N O W H E R E

S I L E N T

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 14)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); OF the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising five books (and counting); of the ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting);  of the MAGGIE FLIGHT SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the MEG THORNE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising twelve books (and counting); of the BRYNN JUSTICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising twelve books (and counting); and of the BETH DRAKE suspense thriller series, comprising twelve books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Galyna Andrushko, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Maya Ramirez's fingers danced across the ropes, weaving patterns through desert twilight as delicate as spider silk—and just as strong.

The installation had consumed her for weeks now, transforming the natural rock formation into something that straddled the line between art and organism—ropes and fabric stretching between stone fingers like sinews connecting bone to bone.

High above, stars began to pierce the deepening purple sky, but Maya barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the push and pull of rope through careful hands, the whisper of fabric against stone. Here, in the gathering darkness of the Arroyo Arts Collective's grounds, she could almost forget the tensions simmering beneath the surface of their fragile desert community.

Almost.

Her hands stilled on the rope as a coyote called in the distance, its voice carrying ancient warnings across the cooling air. Maya had grown up in these deserts, learned their rhythms in her bones, but lately everything felt subtly wrong—like a familiar painting hung slightly askew. The threatening letters some of the artists had received. The increasingly hostile encounters with locals at the grocery store. The way David Ferguson's voice had shaken, just slightly, when he'd mentioned the strange car that kept parking outside his studio.

David. Maya's throat tightened. She hadn't been able to attend his funeral—couldn't bear to see him laid to rest while his final sculpture stood unfinished in his workspace, gathering desert dust instead of morning light.

She forced her hands back into motion, the familiar movements grounding her in the present moment. This piece was her response to all of it—the fear, the loss, the growing sense of siege. She was weaving protection into every knot, defiance into every intersection of rope and stone. Let them try to drive her and the other artists out. Art had always flourished in hostile soil.

The desert wind carried the tang of juniper and cooling stone, stirring loose strands of Maya's hair as she worked. Her installation had grown organically from the rock formation's natural shape—russet ropes cascading like frozen waterfalls, pale fabric billowing between granite fingers like captured clouds. In the deepening darkness, the piece seemed almost alive, breathing with each desert breeze.

Maya reached for another coil of rope. The material was special, hand-dyed using native plants she'd gathered herself—devil's claw for the deepest browns, creosote for subtle greens, desert marigold for touches of gold. Each color represented her connection to this harsh landscape, her right to transform it through her art.

The flashlight beam beside her grew stronger as true darkness settled in, casting strange shadows through her weaving that danced across the rock face. She'd been at this for hours, losing herself in the meditative rhythm of creation. Her muscles ached, but she couldn't stop—not when she was so close to completing this section. The upcoming exhibition could change everything, prove to the grant committee that desert art was worthy of their support.

A rock skittered somewhere in the darkness beyond her light's reach.

Maya's hands stilled on the rope. Out here, sounds carried differently at night, playing tricks on tired minds. Still, she found herself straining to hear past the whisper of wind through her installation.

Was that footsteps on gravel, or just another desert creature going about its nightly business?

She should pack up, head back to her studio. The sensible thing would be to continue in the morning. But the moon was rising now, painting everything in sheets of silver that transformed her work into something otherworldly. Just a few more minutes. A few more knots. The piece was speaking to her now, and any artist knew you didn't walk away when the work was flowing like this.

The moon's light transformed Maya's hands into pale sculptures as she worked, each finger casting its own delicate shadow across the ropes. She wove faster now, driven by that peculiar urgency artists know when creation becomes compulsion. The installation had grown beyond her original vision, becoming something wild and honest—a confession written in rope and fabric against desert stone.

A cool breeze stirred the hanging pieces of her work, making them dance like ghost-shapes in the silver light. The movement caught her eye, and for a moment the whole piece seemed to breathe with ancient life. Maya smiled, remembering how her grandmother used to tell stories about the desert at night, when the boundary between real and unreal grew thin as spider silk. The old woman would have understood this—the need to stay here in the darkness, weaving meaning into emptiness despite the risks.

The risks. Maya's fingers faltered on a complex knot as that thought intruded. The desert held different dangers now than in her grandmother's stories. Modern threats lurked in angry voices at town meetings, in property disputes and water rights, and the growing tension between old ways and new dreams. Her installation stood as both bridge and barrier between these worlds, reaching toward understanding while marking boundaries that some seemed determined to erase.

Something stirred again at the edge of her light's reach. Maya's heart stuttered, then steadied. Just the wind, surely. Or perhaps one of the resident artists taking a late-night walk—some of them kept odd hours, chasing inspiration through darkness. Still, she found herself moving with greater purpose now, her hands weaving faster as she tried to ignore the prickling sensation between her shoulder blades.

The rock formation loomed above her like a sleeping giant, its weathered faces holding countless stories written by wind and rain. Her ropes traced new narratives across that ancient canvas, telling tales of belonging and displacement, of roots reaching deep into disputed soil.

Each knot represented a claim—not of ownership, but of relationship. She belonged here as surely as the cactus wren, had earned her place through years of learning the desert's harsh language.

The metallic click that cut through the night's silence was neither wind nor wildlife.

Maya's hands froze on the ropes. That sound—precise, mechanical, human—seemed to echo across the empty landscape. Her flashlight beam caught only dancing shadows where her installation swayed in the strengthening breeze. The moon had risen higher now, casting everything in stark contrasts of silver and shadow that transformed familiar shapes into stranger things.

A new sound whispered through the darkness: the soft rasp of blade against rope.

Maya turned slowly, her heart keeping time with the desert wind. Her installation swayed between her and whatever waited in the darkness, its patterns suddenly sinister in the moon's cold light. Through gaps in the weaving, she caught glimpses of movement—careful, calculated, coming closer with each severed strand.

The moonlight caught Maya's breath as it fogged in the cooling air. Her fingers still gripped the ropes, muscle memory refusing to release her connection to the work even as instinct screamed at her to run. The breeze had died completely now, leaving her installation unnaturally still—a frozen web of shadows between her and approaching danger.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded thin against the vastness of desert night. "Is someone there?"

The blade's whisper answered—another rope parting with a sound like distant thunder. Maya watched a section of her weaving collapse, months of work unraveling in seconds. Anger flared hot in her chest, burning away fear. This was more than vandalism—it was a violation. Her hands tightened on the remaining ropes as she squinted into the darkness beyond her light's reach.

"I can see you," she lied, her voice steadier now. "Security cameras caught everything."

A laugh drifted through the shadows—soft, almost appreciative. "No cameras out here, Ms. Ramirez. Just you and your... art." The last word twisted like a knife. "Though I suppose that depends on how one defines art."

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off stone faces that had witnessed countless desert dramas. Maya's flashlight beam caught only emptiness as she tried to track the speaker's location. Her installation had become a maze of shadow and silver, its familiar patterns transformed into something alien and threatening.

"What do you want?" she asked, already moving slowly backward. Her truck waited somewhere in the darkness behind her. If she could just reach it...

Another rope parted. Footsteps now, growing closer.

Maya turned to run, but her boot got caught in a fallen section of rope. She stumbled, caught herself against rough stone. By the time she regained her balance, the footsteps were much closer. Her flashlight beam swung wild, catching glimpses of her ruined installation—each severed rope a promise of what was to come.

The beam finally found a figure standing among the hanging strands. Maya had time to register a pair of cold eyes that held no hint of mercy.

And the grasping embrace of powerful hands around her throat.

The desert wind rose again, carrying her final, choked scream across empty miles where no one waited to hear it.

CHAPTER ONE

The burning photograph curled at the edges like autumn leaves, its surface transforming Jay Fletcher's smiling face into something grotesque and accusing. Harley Cole watched the last embers die beneath her brother's boot heel, desert wind carrying away the acrid scent of destruction.

Kelly stood rigid beside her, hands clenched at her sides, her posture carrying echoes of her years with the cartel—a predator's awareness wrapped in casual clothes. The porch light caught the silver threading through her dark hair, a reminder of all the time they'd lost, all the years Harley had searched while Kelly survived horrors she still wouldn't fully describe.

"You sure you're okay?" Harley asked, studying her sister's profile. As an FBI agent, she'd learned to read the smallest signs of trauma and tension. But Kelly had learned to hide such signs during her captivity, making her harder to read than any suspect Harley had interrogated.

"I'm fine." Kelly's voice carried that familiar edge of steel, the one that said she was done being protected. She gestured at the scattered ashes of the photograph. "Someone's trying to send a message. About Jay."

Greg, their brother, crouched beside the remains. "First the stalker in the silver sedan, now this." He looked up at Kelly, his face etched with the kind of worry that came from failing to protect a sister once before. "You need to let us help."

"I don't need help." Kelly's hand moved unconsciously toward her purse, where Harley knew she kept the .38 Special they'd helped her acquire legally. "I need people to leave me alone."

Harley felt the weight of her FBI badge against her hip, a reminder of her oath to protect and serve. But here, watching her sister wrestle with old ghosts and new threats, that badge felt inadequate. She'd spent seventeen years searching for Kelly, following every lead, keeping her sister's case open long after others had given up hope. Now that she finally had Kelly back, she felt just as helpless to protect her.

The desert wind carried the distant cry of a coyote, its voice seeming to mock their uncertainty. Harley studied the broken window where the rock had come through. Someone had lit the photograph, left it on the ground, thrown a rock through the window to get their attention, and escaped before being seen.

Clearly someone was targeting Kelly, but why? Did someone think Kelly had killed Jay Fletcher, even though she'd been cleared of those charges?

The moonlight painted shadows across their childhood home's adobe walls, each imperfection a reminder of years gone by—the dent where Greg had thrown a baseball too hard, the patch their father had made after a monsoon storm, the window Kelly used to sneak out of before she disappeared. Before everything changed.

"We should call it in," Greg said, his contractor's hands still dusted with the day's work. He'd taken over the house after their father died of lung cancer, keeping it in the family just as he'd tried to keep them all connected through the dark years of Kelly's absence. "Get the police involved."

The idea of calling the police felt foreign to Harley after so many years with the Bureau. She'd moved to the East Coast when she turned eighteen, eventually joined the Bureau's Behavioral Analysis Unit years later, and then finally transferred back to New Mexico when their father got sick. She'd never given up on her sister, however, who'd disappear mysteriously during a camping trip with her friends.

Even after others wrote Kelly off as just another runaway, Harley had known better. She'd tracked every lead, followed every whisper, until finally discovering the truth—that Kelly had been taken by the cartel, forced into a life that had left permanent scars both visible and hidden.

Now Kelly was back. But someone, it seemed, wished she wasn't.

"No police," Kelly said firmly. She moved with that predator's grace she'd developed during captivity, scanning the darkness beyond their father's rose garden. "They'll just make things worse. Like they did with Jay."

The name hung in the cooling air. Jay Fletcher's murder had haunted their community for years, with Kelly as the prime suspect until Mario Escobal finally confessed. But some people still harbored doubts, still whispered about Kelly's involvement despite her exoneration. The burning photograph seemed designed to stir up those old suspicions.

"Someone's been watching me," Kelly continued, her voice carrying that edge she got when discussing her surveillance skills—skills learned through brutal necessity. "Following me in a silver sedan. Taking pictures." She gestured at the broken window. "Now this. It's escalating."

Greg straightened, his face darkening. He'd been twenty-one when Kelly disappeared, old enough to shoulder the guilt of failing to protect his little sister. Now, at thirty-eight, his face carried the same shadows of responsibility. "You should have told us sooner about the stalker."

"I can handle it." Kelly's hand moved toward her purse again, where the .38 rode in a custom holster. "I handled worse with the cartel."

Harley stepped closer to her sister, close enough to catch the faint scent of jasmine—Kelly's attempt at normalcy through ordinary things like perfume. "You don't have to handle everything alone anymore. That's what family is for."

Kelly said nothing. She was staring off into the darkness.

Harley peered through the broken window at the rock lying on the hardwood floor, surrounded by shards of glass that caught the moonlight like frozen tears. She went inside and, donning a pair of latex gloves she found in a drawer in the kitchen, she picked up the stone. There was nothing remarkable about it, no message scrawled on its side. The real message was the photograph.

The rock, presumably, was to draw their attention before the photograph finished burning up.

She set down the rock and went back outside. "We need to document everything," she said, her voice carrying the careful neutrality she'd learned in the BAU. "Photos of the damage, the burn marks, any evidence we can gather." She met Kelly's eyes, recognizing the stubborn set of her sister's jaw—the same expression she'd worn as a teenager when refusing to back down from an argument. "And yes, we should call it in."

Kelly's laugh was as sharp as desert thorns. "So they can do what? File another report? Add it to their collection of 'suspicious activities' around the unstable woman who may or may not have killed Jay Fletcher?" Her fingers traced the St. Anthony medallion at her neck—patron saint of lost things, though Kelly had never truly been lost. Just stolen, transformed, returned changed.

The desert wind whispered through the broken window, carrying the scent of approaching rain. Harley felt stretched thin between her roles—FBI agent, protective sister, daughter of this house that held too many ghosts. She'd spent seventeen years searching for Kelly, following every lead, keeping hope alive when others said to let go. Now that she had her sister back, that same protective instinct warred with her professional judgment.

"Documenting creates a paper trail," she explained, trying to bridge the gap between procedure and family loyalty. "If this escalates—"

"When," Kelly interrupted. "Not if. When." She moved to the window. "This person, whoever they are... they didn't do this on a whim. They're serious, and they're getting bolder."

Greg ran a hand through his graying hair, his contractor's eye assessing the window damage. "I'm calling the police," he said, already reaching for his phone. "This is our childhood home. Our father's house. I'm not letting some coward with a rock and matches change that."

