slip. And how close we were to losing a lot of innocents in those towers. But the way I see it, last night was a win. A messy, ugly win, but a win nonetheless. Thomas got the bad guys. Hartford Springs is safe, and hey…” He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “I got this sweet gourmet spread out of it.”

Chelsey rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re impossible. Will you let me make you a real breakfast?”

“Don’t tempt me,” LeVar said. “But nah, I’m good. You got work to do. Besides, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“As in?”

“That Randy Mercer investigation.” LeVar set his coffee down, his expression turning serious. “You ever have something stick in your head, even though it doesn’t really make sense at first?”

“All the time. It comes with the territory. What are you getting at?”

“Remember the story from Kane Grove I told you about? I saw this normal-looking dude, nothing special. Business suit, nice tie, briefcase. Just another working stiff heading home to his wife and kids. But something about him hit me. Struck a nerve, you know?”

“Do you know him?”

“No. But he made me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

LeVar locked eyes with her. “What if Randy Mercer isn’t dead? What if nobody killed him?”

“You think Mercer just up and vanished? Left his family, his business, all of it?”

“The guy was paranoid. He withdrew all that money and funneled it through those shell companies.”

Chelsey hesitated. The idea sounded crazy, but not impossible. Plus, she couldn’t confirm Mercer’s background. Even the professors at his universities didn’t remember a Randy Mercer. “You’re saying Mercer wanted to start a new life?”

“Maybe he’s a no-good creep who fell in love with another woman and skipped town on his family. He couldn’t face the music, so he made it seem as if his enemies had killed him.” LeVar shrugged. “What if Mercer is living under a new name?”

LeVar’s theory explained a lot—the missing money, the lack of a motive for murder, the dead ends they kept running into.

Then Chelsey thought of William Edgar’s appearance. Hadn’t he looked twenty years younger than he should? Plastic surgery could do more than remove a few wrinkles. New name, new face.

“You might be onto something, LeVar.”

“If I’m right, I want to be there when you take him down.”

An hour later, Raven strode in with a tumbler of iced coffee. Her sharp eyes jumped from Chelsey to LeVar, who sat at Chelsey’s desk, surrounded by files and a computer screen with a half-loaded webpage.

“Morning,” Raven said, setting aside her drink. “You two look like you’ve been plotting the heist of the century. What’s up?”

“We might have cracked the Mercer case, or at least found an alternative angle,” Chelsey said.

Raven pulled out a chair. “Do tell.”

LeVar wore a conspiratorial grin on his face. “What if Randy Mercer isn’t dead? What if he faked his disappearance and started a new life?”

“Mercer left his wife and kids high and dry?” Raven blinked, then let out a short laugh. “That’s your theory?”

“Think about it,” Chelsey said, pushing a photo of William Edgar across the table. “We traced Mercer’s missing money to a shell company owned by Edgar. What if Edgar is Mercer? He had the means, and if he fell in love with another woman, he had the motive.”

Raven studied the photo, her expression shifting to one of curiosity. “You’re saying he altered his face?”

“Plastic surgery. The story isn’t far-fetched.”

“And Edgar’s age doesn’t match his appearance,” Raven agreed. “He looks too young for a middle-aged man. Plus, his background doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. Okay, let’s say you’re right. How do we prove Edgar is Mercer?”

Chelsey thought for a moment. “There’s one person who might still recognize him. Melany Mercer.”

“You want to bring his wife to Millport?”

“She deserves the truth,” LeVar said. “If Edgar is Mercer, Melany will know. Maybe it’s something in his mannerisms or in the way he says certain words. Surgery can’t erase a personality. Plus, Randy Mercer’s reaction will be priceless.”

“But what if Edgar isn’t Mercer?” Raven asked.

“That’s the risk,” Chelsey said. “But this case has been nothing but dead ends and unanswered questions. If Randy Mercer is leading the good life with his former family’s money, we need to expose him.”

46

While Chelsey lowered the sun visor, Melany Mercer sat in the backseat of the Honda Civic, her hands clasped in her lap. Raven lounged beside Melany, trying to remain nonchalant. LeVar, riding shotgun, was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes fixed on the road as Chelsey guided the car toward Millport. Chelsey suspected LeVar was more exhausted than he would ever admit.

“This feels strange,” Melany said finally, her voice tinged with both curiosity and unease. “Why all the secrecy? You haven’t even told me who this William Edgar is.”

Chelsey looked at her in the rearview mirror with a neutral expression. “We’re not trying to keep you in the dark, Melany. Edgar’s name came up in connection with one of the shell companies we believe Randy might have formed.”

“And you think this Edgar guy knows something about my husband?”

“If Edgar had dealings with Randy before he disappeared, he might have the answers we’ve been searching for,” Raven said.

“But why bring me? Wouldn’t it be better to confront this Edgar directly?”