"Our father's dead," Kelly said flatly. "And his house didn't protect me before."

The words fell between them like stones in still water, ripples of old pain spreading outward. Harley felt the familiar ache in her chest—the one that came whenever she thought about those lost years, about how their family had splintered after Kelly's disappearance. Their father had retreated into drink and mining work, Greg had shouldered burdens too heavy for his age, and Harley... Harley had run. Run to Harvard, to the FBI, to anywhere she could look for Kelly without drowning in the emptiness she'd left behind.

The familiar creak of their father's old rocking chair drew Harley's attention to the porch, where Kelly had retreated to watch the night deepen around them. Moonlight caught the silver threading through her sister's hair, turning each strand into a testament of survival. Inside, Greg's voice carried through the broken window as he spoke with dispatch, his words painting a picture of violation and threat that seemed inadequate against the reality of their fears.

Harley settled beside her sister, the porch boards whispering secrets beneath her feet. The desert stretched before them like a sea of shadows, each creosote bush and Joshua tree a potential hiding place for watching eyes. Her FBI training cataloged sight lines and defensive positions, while her heart ached for simpler times when this porch had held nothing more threatening than teenage dreams.

"I know what you're thinking," Kelly said. "You're wondering if I should stay with someone tonight instead of going to my place. If you should post a patrol car on my street. If you should pull strings to get surveillance equipment installed." She turned to face Harley, moonlight catching the shadows beneath her eyes. "Don't."

The wind stirred the remnants of their father's rose garden, carrying the ghost of perfume from blooms that refused to die despite years of neglect. "You're my sister," Harley said simply. "What am I supposed to do, just hope this creep doesn't come back?"

Kelly was quiet for a few moments. "I want them to come back. If they do… maybe I can settle this. For good."

Harley didn't like the sound of that. Before she could speak her mind, however, Greg's heavy steps announced his return to the porch. "Police report filed," he said, his hands flexing as if eager to fix this damage like he fixed everything else. "They'll send someone to take our statements, process the scene."

"Waste of time," Kelly muttered, but her shoulders had relaxed slightly, as if sharing the burden of tonight's events had lightened her load, even unwillingly.

Greg touched Harley's elbow, a gesture so subtle it might have been mistaken for accidental contact. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen, then back to Kelly, who stood with her back to them, scanning the darkness beyond the porch railing.

"I'm gonna get a coffee," Harley said. "It's going to be a long night."

"Me, too," Greg said with a sigh. "You want anything, Kel?"

She shook her head, but didn't speak. Harley felt a shiver of unease at the thought of leaving her sister alone out here. Then again, they'd have a clean line of sight from the kitchen. They wouldn't be far.

With a heavy heart, Harley followed her brother into the kitchen. Moonlight filtered through the window above the sink, casting their father's old coffee cups in stark relief against shadow.

"We need to watch her," Greg said, his voice barely louder than the desert wind. "Not officially. Not with patrol cars or surveillance teams. Just us."

Harley studied her brother's face, noting the deep lines that responsibility had carved around his eyes. "She'll hate it if she finds out."

"Better angry than dead." Greg's fingers traced patterns on the kitchen counter, unconsciously following the whorls in the granite he'd installed himself after their father passed. "Look, I know that FBI badge means you have to do things by the book. But this isn't about procedure. This is about family."

The words settled between them like desert dust, impossible to brush away. Harley stared down the hallway at Kelly, visible outside the broken window.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" she asked.

"We take shifts. Keep our distance. See who's really watching our sister." Greg's voice carried an edge she recognized from their father. "Maybe we catch this bastard before they can hurt her. Maybe we just gather enough evidence to convince her to accept real protection. Either way, we do something besides waiting for the next attack."

Moonlight caught the broken glass still glinting on the floor of the adjoining room, transforming each shard into a reminder of their vulnerability. Outside, Kelly stood guard against shadows, unaware that her siblings were plotting to become shadows themselves.

"Okay," Harley said finally. "But we do this smart. No confrontations. No heroics. We document everything." She met her brother's eyes. "And if we find something solid, we bring in official channels. Deal?"

Greg nodded, relief softening the hard lines around his mouth. "Deal. Now let's get coffee for real so she doesn't realize we were just coming in here to talk about her."

"She probably already knows," Harley muttered.

Studying her brother's profile in the moonlight filtering through unwashed windows as he started the coffee maker, Harley saw something that made her throat tighten—a darkness gathering behind his eyes, a tension in his jaw that spoke of violence barely contained. Greg had always been the steady one, the responsible older brother who'd stepped up after their mother died and their father retreated into mining work and whiskey. But Kelly's disappearance had carved something raw and unforgiving in him, a wound that had never truly healed.

Standing in their father's kitchen, surrounded by shadows and broken glass, Harley realized she wasn't just agreeing to surveil her sister. She was signing up to watch her brother as well—to make sure Greg's protective instincts didn't transform into something darker if he got his hands on Kelly's stalker. The desert held its own brutal justice, and Greg knew every empty mile of it.

In the silence that stretched between them, Harley heard all the things her brother wasn't saying. His hands, calloused from years of construction work, had curled into unconscious fists at his sides. She recognized the gesture—had seen it in countless interrogation rooms when suspects reached their breaking point.

The only question was: which would break first—Greg's promise of restraint, or the person threatening their sister?

CHAPTER TWO

Desert light spilled across the dashboard of Harley's Jeep like liquid gold, painting shadows that shifted and stretched with each passing cloud. She sat with Greg in the kind of silence that belonged to people who'd spent too many years watching empty places, searching for someone who didn't want to be found.

They'd parked far enough from Kelly's apartment to avoid detection but close enough to track her movements. The morning crowd provided good cover—people hurrying to work, walking dogs, living their normal lives while Harley and her brother conducted their covert surveillance of their own sister.

Flor Blanca, where the Cole siblings had grown up, was a town where time moved slower, as if the desert air itself had thickened to hold it in place. Low adobe homes, their ochre walls kissed by decades of sun and wind, huddled close to narrow streets that twisted and turned like veins through the heart of the town. Mesquite and sagebrush dotted the outskirts, their gnarled roots clinging stubbornly to the sandy soil. The town’s plaza, a modest square with a crumbling fountain at its center, held the echoes of countless festivals and gatherings, though now it often sat empty, its benches worn smooth by generations of Flor Blanca’s residents.

The monsoon season had left its mark, carving temporary arroyos into the dirt roads and washing fresh life into the dry landscape. Morning light glinted off puddles still clinging to the cracked pavement, while the sharp scent of wet creosote hung in the air. A faded “Welcome to Flor Blanca” sign, tilted slightly to one side, greeted visitors with a charm that couldn’t quite mask the town’s weathered edges.

Despite its dwindling size, however, Flor Blanca wasn’t lifeless. The aroma of fresh tortillas drifted from a corner café, mingling with the faint hum of distant ranch work, a reminder that even in the quiet, life persisted.

"She usually leaves for work at eight," Greg said, his hands restless on his thighs. "Takes the bus most days."

Harley nodded, though the familiar ache of guilt pressed against her ribs. After seventeen years of searching for Kelly, after finally bringing her home and clearing her name in Jay Fletcher's murder, they were back to watching from the shadows. Only this time, they were the ones doing the stalking.

"You look like hell," Greg said quietly. "You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?"

The question carried echoes of their childhood—Greg always checking on her and Kelly, making sure they ate, did their homework, survived their father's distant grief after their mother's passing. Even now, with his own life worn thin by responsibility, he couldn't stop being the big brother.

"I'm fine," Harley said, but the words felt hollow. Between her FBI cases, Kelly's situation, and her tentative plans to move in with her partner and boyfriend, Anthony Callaway, sleep had become an afterthought. She caught movement in her peripheral vision—someone emerging from Kelly's building. "There."

Kelly stepped into the morning light like someone who'd learned to treat every open space as a combat zone. Her eyes scanned the street with practiced efficiency, cataloging potential threats while appearing to simply check her phone. The skills she'd developed during her time with the cartel had kept her alive, but they'd also transformed her into someone who could never fully relax.

Greg shifted in the passenger seat, his weathered hands clasped together like someone attempting prayer. Morning light caught the construction dust still embedded in his knuckles, evidence of the honest work that had anchored him through their family's darkest years. While Harley had run to Harvard and the FBI, Greg had stayed, building homes for others while trying to keep their own family from crumbling completely.

"Tell me about Callaway," he said suddenly, his voice carrying that careful tone he used when trying to navigate emotional territory. "When are you planning to move in with him?"

Harley kept her eyes on Kelly, who had paused to study a silver sedan parked down the street. Her sister's posture shifted subtly—a predator assessing potential threats. The sedan turned out to be occupied by an elderly woman arranging grocery bags, but Kelly's tension didn't fully ease.

"It's complicated," Harley said, recognizing how the words echoed their father's favorite excuse for emotional distance. "The timing, with everything happening with Kelly..." She clenched her teeth, wishing she hadn't told Greg about the potential move. The more people who knew about it, the more it felt like a commitment.

Then again… wasn't it a commitment?

"There's never a perfect time." Greg's voice carried the weight of someone who'd spent too many years putting others first. "You can't put your whole life on hold waiting for things to settle down."

Desert wind stirred the leaves of a stunted elm, casting shifting shadows across Kelly's path as she continued toward the bus stop. She moved like someone expecting attack from any angle, her hand never far from the purse where Harley knew the .38 Special rode in its custom holster.

"I want to be there for her," Harley said, the words carrying all the complexity of their shared history. "After seventeen years of searching, after everything she went through with the cartel... I can't just focus on my own happiness while she's still struggling."

"And what about Callaway? What does he think about all this?"

Harley remembered Callaway's patient understanding, the way he never pushed but never fully retreated either. He knew her dedication to Kelly wasn't just about sisterly protection—it was about redemption, about making up for years of absence while Kelly had endured horrors none of them could fully comprehend. Kelly had been deliberately vague about her experiences, but two things were abundantly clear from the little she'd shared with Harley: She'd been treated like property, kept in line by the threat of beatings; and never, not for a single moment, had she been safe with anyone.

A man approached Kelly at the bus stop, and both Harley and Greg tensed. But it was just a local business owner Harley recognized, someone who'd known their family for years. Even from this distance, she could see the awkward dance of their interaction—his attempt at normalcy, Kelly's carefully maintained barriers, the weight of community suspicion still lingering despite her exoneration in Jay Fletcher's murder.

"She's not the only one who needs to heal," Greg said quietly, watching the scene unfold. "You spent seventeen years looking for her, Harley. Every case, every lead, every dead end—it was all about finding Kelly. Maybe it's time to find yourself too."

The words struck harder than Harley would have expected, carrying truth she wasn't ready to face. She opened her mouth to respond, but movement caught her attention—Kelly was suddenly rigid, her posture screaming danger. A man was approaching her, his body language aggressive despite the early hour.

"Damn it," Greg muttered, already reaching for his door handle. "That's Marcus Fuller. He's been stirring up trouble about Kelly being back, saying the murder charges shouldn't have been dropped."

Harley caught her brother's arm. "Wait," she said, though every instinct screamed at her to intervene. "We can't let them know we're watching. Not unless—"

But Greg was already out of the car. Harley swore under her breath and followed, knowing they were about to blow their surveillance but unable to let her brother face this alone. The desert morning stretched around them like a held breath, waiting to see what violence this new day might bring.

"Heard you had some excitement last night," Fuller said, his voice carrying that particular edge that spoke of small-town grievances nursed into hatred. "Someone put a rock through the family window, that right?"

Kelly stood perfectly still, frozen.

Harley and Greg approached from different angles, their shadows stretching across sunbaked concrete like accusing fingers. Fuller's back was to them, his attention fixed on Kelly. But Kelly's gaze flickered to her siblings, her eyes narrowing in surprise.

"Back off, Marcus," Greg said. "I don't know who at the police department has been blabbing, but whatever you think last night was about, you have no idea."

"Don't I?" Fuller turned, his movements carrying the loose aggression of someone spoiling for a fight. "Kelly here thought she could just come back, pretend none of it happened. But some of us remember Jay. Remember what happened to him that night."

"The killer confessed," Harley said, her FBI training keeping her voice steady despite the anger pulsing beneath her skin. "Mario Escobal admitted to everything. Or did you miss that part while you were busy spreading rumors?"

Desert wind ghosted between them, stirring paper wrappers and dead leaves into tiny dust devils. The morning crowd had thinned, people finding reasons to be elsewhere as tension thickened the air. Kelly remained motionless, but Harley could read the subtle signs of readiness in her sister's stance—the weight shifted slightly forward, the hand near her purse where the .38 waited.

Fuller's laugh was as bitter as desert herbs. "A convenient confession. After all those years, some guy just happens to admit to it right when Kelly shows up again? Maybe some of us aren't as eager to swallow that story as you badge-carriers."

"He confessed to it because I tracked him down."

"And forced the confession, no doubt. Anything to protect family, right?"

"That's right," Greg said, taking a step forward. His hands were curled into fists that promised violence. Just then, however, Kelly's voice cut through the morning air like a blade.

"My sister's trying to protect you, Marcus." Her words carried the cold certainty of someone who'd survived real monsters. "You should let her."

The threat hung in the desert air between them, transforming the familiar street into something dangerous and wild. Harley watched Fuller's face as understanding slowly dawned—not of Kelly's innocence, but of how different she was from the girl he'd once known. How much more dangerous she'd become.

As Harley studied him, trying to determine whether or not he might be the very person who'd threatened Kelly last night, something caught her attention—the fresh grease stains on his coveralls, the exhaustion lining his face. The pieces clicked together with the precision she'd learned in the BAU.

"You were at the refinery last night," she said, making an educated guess. "Overtime shift on the processing line. Must have been, what... six to six?"