Chelsey hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “We’re not looking to confront him. We want you to see him first. Perhaps you’ll recognize him from your husband’s business ventures. Sometimes, a fresh pair of eyes can notice things we might miss.”

“Like what?”

LeVar turned his head. “You knew Randy better than anyone. If there’s even a chance Edgar and Randy crossed paths, or if Edgar knows more than he’s letting on, you’ll be able to sense it.”

Melany hesitated, then said, “This is about more than shell companies, isn’t it? You think Edgar had something to do with Randy’s disappearance.”

“William Edgar might hold the key to unraveling what really happened to Randy. And you deserve to know the truth,” Chelsey said.

The car fell into an uneasy silence as they turned onto Harborview Road. Budding tree branches swayed in the spring breeze. Chelsey parked near Edgar’s house, hoping the security despot wouldn’t show up and prevent Melany from recognizing her missing husband.

“This is it,” Chelsey said.

The house stood quiet and imposing, its curtains drawn as if guarding whatever secrets lay inside.

“Are we just going to sit here?” Melany asked, craning her neck to peer through the windshield.

Raven handed the woman a pair of binoculars. “Take these. William Edgar has a routine. He usually comes out during the midmorning to check the mail. When he does, we want you to get a good look.”

Melany gripped the binoculars as if they might burn her. “And if I recognize him?”

“Then you’ll tell us where you recognize him from,” said LeVar.

Her knuckles whitening around the binoculars, Melany pressed her lips into a tight line. Nobody left the house.

Twenty minutes later, Melany seemed ready to protest and tell the investigators to take her home. Then the garage door yawned open. Chelsey stiffened. Everyone’s eyes snapped to the house, but instead of William Edgar, a teenage girl rolled out on a bicycle. She was lanky and awkward, her helmet slightly askew as she pedaled down the driveway with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Who’s that?” Melany asked.

“That’s his oldest daughter,” Chelsey said. “Edgar’s married. He has two girls.”

“He has a family?”

Raven leaned forward, her tone careful. “Yes. But they’re his by marriage.”

“So the wife remarried?”

“Correct.”

Melany stared after the girl pedaling down the street. She was about to say something when Chelsey’s hand shot up, signaling for them to focus.

“There,” Chelsey whispered.

The front door opened and a man stepped out, his gait steady and relaxed as he hustled to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. William Edgar had ventured out of his home. He wore dark slacks and a button-up shirt, his sandy hair trimmed and combed. Wire-rimmed glasses lent him a scholarly composure.

Edgar scanned the street before opening the mailbox and retrieving a stack of envelopes.

Chelsey glanced back at Melany. “That’s William Edgar. Ever seen him before?”

Melany raised the binoculars. She focused the lenses on the man. At first, all she did was shake her head. Then her breath hitched.

She lowered the binoculars, her hands trembling. Then she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear a fog from her mind. “That’s him. That’s Randy.”

“Melany, are you sure?” Chelsey asked.

“The hair, the face—he’s different. But I know it’s him. I’d know my husband anywhere.” Her voice broke into a mixture of shock and anger. “How could he do this? How could he—”

Edgar—no, Randy—paused mid-stride, catching sight of the Honda Civic. His eyes narrowed in recognition as he raised a phone to his ear.

“Uh-oh,” Raven said. “He’s calling the fixer.”

“Watch her,” Chelsey started, but the back door of the Civic flew open.

Melany was already halfway out, her face a mask of fury and betrayal.

“Melany!” Raven lunged for the woman, but it was too late.

Randy froze in mid-conversation as Melany stormed up the driveway. His face drained of color, and his mouth opened in disbelief.

“Randy,” Melany spat. “You bastard.”

“I can explain,” he said as he stumbled backward. “What are you doing here?”

Her answer came in the form of a stinging slap across his face. The crack echoed down the street. Randy staggered, clutching his cheek, his eyes wide with shock.

“You left us!” Melany shouted, her voice shaking with anger. “You made everyone think you were dead! Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you put your family through?”

The man held up his hands, his voice trembling. “If you would just give me a second to explain…”

“Explain?” Melany cut him off, her hands balled into fists. “You took everything and left us to pick up the pieces. For another woman?”

Raven converged on them with Chelsey and LeVar right behind.

“Get ready to run interference,” Chelsey said. “He called his security guy.”

The roar of an engine caught their attention. Chelsey whipped her head around to see the black SUV barreling around the corner, its headlights shining despite the sunlight. The vehicle was a predator closing in on its prey.

“Oh, hell,” Raven said. “Fixer’s here. He must have been waiting nearby the whole time.”

The SUV screeched to a halt at the curb, the door flying open to reveal the same tall, broad-shouldered man from before. His dark jacket flared as he stepped out.

“I warned you not to harass Mr. Edgar,” the fixer said. “Now I’m calling the police.”

The front door flew open. Eleanor Edgar burst out of the house, a hand clamped over her mouth in shock. “William? What’s going on? Who are these people?”

“This lying coward is my husband,” Melany said.

Eleanor froze, her hand falling from her face as her gaze snapped to Randy. “What did she just say?”

“Eleanor, don’t listen to her,” Randy pleaded as he edged toward his wife. “She’s confused. The poor woman is mistaking me for someone else.”

Melany’s fury was unrelenting. “Wrong guy? I spent twenty years married to you, Randy Mercer. Only for you to vanish and start a new family?”

Eleanor’s face went pale, her lips trembling as she turned to Randy. “William,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “Is this true?”

Randy threw up his hands, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “Eleanor, there is a perfectly logical explanation.”

But his newest wife’s palm connected with his other cheek before he could finish. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

“Eleanor, honey, please. This is a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a misunderstanding!” Melany said, lunging at him.

Eleanor joined in, her face twisted with fury as she grabbed Randy by the collar. “You fraud! You’ve been lying to me this entire time!”

Between Melany’s shoves and Eleanor’s wild swats, Randy stumbled and whined, his arms flailing as he tried to ward off their combined assault.

“Ladies, please. Can’t we talk about this like rational adults?”

Melany jabbed a finger into his chest. “You lost the right to rationality when you faked your own death.”

Eleanor landed a solid swat to the back of his head. “And lied to me and my daughters. What kind of monster are you?”

The fixer hesitated, uncertain whether stepping in was worth the risk of the women turning on him next. He took one look at LeVar and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

LeVar folded his arms, grinning. “You know, I didn’t think I’d enjoy this. But man, this is some solid payback. Should we break up the fight?”

Chelsey pulled Melany away. “Maybe you should take a breather.”

Melany huffed but took a step back as Eleanor continued her tirade. “Fine. I’m done anyway. Mrs. Edgar, he’s all yours.”

Randy, his glasses askew and his shirt wrinkled from the scuffle, held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you everything. Just stop hitting me.”

Eleanor growled. “Start talking.”

As Randy straightened his glasses and tried to compose himself, Chelsey turned to the fixer. “Still think calling the police is a good idea?”

The fixer said nothing, his jaw tightening as he glanced from Randy to the seething women.

“Thought so,” Chelsey said.

“Randy Mercer,” Raven said, her voice sharp. “You’d better make it good, because your lies are unraveling faster than that shirt of yours.”

Randy’s shoulders slumped as he let out a long, defeated sigh.

47

What a headache he had.

Thomas stepped onto the back porch, shielding his eyes from the midday sun as Jack bounded ahead of him. The wolf-like dog nosed around the yard, tail wagging, oblivious to Thomas’s lingering migraine. He rubbed his temples, the dull ache a reminder of his sleepless night.

As Jack finished his business, Chelsey’s Civic pulled into the driveway, Raven in the passenger seat and LeVar in the back. The trio emerged from the vehicle, and the dog let out an excited woof.

Chelsey hurried to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Thomas asked. “You had an investigation to solve.”

“You look ill.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas said, though his voice was hoarse. “Just a headache. I’ll catch up on my shuteye tonight.”

LeVar swatted Thomas on the shoulder. “Bruh, you look like a vampire.”

Thomas snickered and did his best Dracula impression. “I vant to suck your blood. What brings you three to my humble castle?”

After a glance at Jack, who was sniffing around the base of a tree, Chelsey turned back to Thomas. “We’ve got news. But first, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Chelsey,” he insisted. “And I’ve got news too.”

“You first,” Raven said.

Thomas sat on the bottom step of the porch. “The mayor of Hartford Springs has had enough. He’s demanding Chief Milham step down and says the department’s corruption has gone unchecked for too long.”

“Wow,” LeVar said. “Milham is a staple in that town.”

“The fallout from Barone’s and Lynch’s arrests is massive. The mayor wants sweeping changes, new leadership, and an independent audit of the department. The works.”

LeVar whistled. “That’s a lot of housecleaning.”

“And it’s about time. The department was rotting from the inside. Noah paid the price for it, but he’s responsible for these changes. Hartford Springs will thank him forever.”

“What about Milham? Is he fighting it?” Raven asked.

“Word is he’s cooperating. Quietly. He knows his days are numbered.”

“And how are you handling it?”

“It’s bittersweet. If anyone had listened to Noah, the police could have stopped the Royals months ago.” Thomas picked a dandelion flower and tossed it into the grass. “Okay, let’s hear your big news.”

“Randy Mercer is alive,” said Chelsey.

“Alive? How is that possible?”

“We found him living under a new identity in Millport,” Raven said. “William Edgar. He has a wife, two daughters, and a picture-perfect life. Well, he had a perfect life.”

“How did you prove it was him?”