Fuller's expression flickered, anger momentarily replaced by confusion at this sudden shift. "How did you—"

"The sulfur smell on your clothes. The way you're favoring your right shoulder—repetitive motion from working the line. And those coveralls are still damp from the night shift's cleaning protocols." Harley let each observation land like stones in still water.

"And?" Fuller asked. "What am I, a suspect?"

"Not any more."

Greg grunted to indicate that he wasn't ready to clear Fuller so quickly.

Fuller's laugh was harsh as sun-bleached bone. "Playing detective doesn't change anything. This town has a long memory." But the threat had drained from his voice, replaced by something closer to tired resignation. His eyes moved between the three siblings, decades of shared history hanging in the morning air between them. "I wasn't there, that's true, but I understand why someone did it."

He leaned closer to Kelly. Greg tensed, but Kelly's face remained serene, ready for anything.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd grow an eye in the back of my head."

He turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long against the sunbaked concrete. The morning crowd began to fill the space he'd left, normality seeping back into the street like water into desert sand.

Harley let out a deep breath. The relief was short-lived, however. Kelly turned on her, furious.

"You were following me," she said. "Both of you."

Greg took a half-step forward, hands raised in a placating gesture that did nothing to soften Kelly's razor-edged stare. "We were worried. After last night—"

"After last night, you decided to become stalkers yourselves? Following me like I'm some kind of mark?"

"We're trying to protect you," Harley said, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

"Protect me?" Kelly's laugh was as sharp as broken glass. "By hiding in shadows? Watching my every move?" Her eyes moved between her siblings with contempt. "I spent seventeen years being watched, controlled, having every moment of my life dictated by others. I won't do it again. Not even for you."

The truth of it struck Harley like physical pain. In their attempt to shield Kelly from one stalker, they'd become something too similar—more watchers in a life already defined by surveillance and threat.

"It was my idea," Greg said heavily. "I dragged Harley into it."

"Harley doesn't get dragged into anything." She looked from one sibling to the other. "Tell me, what gives you permission to treat me like a child? Like a victim?" She took a step back, that careful distance of someone who'd learned never to let anyone too close. "I thought you, of all people, would understand. Both of you. But you're just like everyone else—seeing me as something broken, something to be fixed."

The bus arrived then, its brakes hissing like a final judgment. Kelly turned away without another word, leaving her siblings standing in morning light that suddenly felt too harsh, too revealing of all their good intentions gone wrong.

Harley watched her sister disappear into the bus, each step carrying Kelly further from the protection they'd tried to offer. The morning crowd continued to flow around them, unaware of the fractures spreading through the Cole family's careful reconstruction.

"Well, that went well," Greg said as the bus pulled away. The desert wind stirred dust around them, each mote catching sunlight like scattered pieces of their shattered plan.

Harley studied her brother's profile, noting the defeated slope of his shoulders. The morning light seemed to age him, deepening the lines around his eyes that spoke of too many years spent trying to hold their family together.

"She's right," Harley said finally. "We became exactly what we're trying to protect her from—more eyes watching from shadows, more control she didn't ask for."

Greg turned to her, his face carved with shadows despite the brightening day. "So what do we do? Just wait for the next attack? The next burning message?"

Before Harley could answer, her phone vibrated against her hip. She recognized her boss's ringtone.

"I have to take this," she said quickly to Greg. Then she answered the phone. "Cole."

"Got a body," Agent Newbury said without preamble. "Maya Ramirez, out at the Arroyo Arts Collective. Local PD's requesting federal assistance."

Harley closed her eyes briefly, feeling the familiar shift as sister became agent, family protector became investigator. When she opened them again, Greg was watching her.

"Go," he said quietly. "We'll talk later. I'll get a friend to pick me up."

Harley mouthed a "Thank you" and hurried to her Jeep, stepping away from one crisis and into another.

CHAPTER THREE

The morning's confrontation with Kelly still echoed in Harley's mind as she guided her Jeep through the winding approach to the Arroyo Arts Collective. Every turn revealed new angles of the installation sprawling before her—a marriage of human vision and ancient stone that transformed the harsh landscape into something both beautiful and unsettling.

Weathered sculptures rose from red earth like the bones of extinct creatures, while delicate fabric installations danced in the autumn wind, their shadows writing messages she couldn't quite decode.

She parked beside a cluster of law enforcement vehicles, their presence intrusive against the artistic serenity of the grounds. Desert light spilled across her dashboard like liquid copper, catching the gold flecks in her rearview mirror where exhaustion had painted shadows beneath her eyes. She'd spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about the burning photograph and wondering who might be targeting her sister.

And what they might plan to do next.

The movement drew her out of her reverie. Callaway stood in the shade of a massive installation, his broad shoulders outlined against sun-bleached stone as he studied something in his hands. He'd shed his jacket in the growing heat, his cream-colored shirt catching desert light like a beacon.

Harley took a moment to study him without his knowing. She thought of her promise to move in with him, of the half-packed moving boxes in her house. She'd already listed her house—a sign of commitment if ever there was one—and she felt a mixture of both trepidation and excitement at the prospect of moving. After all, she'd moved in with another man before, and that hadn't turned out so well.

Callaway isn't Rob, she reminded herself. Callaway respects you, treats you like his equal. And he's the opposite of passive aggressive.

Still, it was difficult not to hear the whispers of the past.

Tired of these thoughts, she got out of the Jeep and strode toward Callaway. He looked up as she approached, tucking away whatever he'd been examining. "I was hoping you'd get here soon," he said, his voice carrying that gentle drawl that still made her heart skip from time to time. "Rough morning?"

"Kelly caught us doing surveillance," Harley said, joining him in the sculpture's shade. This close, she could see the concern etching lines around his emerald eyes—concern for her, not for whatever crime scene waited ahead.

"So you went with Greg's plan, huh?"

Harley nodded. "For better or worse."

"How'd she take it? Catching you two, I mean?"

"It went about as well as you'd expect."

"Meaning she read you both the riot act?"

"Something like that." Harley leaned against the sun-warmed stone, letting its ancient solidity ground her. "Greg's worried she'll do something reckless. I'm worried he'll do something reckless trying to stop her. And I'm somehow supposed to keep them both from self-destructing while..." She gestured vaguely between them at all the unspoken complications of their deepening relationship.

Callaway studied her face. "The timing of the move," he said carefully. "We can wait if you need to."

"No." Harley straightened away from the stone. "I want this. Want us. It just feels sometimes like I'm juggling so many balls that my arms can barely keep up."

"Sometimes you have to be okay with a few falling."

"Like which ones? Our relationship? My sister's safety? My job?"

Before Callaway could respond, they were both distracted by the sound of footsteps crunching across desert gravel. Deputy Miguel Santos approached, his weathered face catching harsh sunlight. Harley had worked with him before on cases where local and federal jurisdictions overlapped. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew every inch of this territory.

"Agents." He nodded to them both, his expression grim. "Victim's this way."

"What can you tell us?" Harley asked, falling into step beside him.

"Maya Ramirez. Fiber artist, worked with ropes and textiles." Santos led them past elaborate sculptures and wind-worn installations. "You'll want to see this for yourself. Killer took their time, made it... artistic."

The word hung in the desert air between them. Up ahead, crime scene tape fluttered in the strengthening wind. Harley felt the familiar shift as personal concerns fell away, replaced by the focused clarity of investigation. Kelly, Greg, her relationship with Callaway—all of it would have to wait.

They had a killer to catch.

Santos walked ahead of them along a winding path between installations. His badge caught morning light, but it was the way he carried himself that commanded respect—the measured stride of someone who'd earned his place in this harsh territory. Local kids called him "Uncle Miguel," Harley knew. He coached Little League, organized search parties for lost hikers, kept the peace without needing to reach for his weapon.

"Art colony's been here about fifteen years," he said, gesturing at the sprawling grounds. "Used to be just a few artists camping out, living rough. Now they've got proper facilities, funding, even some tourism." He paused beside a massive sculpture that threw stark shadows across the path. "Not everyone's happy about that growth."

"Local resistance?" Callaway asked.

Santos's weathered face creased with understanding. "It's complicated. Ranchers worried about water rights. Developers eyeing the land. Old-timers who think the artists are changing the town's character." He shook his head. "But it's more than that. These artists, they're trying to make something new out here. Something that bridges gaps between cultures, between past and present. Maya understood that better than most."

Harley studied Santos's profile, noting the genuine regret in his expression. He'd grown up in this community, graduated from the local high school, turned down opportunities in bigger departments to serve his hometown. He knew every fault line running through this desert society.

"Tell us about the tensions," she said. "Before we see the scene."

"Been getting worse lately. Water disputes, mostly. But also complaints about tourists trampling private property to get photos of the art." Santos gestured toward the distant mountains. "Had a confrontation last week between some artists and local ranchers. Nothing violent, but ugly words were exchanged. Maya tried to mediate."

"She was a peacemaker?" Callaway asked.

"She was hope." Santos's voice carried the weight of someone who'd watched his community struggle with change. "Born here, went away to study art, came back to build something that might heal old wounds." He paused, his next words heavy with meaning. "Some people don't want those wounds healed."

Santos led them around a towering sculpture, and the crime scene came into view. Maya Ramirez's body hung suspended between natural rock formations, woven into her own installation in a grotesque parody of her art. Red and gold ropes crossed her torso in intricate patterns. The morning light caught the patterns of rope work, transforming what should have been beautiful into something horrific.

Harley's trained eye cataloged details automatically—ligature marks on the victim's neck, the precise arrangement of the body, the way the killer had manipulated Maya's own materials to create this macabre display. Each rope had been positioned with deliberate care, suggesting someone who'd taken their time, someone unconcerned about discovery.

Callaway let out a heavy sigh beside her. "Staged," he said quietly. "Like a performance piece."

"The body was discovered this morning," Santos said, his voice carrying the weight of someone delivering bad news about family. "Another resident found her. Said the installation looked wrong from a distance—too still, somehow." He gestured toward the careful arrangement. "Killer knew what they were doing. Knew her work well enough to corrupt it."

Harley studied the scene, letting the horror of it settle into the analytical part of her mind where evidence lived separate from emotion. The morning sun climbed higher, harsh light revealing what darkness had hidden—a killer's vision of art transformed into deadly purpose.

Harley and Callaway moved around the scene in the synchronized rhythm of partners who'd learned to read each other's thoughts. They'd seen death in all its forms, but this held something different—an intimacy with the victim's work that spoke of planning, of purpose beyond mere killing. Their footsteps whispered across sand-scrubbed stone as they studied the scene from every angle, each taking mental notes they'd compare later over coffee and case files.

The desert wind stirred loose strands of rope and fabric, making the whole tableau shift and breathe in ways that Maya's original work never had. This was more than murder—it was transformation, a killer's dark mirror held up to an artist's vision.

"Something about this feels familiar," Harley said, the desert wind carrying her words across sun-baked stone. The memory surfaced slowly—a conversation overheard at the federal building, local officers discussing a death that hadn't quite warranted FBI attention. "There was another artist who died recently. Someone mentioned it at the courthouse last week."

Santos nodded, his face carved with shadows despite the harsh morning light. "David Ferguson. Sculptor, worked with permanent installations." He gestured toward the distant mountains. "Found him three nights ago. Local PD handled it."

"Tell me about the scene," Harley said, already suspecting she knew the answer.

Santos shook his head. "Not sure—I was off-duty, driving my daughter to Phoenix when the call came in."

"So you don't have any thoughts on whether these two deaths could be connected?"

Santos pressed his lips together tightly. "I'd rather not speculate."

Maya's body swayed slightly in the strengthening wind, ropes creaking with terrible music.

"You said not everyone's happy about these artists being here?" Callaway asked, redirecting the conversation.

"We've had tensions building for months," Santos said, his weathered hands gesturing toward the colony's boundaries. "Water rights disputes, mostly. Artists need water for their work, ranchers need it for cattle. Then there's the tourism angle—people trampling private property to photograph the art, parking wherever they please." He shook his head slowly. "Been trying to mediate, but some wounds run too deep out here."

Harley studied the careful rope work that had transformed Maya's art into an instrument of death. "Tell me about the colony itself. The dynamics."

"They're trying to establish permanent installations," Santos said. "Change the landscape, make something lasting. Not everyone appreciates that vision." His voice carried decades of understanding about the delicate balance between preservation and progress. "David Ferguson was leading that movement. His sculptures were drawing attention, bringing in tourists, changing the energy of the place."

"And Maya?" Callaway asked.

"Supported Ferguson's vision. Used her work to bridge gaps—traditional techniques with modern expression." Santos's eyes remained on the body, his expression heavy with regret. "Both of them were pushing boundaries, trying to make something new out here in the old desert."

Sounds like there could be a connection, Harley thought, but she kept this to herself. They wouldn't know anything for sure until they learned more about David Ferguson's death.

And the sooner they did that, the better.

"Thanks for your help, Miguel," she said, shaking the older man's hand.

He smiled sadly. "Best of luck, agents. I hope for all our sakes the two deaths aren't related. Because if they are…" He shook his head. "We've got a real wacko on our hands."

"I think that's true one way or the other," Callaway said.

Santos shrugged. "Maybe so."

As the deputy walked off, Harley turned her attention to Callaway. "We need to head to the morgue, talk to the coroner. David's body was found three nights ago, Maya's this morning. Hard to imagine that's a coincidence, especially when we know Maya's death is a homicide."

Callaway nodded. "Want to take my truck?"

"That bucket of bolts? I'll pass."

"I'm supposed to just leave her here?"

"If you're so attached that you're starting to think of it as a her, then yes, I think a little separation is in order. You can pick it up later, or have someone drive it home for you."

He gave her a playful shove, and they began making their way back to Harley's Jeep.

As she walked, her smile faded and her thoughts returned to Maya's body, to the careful corruption of artistic vision. Someone had taken their time, transformed creation into destruction with deliberate purpose. Someone who knew these artists, knew their work, knew exactly how to turn their own vision against them.

But were they done creating their own dark gallery, or just beginning?

CHAPTER FOUR

The coroner's office felt too bright to Harley after the harsh desert morning, its fluorescent lights transforming everything into stark relief. She stood with Callaway in a silence born of too many similar moments, waiting for Dr. Reeves to arrive with David Ferguson's autopsy results.

Her mind kept returning to Maya's body, to the elaborate staging that had transformed art into an instrument of death. The image haunted her, carrying echoes of other crime scenes where killers had tried to make statements through their victims.

She hadn't slept since Kelly's stalker had escalated to burning photographs, and exhaustion pressed against her temples like desert heat. Beside her, Callaway radiated steady calm, his presence anchoring her racing thoughts. They'd stopped for coffee on the way, but even that familiar ritual had felt hollow after what they'd witnessed at the art colony.

The click of heels on tile announced Dr. Reeves before she appeared, her silver hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. She carried a thick file that promised either answers or more questions—in their line of work, it was usually both.

"Agents," Reeves said, leading them toward the examination room. Her voice carried the crisp efficiency of someone who'd learned to navigate horror with clinical precision. "I assume you're here about David Ferguson."

"We need the details of his case," Harley said. "There's been another death at the art colony. Maya Ramirez."

"Yes, I heard." Reeves's mouth tightened slightly. "I'd be out there now, but I'm needed in court this morning—testimony on the Salvadar case. Dr. Peterson is handling the new scene." She laid the file on a steel table, fluorescent lights catching the edges of autopsy photos. "What makes you think there might be a connection?"

"We don't know if there is one," Harley said carefully. "But considering both were members of the same community and they both died only a few days apart…" She trailed off, letting the coroner connect the dots.

Reeves nodded and opened the file. The autopsy photos showed David Ferguson's face, still and unfamiliar in death. Something about it tugged at Harley's memory. She'd seen him before, years ago, in a different context.

Then the realization hit her like physical pain.

"I know him," she said softly. Callaway shifted beside her, catching the change in her voice. "He was one of the searchers after Kelly disappeared. Spent days combing that wilderness park, even after the official search was called off."

David's face in the photos blurred with memory—his younger self moving through desert scrub, calling Kelly's name, refusing to give up even when hope had grown thin as mountain air.

"He knew the area," Harley continued, her voice carrying the weight of old grief. "Used to do sketches out there, said he knew every trail, every wash. He was sure he'd find something the officials had missed."

Callaway's hand found her shoulder, steady and grounding. Reeves waited with the patience of someone who'd learned that death often carried echoes of older losses.

Harley cleared her throat, composing herself. "Sorry. I was just surprised."

"No need to apologize," Dr. Reeves said. She pointed to marks on Ferguson's neck, stark against pale skin. "Cause of death was ligature strangulation. There are signs of struggle, defensive wounds on his hands and forearms."

Harley forced herself to look at the photos with professional detachment, to see David not as the man who'd searched for her sister but as a potential source of evidence that might lead them to Maya's killer. But the images seemed to shift between past and present—David sweating under the desert sun, calling Kelly's name; David still and silent on a metal table, all his determination finally stilled.

"Any signs of staging?" Callaway asked. "Anything that might connect this to Ramirez?"

"Funny you should ask." Reeves pulled out a crime scene photo that made Harley's breath catch. David's body had been positioned in his studio's center, arms outstretched, torso twisted in an unnatural spiral.

"The posture mimics one of his most famous pieces," Reeves said. "It's called 'Ascension.' The piece is made up of a series of human figures carved from desert stone, each one reaching skyward."

"They posed him like one of his own pieces," Harley said, shaking her head with a mix of disgust and pity. "Just like Maya."

Callaway moved closer to study the photo. "Same attention to detail. Same knowledge of the victim's work." His voice carried the weight of certainty. "We're looking at one killer—no doubt about it."

"Someone who knows art," Harley added. "Someone who understands these artists well enough to corrupt their vision." The words tasted bitter in her mouth as she recalled how David had once used his knowledge of the desert to search for Kelly. Now, his own art had become the instrument of his death.

Reeves gathered up the photos. "I'll have the full report sent to your office. And I'll make sure Peterson knows what to look for with the Ramirez autopsy."

"Thank you, doctor," Harley said. She thanked Dr. Reeves, and then she and Callaway made their way out of the morgue, back into the desert sunlight. The light felt harsh and revealing against the artificial brightness they'd just left. Harley felt the familiar tension gathering in her shoulders—the weight of connection, of pattern emerging from chaos.

"We need to go back to the collective," she said, already moving toward the exit. "Learn everything we can about both victims, about the community itself." She paused, desert wind stirring her hair as they stepped outside. "Someone there knows more than they're telling."

They both got into her Jeep. Harley started driving back to the collective, deep in thought.

The desert highway stretched before them like a ribbon of burnt copper, heat waves dancing above the asphalt. Harley let the familiar rhythm of driving settle her thoughts, each mile marker a countdown toward whatever waited at the art collective. Beside her, Callaway studied a file in his lap, but his attention seemed elsewhere.

"You're quiet," he said finally. "Thinking about David?"

"About how he searched for Kelly, yeah." Harley's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Three days straight, in hundred-degree heat. Wouldn't give up even when the official search was called off." The memory rose like desert dust—David's younger self moving through scrubland, calling Kelly's name with a stranger's dedication. "I never understood why he tried so hard."

"Did you ask him?"

"No." The admission carried old regret. "By the time I came back to New Mexico, he was already out here at the collective. I meant to thank him, but..." She let the words trail off, another intention lost to time and circumstance. The desert stretched endlessly beside them, each mile marker a reminder of paths not taken, connections left unexplored.

The silence grew. Callaway's breathing changed, an indication he was about to speak.

"Sarah called last night," he said, his voice carrying an unfamiliar edge. The name took Harley a moment to place—his ex-wife. He so rarely mentioned her that sometimes Harley forgot he'd been married before. "She's moving back to Santa Fe."

Harley glanced at him, catching the tension in his profile. Desert light painted shadows beneath his eyes, revealing what his steady voice tried to hide. "After all these years? Why?"

"Got offered a position at the university." He ran a hand across his jaw, a gesture she'd learned meant he was wrestling with something. "Teaching position. The kind she always wanted when we were together, but I..." He trailed off, the words hanging between them like desert heat.

The revelation settled into the space between them. In all their time together, Callaway had never really talked about his marriage, about what went wrong. He'd mentioned Sarah only in passing—clinical details about divorce papers and property division. This vulnerability was new, unexpected as rain in drought.

"You never talk about her," Harley said carefully, reading the shadows that crossed his face.

"Not much to talk about. We were young. I was dedicated to the job, she wanted more stability. Tale as old as time." But something in his voice suggested deeper waters, currents they hadn't yet navigated together. "It's just strange thinking about her being back here. Walking the same streets, maybe running into each other at the grocery store."

Harley thought about her own half-packed boxes. "Does it bother you? Her coming back?"

"Not in the way you're thinking." Callaway turned to her, his eyes catching sunlight. "But it makes me think about mistakes. About how easy it is to let someone slip away because you're too focused on everything else." His words carried double meaning, touching on her own struggles with Kelly, with letting people in.

The art collective appeared ahead, its installations rising from desert earth like ancient monuments to human vision. But now each sculpture carried darker weight, transformed by knowledge of death and corruption.

They parked beside other law enforcement vehicles, the morning sun painting everything in harsh relief. Before they got out, Harley turned to Callaway. "If there's ever anything you want to talk about—how things went with Sarah, I mean—I'm here. God knows you've listened to me complain about Rob often enough."

Callaway smiled sadly. "I appreciate that." His tone indicated he had no plans to take her up on the offer, and she found herself disappointed by this response.

Before she could think of what to say, though, Callaway took a deep breath and said, "Well, we ought to get in there, don't you think? No sense wasting the day chit-chatting."

And like that, he climbed out of the Jeep, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

CHAPTER FIVE

Fear cast longer shadows than the desert sun.

Harley saw it in the faces of the artists gathered near the colony's main building—the way they huddled in small groups, voices hushed, eyes darting toward the crime scene tape that fluttered like savage ribbons in the autumn wind. Maya's death had transformed their sanctuary into something darker, each installation now carrying the weight of potential threat.

The Arroyo Arts Collective sprawled across several acres of high desert, its buildings a blend of adobe tradition and modern vision. Artists' studios dotted the landscape like scattered puzzle pieces, connected by winding paths that led past sculptures rising from red earth.

Harley paused beside a massive steel sculpture, its twisted forms reaching toward the cloudless sky. A small group of artists stood in its shadow, their conversation falling silent as she approached. She recognized the wariness in their postures—the same tension she'd seen in other communities touched by violence, where trust became as fragile as desert flowers after frost.

Sarah Townsend, whom Harley had briefly consulted during a previous case due to Townsend's expertise in the art world, emerged from the administrative building, her silver hair catching in the desert wind. As the collective's director, she carried herself with careful dignity, but exhaustion had carved deep lines around her eyes. Behind her, through the building's large windows, Harley glimpsed walls covered in exhibition posters and grant announcements—the normal business of art now overshadowed by death.

"They're all in shock," Townsend said quietly as she reached them. "Maya was... she was our heart." Her voice caught on the past tense. "The way she worked with local materials, how she honored traditional techniques while creating something new—" She gestured toward the distant crime scene where technicians still worked. "She believed art could heal the rifts in this community."

Callaway stood beside Harley, his presence solid as the desert stone beneath their feet. "Sometimes healing opens old wounds," he said.

Around them, the collective's grounds stretched away like a gallery of potential crime scenes, each installation now viewed through the lens of threat and possibility. Artists moved between buildings like wary deer, their creativity temporarily eclipsed by survival instinct.

"We should talk inside," Townsend said, gesturing toward the administrative building. But before they could move, a commotion near the parking area drew their attention.

A group of ranch trucks had pulled up, dust still settling around their wheels. Local ranchers emerged, their faces set with purpose. Townsend's posture stiffened, and Harley felt the sudden shift in atmosphere—tension crackling like static before a storm.

"They're not supposed to be here," Townsend said, her voice tight. "We've had confrontations—"

"I'll handle it," Callaway said, already moving toward the trucks. But Harley caught his arm.

"Let's see how this plays out," she said quietly. "Might tell us something about the community dynamics Santos mentioned."

The ranchers approached like a gathering storm, their boots raising small clouds of desert dust with each step. The morning sun caught the silver of belt buckles, the worn leather of gun holsters—legal accessories in this part of the country, but still threatening. Harley noted the way Townsend's artists drew back, seeking shelter in the shadows of their installations.

The lead rancher, a weathered man whose faded Stetson had seen better days, stopped several yards from where they stood. His eyes moved from Townsend to the crime scene tape dancing in the desert wind, then back again. Something flickered across his face—not quite satisfaction, but not quite sorrow either.

"Heard about your artist," he said, his voice carrying the rough edge of someone who spoke more to cattle than people. "Thought we should come pay our respects."

Townsend's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Respect? Is that what you call this, Travis? Showing up with half the county's ranchers while we're still processing a crime scene?"

Travis—and Harley filed away his reaction to Townsend using his first name—shifted his weight, stirring red dust beneath his boots. "The way we see it, this affects all of us. Two dead artists in a week? Makes folks nervous about property values." His gaze swept the collective's grounds. "Makes them wonder if maybe this experiment of yours has run its course."

The desert wind caught Maya's installation in the distance, making the ropes dance like angry spirits. Harley watched the interplay of power dynamics, noting how the other ranchers stayed a careful step behind Travis, letting him speak but ready to support his words with presence.

"This is a crime scene," Harley said, stepping forward. "If you have information that might help our investigation, we're happy to take your statement. Otherwise, I'll have to ask you to leave."

Travis studied her with eyes weathered by decades of desert sun. "FBI?" He spat into the dust, a gesture that carried generations of mistrust for federal authority. "Didn't realize art colony deaths rated that kind of attention."

"Two murders staged to mirror the victims' artwork?" Callaway moved beside Harley, his height matching Travis's challenging stance. "That rates all kinds of attention."

The two men sized one another up. Travis's hand moved unconsciously toward his belt, not exactly reaching for his holstered gun but reminding everyone it was there.

"Just came to say our piece," he said finally. "Let you know we're watching. This land..." He gestured toward the distant mountains that held the secrets of centuries. "It's got its own rules. Its own way of dealing with folks who try to change too much, too fast."

The threat hung in the desert air like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Harley felt Townsend trembling beside her, barely managing to maintain her composure in the face of implied violence.

The silence that followed Travis's words stretched like a shadow at sunset. Townsend finally broke it.

"Let me show you our records," she said to Harley, turning away from the ranchers with deliberate dismissal. "Everything about the permanent installation project, the conflicts it sparked, the threats we received."

They followed her into the administrative building, leaving Travis and his men standing in the desert sun.

The interior felt too cool after the morning heat, its adobe walls holding shadow and memory in equal measure. A gallery space opened before them, where Maya's smaller pieces hung like captured moments of grace. Harley paused before a delicate weaving that seemed to dance in the building's recycled air.

"She made that last month," Townsend said, her voice softening. "Called it 'Desert Crossing'—about the ways cultures meet and merge in these borderlands." She touched the edge of the piece with trembling fingers. "David loved it. Said it captured everything they were trying to accomplish here."

The gallery opened into Townsend's office, its walls covered with exhibition posters and grant applications. Through the window, Harley could see the ranchers' trucks pulling away, dust rising behind them like accusations.