“Melany Mercer identified her husband,” Chelsey said. “Even with his altered face, she recognized him. And when we confronted him, he didn’t try to deny it.”

“Plastic surgery,” LeVar added. “Dude went all out to disappear. Faked his death, took the money, and started over.”

“So he abandoned his family, his life, everything. For what?” Thomas asked.

“For a beautiful new wife and a ton of moolah.”

Thomas straightened, his headache momentarily forgotten. “I can’t wait to tell Sheriff Gray. Randy Mercer’s disappearance always stuck in Gray’s craw.”

The buzz of an outboard motor interrupted the conversation. Darren maneuvered the boat toward the dock. The sun glinted off the water, its reflection dancing like sparks across the rippling surface of Wolf Lake. Jack’s ears perked up, and he bounded to the shore, barking enthusiastically.

“Now, that’s a sight,” LeVar said, shading his eyes with one hand.

Darren cut the motor and tossed a line to the cleat. “I heard everyone had a rough morning and figured you might need a break. Last night was eventful?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Chelsey said. “I’m grateful my future hubby came home in one piece.”

“I still can’t believe you two own a boat,” said Thomas.

“When you live by a lake, it’s a requirement. C’mon, Thomas. You look like you could use some sunshine,” Darren replied.

Thomas started to protest, but Chelsey placed her palms against his cheeks.

“We’ve earned a vacation day,” she said. “You’re the one always telling me to step back when things get too heavy.”

“I thought you were the one always telling me that.”

“See? Then we agree.”

Jack barked again, as if urging them along. Tigger appeared in the doorway, casting a bored glance at the commotion before padding back inside.

“All right,” Thomas said. “You win. Let’s ride.”

The group piled into the boat, Darren offering a hand to Chelsey as she stepped aboard. Jack leaped in without hesitation and found a spot near the bow to lie down. Raven took a seat next to Darren, who gunned the engine and guided the boat into the open water.

As the shoreline receded, the noise of the world seemed to fade, replaced by the soft slap of waves against the hull and the cries of gulls circling through the blue sky.

Chelsey leaned against Thomas, her hand slipping into his. “It’s been a long time since we’ve set everything aside and smiled.”

“Too long,” Thomas admitted. “It’s easy to forget there’s peace in the world when you’re always chasing trouble.”

Raven tipped down her sunglasses, her smirk visible even through the glare. “Speaking of trouble, what’s next? Saving the universe? Finding Bigfoot? I bet there is a Nessie creature in Wolf Lake.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Chelsey said.

LeVar stretched out, his legs dangling over the side. “For now, I’m good just relaxing. No sirens, no shots fired, no dirty cops. Just the lake, the sun, and maybe a nap if y’all stop talking.”

Laughter rippled through the group as Darren slowed the boat, letting it drift in the middle of the lake. The water sparkled like a field of stars, and the surrounding woods stood silent and timeless.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Thomas closed his eyes and let the calm seep into his bones.

Adversity was a sculptor. It carved our beliefs and shaped us into what we were meant to be. It didn’t care for comfort or convenience. Instead, it chiseled away, hard, relentless, and unyielding. But in the cracks and fractures it left in our hearts, light found a way to enter.

“I love you,” Thomas whispered to Chelsey.

Her eyes held his.

“And I’ll love you forever.”

Copyright Information

Published by Dan Padavona

Visit my website at www.danpadavona.com

Copyright © 2023 by Dan Padavona

Artwork copyright © 2023 by Dan Padavona

Cover Design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

All Rights Reserved

Although some of the locations in this book are actual places, the characters and setting are wholly of the author's imagination. Any resemblance between the people in this book and people in the real world is purely coincidental and unintended.

Created with Vellum

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No writer journeys alone. Special thanks are in order to my editor, C.B. Moore, for providing invaluable feedback, catching errors, and making my story shine. I also wish to thank my brilliant cover designer, Caroline Teagle Johnson. Your artwork never ceases to amaze me. I owe so much of my success to your hard work. Shout outs to my advance readers, including Mary Arnold, Nerrida Wright, Marcia Campbell, Jamie Yelton, and Ted Browne, for catching those final pesky typos and plot holes. Most of all, thank you to my readers for your loyalty and support. You changed my life, and I am forever grateful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan Padavona is the author of The Nia Carter series, The Wolf Lake series, The Thomas Shepherd series, The Logan and Scarlett series, The Darkwater Cove series, The Scarlett Bell thriller series, Her Shallow Grave, and The Dark Vanishings series. He lives in upstate New York with his beautiful wife, Terri, and their children, Joe, and Julia. Dan is a meteorologist with NOAA’s National Weather Service. Besides writing, he enjoys visiting amusement parks, beach vacations, Renaissance fairs, gardening, playing with the family dogs, and eating too much ice cream.

Visit Dan at: www.danpadavona.com