"The threats started about six months ago," Townsend said, settling behind her desk. She pulled out a thick file, its edges worn from frequent handling. "After David's first permanent installation was featured in Southwest Arts Magazine. The publicity brought attention we weren't ready for."

She spread papers across her desk—typed notes carrying warnings about defacing the landscape, about corruption of natural spaces. Each one carefully impersonal, yet carrying undercurrents of deeper rage.

Callaway grunted. "I have a feeling I know who left them."

Townsend's brow furrowed. "Who, Travis?" She shook her head. "Not his style. You saw it yourself—he's confrontational, in his face. He wouldn't hide behind letters."

"One of his goons, then."

Townsend shrugged. "Anything's possible."

The threats spilled across Townsend's desk like poisoned confessions. Harley picked up the first note, which was typed in stark black letters against cheap white paper:

"Your 'art' defaces sacred ground. The desert remembers. And so do we. Remove the installations or face the consequences."

Another, its edges worn from frequent handling:

"You people think you can rewrite the landscape. Think you own these stories. But some stories aren't yours to tell. Consider this your final warning."

There were others, too, all of them carrying vague threats of consequences if the art installations weren't removed.

"Both David and Maya received these?" Callaway asked, studying the threats.

"And others who supported the permanent installation project." Townsend's hands moved restlessly across her desk, straightening papers that didn't need straightening. "We tried increased security, posted warnings about trespassing. But you can't fence in art, not out here. The desert refuses those kinds of boundaries."

The morning light painted harsh shadows through her window, each one a reminder of the darkness that had touched their creative sanctuary. Outside, artists moved between buildings like cautious ghosts, their normal routines transformed by fear and loss.

"Tell me about the tensions within the collective," Harley said, remembering Santos's words about internal conflicts. "It's clear you've got outside hostility, but what about fellow artists? Do some of them oppose the permanent installation movement?"

"Some feel we're betraying the desert's transient nature," Townsend said, her fingers tracing patterns on her desk like an artist sketching troubled waters. "That art here should be temporary. Others worried about environmental impact, about drawing too many tourists to fragile ecosystems." She paused, something flickering behind her eyes. "But David and Maya saw permanence as a form of commitment—to the land, to the community, to building bridges between cultures."

Through the window, Harley watched another group of artists moving between buildings, their bodies held with the careful tension of prey in open territory. The desert wind carried whispers of their conversation—fragments about leaving, about safety.

"I need to understand the community you've built here," Harley said, turning back to Townsend. "The dynamics, the relationships, the fault lines that might have led to this."

"We're more than just artists sharing space," Townsend said, rising to pace behind her desk. "We're trying to create something new out here—a dialogue between past and present, between tradition and innovation." Her hands moved as she spoke, sketching invisible connections in the air. "David understood that. His sculptures spoke to ancient petroglyphs while using modern materials. And Maya... her work honored traditional weaving techniques while exploring contemporary themes."

She stopped at the window, staring out at the crime scene where Maya's final installation still swayed in the desert wind. "They were pushing boundaries, yes. But they were doing it with respect, with understanding." Her voice caught. "Not everyone saw it that way, though."

Harley studied Townsend's reflection in the window glass, noting the careful way she held herself—like someone carrying too many secrets, too many fears. "The ranchers we saw today," Harley prompted. "Travis and his people. Tell me about those confrontations."

"It started small," Townsend said, her fingers tracing patterns on the window pane. "A cut fence here, an angry word there. Then, this spring, a group of tourists following our installation map wandered onto Travis's grazing land. They left three gates open, scattered his herd across five miles of desert. Cost him nearly a week of roundup time."

She turned from the window, shadows playing across her face. "Next it was water. The Martinez family has been drawing from the same well for four generations. But our permanent installations need water too—for maintenance, for the creative process itself. Travis and his people claim we're depleting the aquifer."

"Are you?" Callaway asked.

"We've done studies. Had experts out here to measure usage patterns." Townsend moved to her desk, shuffling papers with nervous energy. "Our total water consumption is less than what gets wasted through their outdated irrigation systems. But that's not really the point."

"What is the point?" Harley asked.

"Last month, we had tourists park their RV across the entrance to Travis's ranch. They were trying to photograph Maya's latest installation—this beautiful piece with fabric catching morning light. Blocked his cattle transport for three hours." She shook her head. "But when Travis came out shouting, they started filming him instead. Posted it online, called him a 'backwards local' trying to stop artistic progress."

"That must have gone over well," Callaway said.

"Two days later, someone sabotaged our main water line. No proof it was Travis's people, but..." She spread her hands across her desk. "David went to talk to them, tried to work out a compromise. Came back white as chalk. Said Travis told him, 'Some things can't be fixed with pretty words and city manners.'"

Townsend's voice dropped lower. "But it's more than just these incidents. There's ideology at work here—deeply held beliefs about what this land is for, who has the right to shape it." She gestured around her office, encompassing the whole collective beyond its walls. "David and Maya were challenging those beliefs, not just with their art, but with their success. They were drawing attention, changing the narrative about what's possible out here. Their work was getting national recognition. Galleries in Santa Fe were starting to take notice."

"Making the old guard nervous," Harley said.

"Making them angry," Townsend corrected. "You have to understand—families like the Blackwoods—they see themselves as guardians of this land. Then here come these artists, transforming spaces they've worked for generations, bringing in outsiders who don't understand desert protocols." She picked up a grant application from her desk, Maya's signature bold across its bottom. "David and Maya weren't just making art. They were suggesting there might be other ways to live with this landscape. Other ways to honor it."

"And some people didn't want to hear that," Callaway said.

"Some people," Townsend said quietly, "would rather burn it all down than watch it change."

The desert light seemed to pulse with revelation as Harley absorbed these details, each one adding texture to the portrait of a community balanced on knife's edge. Outside, the crime scene team was finally packing up. Maya's installation stood like an accusation against the cloudless sky, its ropes still holding the shape of death and darker purpose.

"We'll need everything," Harley said finally. "Exhibition records, grant applications, documentation of every confrontation. And we'll need to talk with other artists, especially those who opposed the permanent installation project."

As Townsend gathered files, Harley's attention returned to the threatening letters. "We need to trace these," she said, meeting Callaway's steady gaze. "Cross-reference them against both victims' movements, see who knew enough about their work to target them specifically."

"You don't want to pay the Blackwoods a visit?"

"Not yet. If we're going to pay them a visit, I want to be prepared when we do."

Callaway nodded. "We've got a lot of information to put into a profile. Let's just hope we can do something with it before the next body shows up."

CHAPTER SIX

"You know, Agent Cole, if this FBI thing doesn't work out, you could always model for the life drawing class I teach on weekends." Ray Ranganathan's grin flashed bright against his dark features as he swiveled in his desk chair. "Very tasteful, of course. All in the name of art."

Harley arched an eyebrow. She'd grown used to the young techie's flirting long ago—ever since she first met him when she moved back to New Mexico, in fact. He was nothing if not consistent.

And persistent.

Ray's workspace in the Bureau's tech lab was a cave of gleaming circuits and humming machinery. Harley felt Callaway shift beside her, his annoyance manifesting in a barely perceptible sigh. Still, he knew as well as she did that Ray's attention was harmless, if not a little endearing.

"The threats, Ray," she said. "What did you find?"

"Can't blame a guy for trying." Ray's fingers flew across his keyboard, multiple screens coming alive with data. Despite his youthful exuberance and persistent attempts at charm, he was one of the best analysts she'd ever worked with. There was no replacing him.

"So," he added, "these notes our killer sent? They're basically ghosts. Cheap paper you can buy anywhere, printer font set to Courier—very old school. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing we can trace."

The screens before them filled with digital reconstructions of the threatening notes, each word dissected into patterns of ink and pressure. Desert sun spilled through the lab's high windows, catching dust motes that danced between them.

"There has to be something," Harley said, leaning closer to the screens where Ray's analysis painted digital constellations of dead ends.

"I tried everything." Ray's fingers moved across his keyboard like a pianist searching for lost chords. "Analyzed the paper fiber composition—basic copy paper, available at any office supply store. Ran the printing characteristics through our database—standard laser printer, probably HP or Brother, nothing unique in the registration marks." His usual playful energy had dimmed, replaced by professional frustration. "Even the word choice analysis is a bust. No distinct patterns, no identifying quirks."

Callaway moved closer, his shadow falling across Ray's screens. "What about the specific references to the artists' work? Someone had to know their installations intimately."

"That's what makes it interesting." Ray pulled up side-by-side comparisons of the threats. "The descriptions are basically parroting published reviews. Nothing that shows special insight or inside knowledge. Just publicly available information twisted into threats."

"There must be something else we can try," Harley said, fighting frustration.

Ray swiveled in his chair, his expression brightening slightly. "Well, there is one thing—" He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes finding Harley's. "But it might require discussing it over dinner. I know this great Ethiopian place..."

"Ray," Callaway said.

"Right, right." Ray turned back to his screens, but not before throwing Harley a quick wink. "I thought about checking social media chatter—artists like Ferguson and Ramirez usually generate pretty active online discussions. But it's mostly standard art world debates, nothing that stands out as particularly threatening."

Harley straightened, feeling the pressure of time slipping away like desert sand. Each dead end meant another potential victim moving unwittingly toward their own carefully staged demise.

"Send us everything you've found," she said, already moving toward the door. "Even the dead ends might tell us something."

"Will do." Ray's fingers flew across his keyboard once more. "And Agent Cole? If you ever want to explore the intersection of art and law enforcement in a more... personal context—"

"Goodbye, Ray," Callaway said, but Harley caught the slight shake of his head—more fondness than frustration for their enthusiastic analyst.

The hallway outside felt cooler, empty of Ray's energy and the humming machines. Harley paused, letting her eyes adjust to the softer light. "Now what?"

"Back to the victims' files," Callaway said, matching his stride to hers as they moved through the federal building's hushed corridors. "Something about those threats has been bothering me—the way they reference the art without really understanding it."

The elevator carried them back to their floor in silence, each lost in thought as fluorescent lights marked their descent like a countdown. When they reached their shared workspace, the afternoon sun had transformed it into a gallery of shadows and revelation, case files spread across their desks like tarot cards waiting to be read.

Harley settled behind her desk, pulling up the digital archives of both victims' recent work. The screen's glow painted her face in artificial daylight as she scrolled through exhibition records, reviews, public responses to their installations.

"Look at this," she said after several moments of focused searching. Callaway moved behind her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. "Both David and Maya were targeted by the same critic—Keith Allen. He's been writing increasingly hostile pieces about their work."

The articles filled her screen like prophecies of darker things to come. Allen's criticism went beyond artistic disagreement, carrying undertones of barely contained rage. His latest piece, published just weeks before David's death, had called their permanent installations "a cancer on the desert's face" and accused them of "colonizing sacred spaces with ego-driven monstrosities."

"He's got quite the following online," Callaway noted, leaning closer to study the comments beneath Allen's articles. "Lot of people agreeing with his take on 'desert colonizer art.'"

The pieces began shifting in Harley's mind, forming new patterns of possibility. "Says here he applied to both colonies and was rejected. Even confronted Ferguson at a gallery opening last year." She scrolled further, each detail adding weight to emerging suspicion. "And look at this—he tried to organize protests at both victims' installation sites."

The desert afternoon pressed against the office windows like a living thing, casting long shadows across their shared workspace. Harley pulled up Allen's employment records, each new detail adding texture to their emerging portrait of a failed artist turned savage critic.

"He works as a janitor at the Sandoval Gallery," she said. "Perfect cover for someone studying art installations, learning how to corrupt them."

Callaway moved to his own desk. "Makes sense," he said, his voice carrying that careful neutrality she'd learned meant he was following the same trail of thought. "Gallery work would give him intimate knowledge of how installations are constructed, secured. The technical expertise our killer needed."

Around them, the federal building hummed with distant activity, but their shared space felt isolated—a pocket of focused intensity where patterns were finally beginning to emerge.

"We need to find him," Harley said, already reaching for her keys. "Question him about those protests he tried to organize."

The gallery would still be open—Sandoval's was known for staying open late, catering to the evening art crowd that drifted through downtown like tumbleweeds searching for purchase. As they gathered their things, the afternoon light seemed to pulse with possibility, each shadow now carrying the weight of potential breakthrough.

They had a direction now, a thread to follow through this maze of artistic violence and corrupted vision.

A thread that led them straight to Keith Allen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Curator moved through his dimly lit studio like a ghost through an abandoned gallery. Photographs lined the walls like exhibits in his private collection, each image a carefully curated piece speaking truth about artistic corruption made manifest in flesh.

The afternoon light filtered through newspaper-covered windows, casting shadow-frames around his documentation. Maya's final installation hung suspended in documentary flash—her body woven into her own creation, ropes embracing flesh in a dance of perfect submission to truth. David's form spiraled upward through silvery shadows, his sculptor's hands finally still, finally honest in their surrender to authentic vision.

The Curator touched each image with the reverence of someone who understood that true art required sacrifice. Every angle had to be perfect. Every shadow had to carry meaning beyond mere murder. This wasn't about death—this was curation, collection, careful preservation of moments when false artists finally confronted their own corruption.

Through his zoom lens, he studied James Whitehorse's latest performance piece. The artist moved through his ritual with practiced grace, unaware that his movements were being transformed into reference material for his final exhibition. The Curator's hands remained steady on the camera, each frame composed with the care of someone arranging precious artifacts.

Memories surfaced like old photographs, edges worn but images still sharp—his father's voice echoing through childhood dreams: Art is a disease of the privileged. Real men build things that last. But his father had never understood. Every carefully staged death was a masterpiece, a moment of truth captured in perfect composition.

The ghost town would be perfect for Whitehorse's final display. Location photographs spread across the Curator's desk showed every angle, every possibility, each empty building a potential gallery for revelation. His notes detailed timing, placement, materials needed—the same meticulous attention that museums used to preserve their treasures.

Through the window, perfect desert light spilled across his workspace, each shadow holding promise of exhibitions yet to come. The Curator studied his wall of documentation, noting how the afternoon sun transformed crime scene photographs into Renaissance paintings—light and shadow dancing across carefully arranged forms that spoke truth through their final poses.

Among the papers on his desk, a collection of exhibition reviews caught the light. Critics praising false prophets, celebrating the corruption of sacred spaces. His fingers traced their words with delicate contempt, each glossy page a testament to how far the art world had fallen. They couldn't see what he saw—how these desert "artists" defaced ancient grounds with their temporary installations and hollow vision.

The desert wind whispered through cracks in his sanctuary, stirring papers like restless spirits seeking validation. His private gallery of photographs caught the dying light, each image a step toward something purer than mere art.

Soon, another exhibition would open. Another false prophet would face the truth of their corruption.

And the desert would remember.

The Curator moved to his private workroom, where older photographs lined the walls—documentation of art installations from years past, each one a testament to the desert's slow corruption. His fingers brushed across images of stone formations carved with modern symbols, of fabric installations writhing against ancient rocks like parasites seeking purchase. He'd watched it happen slowly, this invasion masked as creativity, this defacement disguised as vision.

Not that anyone else saw it that way. They called it progress, called it bridging cultures, called it artistic evolution. As if the desert needed their evolution. As if these sacred spaces required human hands to make them whole.

A coyote called in the distance, its voice carrying ancient warnings across the cooling air. The Curator paused in his preparations, head tilted as if listening for deeper meaning in its cry. How many others had stood in these lands, watching false prophets try to rewrite their stories? How many had wished for someone to stand guard, to protect what was pure from corruption masked as creation?

He returned to his workspace, where preliminary sketches for future exhibitions lay in careful stacks. Not plans—no, nothing so crude as that. Studies in truth, in revelation, in transformation. Each page a meditation on how art could be purified through perfect presentation.

The desert wind shifted, carrying the scent of pinon pine through his sanctuary. Evening light painted his collection in deeper shadows, each photograph now holding secrets like artifacts in forgotten tombs. His hands moved across them with Curator's precision, arranging and rearranging until patterns emerged like constellations guiding lost souls home.

Soon, the ghost town would hold new meaning. Its empty buildings would become galleries of honest vision, of corruption transformed into truth through careful staging. And James Whitehorse would finally understand the weight of authenticity, the price of false representation.

The Curator smiled, the expression hidden in growing darkness as sunset painted his workspace in colors that spoke of endings and beginnings. His father had been wrong, all those years ago. Some men built things that lasted. Others revealed eternal truths through careful destruction.

And the desert remembered them all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harley felt the familiar tension gathering in her shoulders as she and Callaway approached the entrance of the Sandoval Gallery, which rose before them like a modernist temple, its clean lines and stark white walls a deliberate contrast to the weathered adobe buildings surrounding it. Desert light spilled across its façade in harsh angles, transforming windows into mirrors that reflected the late afternoon sky.

They were about to speak with their first suspect, a potential murderer, and she braced herself for the encounter. There was no telling how this interview would go down. Anything could happen.

Inside, the gallery's atmosphere pressed against them like cool water after desert heat. Their footsteps echoed across polished concrete floors, each sound amplified by the cavernous space where abstract sculptures cast strange shadows in the filtered light. The air carried traces of cleaning products and fresh paint, mingled with the peculiar stillness of spaces dedicated to contemplation.

A massive canvas dominated one wall, its abstract swirls of crimson and gold catching afternoon light like captured flame.

"What do you see?" Harley asked, studying Callaway's reflection in the protective glass. His weathered face carried that particular concentration she'd noticed whenever he approached art—equal parts skepticism and genuine curiosity.

"Honestly?" He tilted his head. "Looks like a sandstorm caught in a sunset. But I'm just a simple country lawman." His lips curved in that slight smile that still made her heart skip. "You can teach me about art when you move in. Put up whatever you want—might class up the place a bit."

Harley felt a strange thrill at the prospect of moving in with him. Even though she'd already made plans to do so, even though she'd already started packing and had even listed her house for sale, it felt more like a dream than a plan.

Still, it was difficult not to think of Rob and how badly that relationship had ended. But she had to believe it would go differently with Callaway. He was a different man from Rob, and besides, she'd grown a lot since then. She was a much wiser person now than she'd been then, even if that wisdom had cost her a great deal.

Before Harley could respond to Callaway's offer, a polished voice cut through their moment: "Can I help you find anything?"

The gallery attendant's smile was professional, practiced, perfect. But something in her eyes suggested she'd already categorized them as unlikely buyers, interlopers in this temple of artistic refinement.

"FBI." Harley showed her credentials. "We're looking for Keith Allen."

The woman's smile flickered like desert heat waves. "Keith? He's... probably in the back. Cleaning supplies closet is through there." She gestured toward a hallway that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"We just need to ask him a few questions," Callaway said, his voice carrying that careful neutrality that often put witnesses at ease. But something in his posture had shifted—a tension Harley recognized from years of partnership. He'd caught something in the woman's reaction, some subtle tell that suggested Keith Allen might be more than just a disgruntled critic.

They moved down the hallway, past carefully curated exhibitions that seemed to watch their progress with artificial eyes. Harley's mind wandered briefly to Kelly, to the burning photograph and all it represented. Here in this temple of artistic expression, that act of destruction carried new weight—another kind of criticism made manifest in flame.

The cleaning supplies closet door stood partially open, spilling harsh fluorescent light across the polished floor. Music drifted out—something with a heavy bass line that seemed to pulse against the gallery's careful silence. Harley glanced at Callaway, catching his slight nod. They'd done this dance countless times before, approaching potential suspects in spaces that could become traps.

The music grew louder as they approached, and beneath it, they could hear movement—someone shifting boxes, organizing supplies, living in their own world separate from the gallery's refined atmosphere. Harley moved first, pushing the door wider to reveal a figure hunched over a shelf, earbuds trailing from beneath a maintenance uniform cap.

"Keith Allen?"

He turned, and Harley's first impression was of barely contained energy—a coiled spring waiting for release. His eyes moved between them with predator's awareness, taking in their badges, their stances, the way they positioned themselves to block his exit. Music leaked from his dangling earbuds, its rhythm now seeming more like a heartbeat of concealed violence.

"Depends who's asking," he said.

"FBI," Harley said, keeping her voice neutral despite the tension crackling through the small space. "We'd like to talk about your recent articles. About David Ferguson and Maya Ramirez."

Something flickered across Allen's face—not quite guilt, but something darker. His eyes darted past them to the hallway beyond, measuring distances, calculating odds. His hands moved restlessly at his sides as he studied them, like an artist assessing subjects before committing them to canvas.

"Ferguson and Ramirez," he said, the names carrying venom beneath their surface. "Two perfect examples of everything wrong with modern desert art. Corrupting sacred spaces with their ego-driven installations." His voice took on a lecturer's cadence, rehearsed and precise. "Someone finally did something about it."

"That someone being you?" Callaway asked, his frame filling the doorway with quiet authority.

Allen laughed. "Me? I'm just the guy who cleans up other people's messes. The guy who watches them prance around these galleries, congratulating themselves on their 'vision' while they defile everything that matters." His eyes found Harley's, fever-bright with conviction. "But I was in Santa Fe when Maya died. Giving an anti-art lecture at the community center. Fifty witnesses can confirm it."

He sounded confident, but his claim about the alibi could be a ruse. The way he spoke about the victims carried echoes of the threatening notes—same themes, different execution.

"Tell us about the protests you tried to organize," she said. "The ones at their installation sites."

"Tried being the operative word." Allen moved between them to grab a bottle of cleaning solution. "Nobody showed up. Nobody cared that these 'artists' were scarring the landscape with their temporary glory." He spat the word 'artists' like poison. "Ferguson and his massive ego-monuments. Maya with her rope webs choking the natural order."

The words struck Harley with uncomfortable familiarity. She pulled out her phone, finding the photo she'd taken of one of the threatening notes. "Interesting choice of words," she said, showing him the screen. "'Rope installations strangle the natural order.' Sound familiar?"

Allen's expression shifted, his righteous anger turning to wariness. "I write art criticism. People read it. Maybe whoever wrote those threats was inspired by my work." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Or maybe great minds think alike when it comes to recognizing artistic corruption."

The cleaning supplies closet suddenly felt too small. Harley sensed Callaway tensing beside her, reading the same subtle signals of escalating threat.

"Where were you three nights ago?" she asked. "The night David Ferguson died?"

Allen's smile twisted into something darker. "Working. Like always. Cleaning up after people who think they understand art." He gestured at the supply closet around them, at the bottles and rags that represented his fall from artistic ambition. "Check the security cameras if you don't believe me. I was here until midnight, making sure everything was perfect for the next day's exhibition."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like trapped insects, casting harsh shadows across Allen's face as he moved between cleaning supplies with practiced ease. But there was nothing casual about his movements now—each gesture carried the weight of carefully contained rage.

"Must be frustrating," Harley said, watching his reflection fragment across bottles of glass cleaner. "Being surrounded by art you despise, having to maintain spaces for work you consider corrupt."

"You have no idea." His voice dropped lower, carrying echoes of deeper wounds. "These people come in here with their grand visions, their desperate need to 'transform' spaces that were perfect before they arrived. And everyone celebrates them. Critics praise them. Galleries court them." His hands clenched around a bottle of industrial cleaner. "While real artists, people who understand the sacred nature of these spaces, get relegated to maintenance work."

The confined space seemed to pulse with unspoken violence, each shadow holding potential for sudden movement. Callaway shifted slightly, positioning himself to better control the exit if needed. But Allen appeared lost in his own darkness now, words spilling out like long-contained poison.

"Ferguson was the worst," he continued, his voice taking on a preacher's cadence. "Installing his massive sculptures out there, permanent marks on sacred land. And Maya? Following his lead, trying to make her temporary installations more lasting. As if the desert needed their improvements." He laughed, the sound empty as wind through abandoned buildings. "At least they've stopped corrupting the landscape now."

The words hung in the artificial light between them. Harley studied Allen's face, noting how his eyes seemed to glow with fervent conviction. But something about his rage felt performative—too practiced, too precise.

"Interesting perspective," Callaway said, his drawl carrying careful neutrality. "Got any proof of where you were when Ferguson died? Security footage gets archived, after all."

Allen's smile was sharp as desert thorns. "Check for yourself at the main building downtown. I was here all night, doing what I always do—cleaning up other people's messes." He turned away, dismissal clear in every line of his body. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike some people who get paid to harass maintenance staff."

It was clear the conversation was over. Any further questioning would only push Allen deeper into his carefully constructed fortress of righteous indignation. Harley caught Callaway's eye, reading the same conclusion in his slight nod.

They left Allen to his domain of cleaning supplies and contained rage, their footsteps echoing across polished concrete as they made their way through the gallery's refined spaces.

"He's fishy, alright," Callaway said as they stepped into desert heat that felt almost cleansing after the closet's artificial chill. "One way or another, he's hiding something."

Harley squinted against the harsh light, her mind already moving through next steps, calculating angles and possibilities. "I have a feeling his alibi will check out," she said, unlocking her Jeep. "He's too confident about the footage." The afternoon sun had transformed her vehicle into an oven, but she barely noticed the heat.

"But you're right," she continued. "He knows something. Those word choices, his anger about permanent installations..."

"Like he's reading from someone else's script," Callaway said, finishing her thought.

"Yeah. But whose script is it?"

Callaway shook his head. "That right there is the million-dollar question."

CHAPTER NINE

Kelly touched the velvet petals of the roses with her fingertips. She was surprised to find herself smiling.

It was a sad, nostalgic smile. These were, after all, her mother's roses—somehow surviving years of neglect, pushing through hard soil with the same stubborn grace that had defined Maria Cole in life. Kelly worked her fingers into the earth, letting its familiar warmth ground her in the present moment.

The roses needed deadheading, their spent blooms hanging heavy as regret. Kelly moved between them, each snip of her shears a meditation she desperately needed. Here, surrounded by her mother's legacy, she could almost pretend she was that innocent girl again—the one who hadn't learned to sleep with one eye open, who hadn't mapped every exit and entrance of every space she entered.

Almost.

Her mother's voice seemed to whisper through the morning breeze: Yellow roses mean friendship and new beginnings, mi amor. Kelly remembered watching those skilled hands work this same soil, showing her how to prune away death to make room for new growth. Maria Cole had possessed an artist's eye for beauty and a warrior's determination to create it in harsh places.

But even the sweetness of memory couldn't keep darker thoughts at bay. The broken window at Greg's house intruded into her mind, along with the burning photograph of Jay Fletcher curling at the edges like autumn leaves touched by early frost. Someone was watching her, studying her, planning their next move with the same careful precision she now used to tend these roses.

A car drove past the house, the sound of its engine carrying over the adobe wall. Kelly's hand moved instinctively toward her purse where the .38 Special waited. The vehicle didn't slow, didn't stop, but Kelly didn't lower her guard.

She straightened, scanning the street beyond the garden wall with the automatic vigilance she'd developed during her years with the cartel. Every shadow could hide a watcher. Every passing vehicle could carry threats wrapped in ordinary shapes.

The roses swayed in the desert breeze, their perfume now seeming too sweet, too much like the cloying scent that had filled the church at her mother's funeral. Kelly forced her hands back to their work, but the morning's illusion of normalcy had dissolved like dew under harsh sun.

Kelly's shears caught another spent bloom, the snip echoing like handcuffs closing. Her fingers moved mechanically now, muscle memory taking over while her mind circled back to this morning's betrayal. The sight of Harley's Jeep parked down the street, Greg's careful surveillance posture—it had hit her like a physical blow, transforming familiar family into something darker.

Watchers. Always watchers.

The cartel had taught her about surveillance, about the different ways people observed their targets. Some were obvious, meant to intimidate. Others stayed hidden, gathering intel for future use. But the worst were the ones who thought they were protecting you—the guards who watched with possessive intensity, claiming ownership through constant observation.

Just like this morning, she thought, the rose thorns catching her sleeve like accusing fingers. She'd spotted Greg first, his reflection ghosting across a storefront window. Then Harley, trying to blend in but carrying that unmistakable FBI awareness that set her apart from everyday people. The same awareness Kelly had learned to recognize in cartel soldiers who'd guarded her "accommodations."

Her hands trembled slightly, and she forced them steady. The cartel had taught her that too—how to control physical reactions that might betray weakness. Seven years in that compound outside Ciudad Juárez, learning to survive beneath constant observation. Three more years moved between safehouses like a living chess piece. And the rest of the time…

Well, it was hard to keep track. She'd been moved more times than she could remember.

The one consistency, though, was that wherever the cartel took her, she was always watched, always controlled, always someone else's property to protect or punish.

"Never again," she whispered to the roses, their yellow petals catching sunlight like captured flame. She'd meant those words when she'd confronted Harley and Greg this morning, her voice carrying all the steel she'd forged during those years of captivity. She'd survived by learning to read people, to recognize threats hidden behind masks of concern. Even her own siblings could become threats if they tried to control her movements, monitor her choices.

She wasn't going to be anyone's prisoner.

The anger still simmered, but beneath it lay something deeper—a bone-deep exhaustion from constantly navigating between past trauma and present danger. The stalker's silver sedan, the burning photograph, the broken window—these were real threats. But so was the suffocation of overprotection, the slow death of independence beneath loving surveillance.

Her fingers found another dead rose, its petals dry as desert dust. The cartel guards had brought her roses sometimes, blood-red blooms meant to remind her of her place in their twisted hierarchy. Pretty things belong in cages, they'd say, watching her arrange the flowers in her gilded prison. She'd learned to hate red roses, their color too close to fresh blood on concrete floors.

But these—her mother's yellow roses, stubborn and wild and free—these she could love.

A shadow fell across the garden.

Kelly's hand moved instinctively toward her purse before she spotted her brother. Greg stood at the garden gate, his weathered face carrying that careful expression she'd seen too often lately—like someone approaching a wounded animal that might either flee or attack.

"Brought you some water," he said, holding up a glass. "It's getting hot out here."

She straightened slowly, letting her hand fall away from the concealed weapon. The morning's anger still simmered beneath her skin, but something in Greg's posture—that big-brother concern that had sheltered her through childhood storms—made it impossible to maintain her coldness.

"Thanks." She took the glass, the condensation cool against fingers that smelled of roses and earth. They stood in awkward silence, the garden's perfume rising around them like memories of simpler times.

"About this morning," Greg started, but Kelly cut him off.

"Don't." She set the glass down beside her gardening tools. "I know why you did it. You and Harley both. But following me, watching from the shadows—that's exactly what they did."

Greg's face shifted, understanding darkening his eyes. "We're not them, Kelly. We're family. We're trying to protect—"

"Protect me?" The laugh that escaped her carried echoes of darker times. "Like the guards who said they were protecting me? Who watched every breath I took, every step I made, all while claiming it was for my own good?" The roses swayed in the desert breeze, their yellow petals trembling like her carefully maintained composure. "I spent seventeen years being 'protected,' Greg. Being watched. Being controlled. Never again."

She saw the pain flash across his features, the helpless anger of an older brother who couldn't fix what had been broken. The same expression he'd worn when she was seventeen, when she'd started hanging out with the wrong crowd, making choices he couldn't protect her from.

But before either of them could speak again, movement caught her eye—a figure with a camera, half-hidden behind a neighbor's oleander hedge.

"Greg," she whispered. Her brother tensed, reading the change in her posture even before he registered the cause. The garden's peaceful atmosphere evaporated like desert dew, replaced by the familiar electric tension of threat and response.

"Someone's watching us," she said. "Photographing us." Even though she said 'us,' what she really meant was 'me.' Because she had no doubt she was the target.

Just as she had no doubt that this was the same person who'd left the burning photograph at the house last night.

"I see him," Greg growled, his hands curling into fists. The watcher must have sensed their awareness—the oleander's leaves rustled as the figure retreated. Greg started forward.

Kelly reached for her purse to grab her gun, but Greg caught her arm. "No," he said. "I've got this. I'm done letting people hurt my little sister."

He moved with surprising speed for a man who spent his days building homes rather than hunting threats. The garden gate slammed behind him, its sound sharp as gunfire in the morning quiet. Kelly watched him disappear around the corner, following the watcher's path through neighboring yards.

Kelly felt an urge to follow, but she held back. She knew too well how volatile she was, how tempted she'd be to use lethal force. And she'd already been accused of murder once.

She didn't want to commit the crime she'd been falsely accused of.

Still… what if Greg was in danger? Maybe she should call Harley. Maybe—

Before she could come to a decision, Greg returned like an approaching storm, his breath coming in harsh bursts, desert dust coating his clothes. Sweat gleamed on his face.

"Lost him," Greg spat, the words carrying years of accumulated failure—failure to protect her before, failure to catch her stalker now. His hands opened and closed at his sides. "Bastard had a car waiting around the corner. Silver sedan, just like you said."

The roses swayed between them in the strengthening wind, their shadows painting patterns across Greg's face that seemed to deepen his expression into something dangerous.

"This ends now," he said, his voice dropping to a register that carried echoes of their father's darker moods. "I'm not letting someone else hurt you. Not again. Not ever." His eyes met hers, and in them she saw seventeen years of guilt. "I've got some ideas. Some friends who can help. People who know how to handle situations like this."

"Greg—" she started, but he was already turning away, his shadow stretching across their mother's garden like a promise of retribution to come.

"Just trust me, little sister," he said over his shoulder. "Some problems need solving the old-fashioned way."

CHAPTER TEN

Desert heat shimmered across the Arroyo Arts Collective like a living thing, transforming morning shadows into fluid shapes that seemed to pulse with hidden meaning.

Harley stood beside her Jeep, studying how the sun painted harsh angles across installations that now felt more like memorials than art. Each sculpture, each carefully arranged piece, carried the weight of potential prophecy—who might be next, whose vision might become epitaph.

The security footage from Sandoval Gallery had confirmed Allen's alibi with frustrating clarity. They'd spent hours reviewing tape that showed him methodically cleaning, organizing, moving through the gallery's spaces with the same bitter dedication he'd displayed during questioning. The timestamps were unaltered, the angles comprehensive. He'd been there all night, just as he'd claimed, when David Ferguson's life was transformed into a carefully staged exhibition.

"Back to square one," Callaway said beside her, his voice carrying the familiar weight of paths closing even as others opened. They'd come back to the collective hoping to understand deeper currents—the tensions Santos had described between artists pushing for permanence and those who believed desert art should be as temporary as morning frost.

Harley watched a group of residents moving between buildings, looking wary. Everyone, it seemed, moved in groups.

Herd mentality, she thought. The loners get picked off.

She didn't know whether that was true in this case—whether the killer might be an opportunist, targeting artists who isolated themselves—but either way, it made sense why these artists would want to stick together. There was safety in numbers.

"Let's see if we can get someone to talk," she said.

She and Callaway approached a massive steel sculpture, beside which four artists huddled in quiet conversation—an older woman with silver-streaked hair twisted into a messy bun, paint flecks still clinging to her fingers; a younger man wearing a traditional Navajo beaded necklace over his black t-shirt; and two women in their thirties who stood close together, one occasionally reaching to touch the other's arm in what seemed like unconscious reassurance. They all looked up as Harley and Callaway approached, their conversation dying immediately.

"Morning," Harley said, keeping her voice gentle. "I'm Agent Cole, this is Agent Callaway. We're hoping to talk with you about what's been happening here at the collective."

The older woman shifted her weight, positioning herself slightly in front of the others. "We've already given statements to the local police," she said, her fingers working nervously at a dried paint spot on her sleeve. "About Maya and David both."

"We understand," Callaway said, his drawl carrying careful warmth. "But sometimes details come back to people after the initial shock wears off. Things that might not have seemed important at first."

One of the younger women—the one who'd been touching the other for reassurance—shook her head. "We really shouldn't be talking about this. Sarah told us to direct all questions to her." Her partner's hand found hers, squeezing tight.

"Sarah Townsend?" Harley asked. "The collective's director?"

The man with the beaded necklace spoke up, his voice carrying quiet intensity. "She's trying to protect us. Keep the collective together while everything falls apart." He glanced at the massive sculpture looming above them, its twisted metal catching harsh sunlight. "David made this, you know. Called it 'Desert Ascending.' Now it feels more like a tombstone."

"Peter." The older woman's tone carried warning. "We agreed."

"Did you know either victim well?" Harley asked. "Notice anything unusual in the days before their deaths?"

The group seemed to draw closer together, an unconscious circling of wagons. The older woman's paint-stained fingers twisted together. "Please. We're all just trying to process this. To keep working, keep creating, even though—" She broke off, swallowing hard.

"Even though you're afraid you might be next," Callaway finished quietly.

The younger women exchanged glances. One of them started to speak, but her partner touched her arm again, shaking her head. The man—Peter—stared at the ground, his necklace catching sunlight like captured flame.

"We should go," the older woman said firmly. "We have a community meeting about enhanced security measures." She gestured vaguely toward one of the buildings. "Sarah's expecting us."

"If you think of anything," Harley said, offering her card, "anything at all..."

The woman took the card reflexively but didn't look at it. The group was already moving away, their steps carrying the careful purpose of prey trying not to look like they're fleeing.

Just before they reached the building's entrance, Peter glanced back. Something flickered across his features—guilt, maybe, or fear. His mouth opened slightly as if he might call out to them. But then one of the younger women touched his sleeve, and whatever he might have said disappeared into the morning heat.

Harley watched them disappear inside, the door closing behind them with quiet finality. "They know something," she said softly.

Callaway sighed. "But they don't want to talk, so it doesn't matter what they know. We're outsiders here."

"That much is painfully obvious," Harley said.

The wind carried traces of sage and creosote, mingled with the metallic tang of sun-heated sculpture. Fear had transformed this sanctuary into something closer to siege, each artist now wondering if their vision might become the killer's next canvas.

Through the shifting morning heat, Harley caught fragments of furtive movement—a young woman with paint-stained hands and wary eyes, hovering at the edges of groups before drifting away like smoke. Her gaze kept finding Harley and Callaway. When their eyes finally met directly, the woman startled like a deer scenting a predator. She disappeared around the corner of a storage building.

"I'm going to check something," Harley murmured to Callaway, already moving.

"Want me to come with?" he asked.

She shook her head. It would be less intimidating if she was by herself.

The storage building's shadow fell across Harley like cool water as she followed the woman's path. Around her, the collective's grounds hummed with artificial normalcy—artists moving between studios, installations catching desert light, everything carefully choreographed to mask underlying fear.

The path led to a small courtyard hidden behind one of the older studios, its adobe walls rising like protective arms around a space filled with half-finished sculptures and abandoned projects. The woman stood beside a massive clay piece, her fingers tracing its unfinished surface with unconscious grace. Light filtered through a weathered tarpaulin overhead, painting everything in subdued shades that felt separate from the harsh desert morning beyond.

At the sight of Harley, the woman looked about like a startled bird.

"It's okay," Harley said, raising a calming hand. "I just want to talk.

The woman swallowed hard. "You don't understand. After what happened to David and Maya, everyone's worried they'll be next. We're doing everything we can to not stand out, and talking with the FBI…"

"We can protect you," Harley said.

"Can you?" There was a note of challenge in the young woman's voice. "Are you going to keep eyes on me twenty-four-seven? No?"

Harley changed tactics. "The best way to keep everyone safe is to stop the person behind these killings. And I have a feeling that maybe you can help us do that."

The woman's fingers danced restlessly across the clay sculpture, as if drawing strength from its unfinished form. Shadow and filtered light played across her features.

"Please," Harley said. "If you can think of anyone who might target artists in this community…"

"Travis Blackwood," the woman suddenly said, her voice barely carrying above the desert wind's whisper through the courtyard.

Harley's mind flashed back to the ranchers who'd shown up when she and Callaway were with Sarah Townsend. "What about him?"

"He's been making threats for months. Said someone was going to 'deal with us' permanently." She glanced toward the courtyard's entrance, as if fearing someone might show up and catch them talking. "Maya told me about it, just days before... before they turned her work into her ending."

"Travis said this directly to Maya?"

"Not just to her. To several other artists as well. It's like he knew these murders were about to happen."

"Thank you," Harley said quietly. "I know what it cost you to tell me this."

The woman nodded. "Please don't tell anyone I spoke with you."

"I won't. Your secret's safe with me."

Harley left as carefully as she'd arrived. She found Callaway waiting where she'd left him, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert.

"Travis Blackwood," she said softly.

"He that rancher who showed up before?"

She nodded. "I believe so. And if he’s tied to this..." She trailed off, her gaze shifting to the horizon where the desert stretched toward the unseen boundaries of Blackwood’s land. The desert wind gusted past them, stirring dust into small whirlwinds that danced across the ground. Harley felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the kind that hit when a lead went from warm to hot.

"Then we'd better get to him while we still have the element of surprise," she said. "Because if he's as dangerous as he's looking, then the less he's prepared for us, the better."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The ghost town's empty windows watched James Whitehorse like hollow eyes as he set up his equipment in the gathering dusk.

Each abandoned building held memories of other performances, other attempts to bridge the gap between his indigenous heritage and the modern art world that both celebrated and commodified it. The weathered clapboard facades, peeling paint curling like old skin, stood silent now, their once-bustling lives reduced to echoes trapped in sagging roofs and broken glass. This place had been a mining outpost a century ago, a fleeting boom of human ambition that crumbled when the silver veins ran dry.

To James, it was more than a backdrop—it was a mirror, reflecting the impermanence of things built on shifting ground.

He knelt beside his camera tripod, adjusting its legs in the uneven dirt. The threatening letters had grown more specific lately, their warnings carrying weight beyond mere criticism. Your performances mock sacred traditions. Your art corrupts ancient meaning.

The words looped through his mind, sharp as obsidian. He’d spent years explaining—in interviews with glossy art magazines, in carefully worded artist statements, in quiet conversations with tribal elders—that his work wasn’t about exploitation, but exploration. About understanding how identity shifted like desert sand between past and present, how it could be both anchor and horizon. His dances, his installations, his fusion of ceremonial rhythms with modern technology—they were offerings, not thefts. A way to speak to both his ancestors and the strangers who’d never walked the same earth.

But it seemed someone didn’t see it that way. Someone saw his art as a betrayal, a wound to be cauterized.

Desert wind whispered wordlessly through empty doorways, carrying the scent of sage. James paused, his hands stilling on the camera’s controls as the scent wrapped around him like a memory. His grandmother used to burn sage in their small adobe home, the smoke rising in thin tendrils while she murmured prayers he’d only half-understood as a child. Protection, she’d called it, her voice as steady as the mesas that framed their world. A way to keep the restless at bay.

He wondered now if she’d meant spirits—or something more human, something with hands that could write threats on paper.

He stood, brushing red dust from his knees, and adjusted the ceremonial vest draped over his shoulders. The beads—hand-stitched by his aunt in patterns that traced back generations—caught the fading light, glinting like stars against the deep blue fabric. He’d added his own touches over the years: thin strips of reflective tape along the hem, a nod to the modern world that watched him through lenses and screens. It was a small defiance, a quiet claim that he could honor the old ways while still breathing in the now.

He checked the camera’s frame one last time, ensuring it captured the intersection of the two dirt roads where he’d perform. The crossing point was deliberate—a symbol of convergence, of paths meeting and diverging, much like the life he’d chosen. Behind him, the ghost town’s weathered buildings formed a natural amphitheater, each vacant window now filling with deeper darkness as the sun dipped lower.

He had the uneasy feeling of being watched—not by the spirits of this abandoned place, whose presence he’d acknowledged with traditional offerings of cornmeal scattered at the town’s edge, but by something more immediate. More hungry. The sensation had been growing stronger over the past hour as he’d prepared the space, a prickling along his spine that refused to fade.

Each time he turned to look, however, there was only evening light painting shadows across weathered wood and rusted metal, the skeletal remains of a water tower creaking faintly in the breeze. He told himself it was just the isolation, the way solitude amplified every rustle and shift. Out here, miles from the nearest living soul, the mind played tricks—turned a tumbleweed’s roll into footsteps, a hawk’s cry into a whispered threat.

His fingers moved through the familiar motions of ritual preparation, muscle memory carrying him through steps learned from both tradition and innovation. He laid out the small bundle of feathers he’d brought—eagle and owl, tied with red thread—placing them at the road’s center as an anchor for the performance. The camera would capture everything: his dance between cultures, his attempt to honor both ancient wisdom and modern expression.

He’d spent months planning this piece, weaving together movements his grandfather had taught him with the stark, angular gestures he’d developed in art school. It was a conversation in motion, a dialogue between the boy who’d listened to stories by firelight and the man who now stood before a lens, offering those stories to a world that didn’t always listen back.

If the threats proved real, at least his performance would speak truth about the complexity of identity in these borderlands. He’d made that promise to himself after the first letter arrived—crudely typed, unsigned, slipped under his studio door. He’d kept working, kept creating, even as the messages grew darker, more personal.

You think you’re one of us, but you’re not. You’ve sold your soul to outsiders.

The words had stung because they echoed doubts he’d carried since childhood—doubts about where he belonged, about whether he could ever truly bridge the worlds he walked between.

The sun touched the horizon like a blade touching skin, its light transforming the ghost town’s empty spaces into a gallery of potential threat. James began his opening movements, letting inherited memory guide his body through patterns older than the buildings surrounding him. Each gesture carried the weight of generations—grandmothers teaching grandchildren, stories passed through blood and bone and careful observation. His feet pressed into the earth, stirring small clouds of dust that caught the dying light, turning them into fleeting halos. He moved with purpose, arms tracing arcs that mimicked the wind’s path through the canyons, legs bending in rhythms that echoed the songs his uncle used to sing at dawn.

This was more than performance—it was prayer, a way to ground himself in something larger than the fear that gnawed at his edges.

But beneath the familiar rhythm, his senses remained alert for movement in the deepening shadows. The letters had promised consequences for his “corruption” of traditional forms, had spoken of cleansing and correction, of art transformed into lessons about authenticity and belonging. He’d read them over and over, searching for clues in the phrasing, the cadence—anything that might reveal who’d written them. A disgruntled artist from the collective, jealous of his growing recognition? A traditionalist from the reservation, offended by his blending of sacred and secular?

Or just some stranger who’d seen his work online and decided it offended their private sense of purity?

He didn’t know, and the not-knowing was a weight he carried like a stone in his chest.

The air cooled as twilight deepened, the desert’s breath turning sharp against his skin. He paused mid-movement, catching his reflection in a shard of broken glass leaning against a nearby porch. His face looked older than he remembered, lines etched deeper by months of sleepless nights and unanswered questions. The vest’s beads glinted faintly, a reminder of the hands that had sewn them—hands that had trusted him to carry their legacy forward, not to let it unravel under someone else’s judgment. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and resumed the dance, letting the rhythm pull him back into focus.

He turned his mind away from the threatening letters, away from his fears, and focused on the present moment. The camera’s red light blinked steadily, a silent witness to his offering. He let his body speak—through the sweep of his arms, the stamp of his feet, the tilt of his head toward a sky now streaked with violet and indigo.

This was his truth, his way of honoring the past while reaching for something new. And no one was going to stop him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Harley guided her Jeep down the winding approach toward the Blackwood ranch, her mind on Kelly.

She wondered how her little sister was processing what had happened last night. Kelly had already been on edge—Harley couldn't think of a time her sister had really looked relaxed since being rescued from the cartel—and everything going on with this stalker would only stress her more. Harley desperately wanted to keep her sister safe… but what could she do? She'd tried following Kelly, and that had blown up in her face.

It was clear that Kelly wanted space, wanted to be treated like the strong, capable woman she was. But what if trusting Kelly led to something terrible happening to her? Kelly was careful, but she had to lower her guard eventually, if only while sleeping.

And that might give someone an opportunity. Someone who wished to harm her.

Harley pulled into a patch of shade cast by an ancient cottonwood and took out her phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I'm sorry about this morning, she typed. What Greg and I did was wrong. Can we talk soon?

The message disappeared into digital silence, carrying her regret like desert wind carrying scattered promises. She waited, watching the screen, but no response appeared. The ranch buildings loomed before them, their shadows stretching across packed earth like accusing fingers.

"You okay?" Callaway asked, his voice carrying that gentle concern that still caught her off guard sometimes.

"Just thinking about Kelly. I really feel like I blew it with her this morning, and I don't know how I'm going to get that trust back. God knows she doesn't give it easily."

"You were just doing what you thought best."

Harley snorted. "I don't think my intentions make much difference, not to her. I made her feel trapped again, which is the last thing I want her to feel. Who knows what memories that stirred up."

Callaway said nothing, and Harley appreciated his silence. He wasn't one to offer tepid platitudes.

Harley checked one more time for a response from Kelly. Nothing. She tucked the phone away and cleared her throat, deciding there was nothing more to be done. "Alright," she said. "No sense beating myself up about what can't be changed. Let's go speak with Travis."

The main ranch house, with its massive adobe walls, rose from the surrounding desert like a fortress. Harley couldn't see any lights on inside, but then again it was still early evening. The darkness hadn't thickened yet.

A huge blue heeler appeared from behind a rusted tractor and started barking at them. Harley's heart jumped at the sound.

"Looks like a friendly fellow, don't he?" Callaway said ironically.

A figure Harley recognized as Travis Blackwood emerged from a barn, his movements carrying the same measured purpose they'd witnessed at the art collective. Desert wind stirred his coat, revealing the holstered weapon at his hip. Harley had to remind herself that out here, guns were as much tools as they were weapons.

Still, Harley kept her hand close to her own holster.

"Figured you'd show up eventually," Travis called out, his voice carrying across the distance between them. The dog moved to his side, its posture alert but controlled. "Those artists have been talking shit about me, haven't they?"

"We're just following up on a few things," Harley said carefully, keeping her tone neutral. The blue heeler's ears flattened as she spoke, a low growl rumbling in its chest.

"Quiet, Buck," Travis commanded, though he made no move to approach them. He stood with the easy confidence of someone on his own territory, his hand resting casually near his holstered weapon. "Following up on what, exactly?"

"Mr. Blackwood," Callaway cut in, his drawl carrying professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying tension. "We're just trying to clear up some things. Could we speak inside?"

The dog growled again, louder this time. Travis's mouth twisted into something between smile and sneer. "Buck's pretty good at reading people. Seems to think you two aren't here for a friendly chat."

"We can do this officially," Harley said, letting her jacket fall open just enough to reveal her badge. "Come back with warrants, make it all very formal. Or we can talk like reasonable people who both want this situation resolved."

Travis studied them for a long moment, desert wind stirring dust devils between their standoff. Finally, he patted his leg and Buck's growl subsided to watchful silence.

"Coffee's fresh," he said after another pause. "Might as well come in and say whatever you came to say. Buck—" he fixed the dog with a stern look- "mind your manners."

He turned toward the house without waiting for their response, clearly expecting them to follow. Buck fell into step beside his master but kept glancing back at them, his posture making it clear they were being escorted rather than welcomed.

Harley caught Callaway's eye as they followed, both of them reading the same mix of reluctant cooperation and carefully maintained hostility in Travis's invitation. Whatever truth waited inside that adobe fortress, they'd have to navigate carefully to uncover it.

Inside, the house's cool darkness pressed against them. The walls were lined with family pictures going back several generations, making it feel like they were walking back through decades.

"Can I get you some of that coffee?" Travis asked.

"I'm alright," Harley said. "We'd really like to talk about some things you said to the artists."

Travis's hands stilled on the coffee pot, his reflection fragmenting across its polished surface. Something flickered in his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or wariness.

"You'll have to be more specific than that," he said.

"I'm told you said to some of the artists that you were going to 'deal with them.' Permanently. Even said it to Maya Fuentes, from what I hear."

"Who told you that?"

"Do you deny it?"

Travis's face grew thoughtful, like he was deciding how best to handle this conversation. "I've spoken with some of the artists. I'd be hard-pressed to say which ones—or to recall exactly what I did or did not say."

"You don't seem to have a lot of sympathy for them," Callaway said. "What with the recent killings and all."

"Those deaths were tragic," Travis said, but something in his tone rang false—a performance rather than genuine sentiment. "Bad for everyone. Bad for property values, bad for community relations." His hands resumed their work with the coffee. "But if you're suggesting I had something to do with it..."

"We're not suggesting anything," Harley said, watching his reflection splinter across chrome and glass surfaces. "Just trying to understand who's been threatening the artists."

Travis's weathered features hardened in the filtered light. "Let me show you something," he said, already moving toward the door. The blue heeler fell into step beside him.

A cool breeze pressed against them as they followed Travis across the compound, past weathered outbuildings that held generations of ranch history in their bones. Somewhere in the distance, cattle lowed their ancient songs of ownership and belonging.

The damage revealed itself in careful stages—fence lines cut with surgical precision, gates left open to scatter carefully managed herds, water lines sabotaged with the kind of knowledge that spoke of planned destruction rather than casual vandalism. Travis moved between each site like a curator of grievance, his voice carrying the weight of accumulated injury.

"Art tourists," he said, gesturing toward tire tracks that cut deep scars across grazing land. "Following their precious installation maps, trampling whatever gets in their way." He shook his head bitterly. "Last month, I lost twelve head of cattle because someone wanted the perfect angle for their photographs. And there have been plenty of other incidents, I assure you, going all the way back to this spring."

Harley studied him. The anger seemed real, yes, but she also sensed that he was holding something back. Had he killed the artists in retaliation for the damage done to his property?

"These tire tracks," Callaway said, crouching to study marks that cut across packed earth like accusing fingers. "When did they happen?"

"Three nights ago." Travis's hand moved to his hip, unconsciously close to his holstered weapon.

The same night David Ferguson was killed, Harley thought. "And you were here, on the ranch?" she asked.

Travis nodded. "That's right." He gestured toward the distant mountains that held the day's dying light. "I was moving cattle to higher pasture. Got a number of hands who can verify that." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Not that you'll need their word. Got security cameras on every corner of this spread. Modern times require modern measures, after all."

"And last night?' Callaway asked. "Where were you then?"

Travis's laugh was as sharp as desert thorns. "Trying to establish my whereabouts for the murders?" He sighed wearily. "I was with Richard Aldridge, going over boundary surveys and water rights documentation."

"Aldridge?" Harley kept her tone casual, though something in Travis's delivery caught her attention—the way his eyes shifted slightly when he said the name, like an actor unsure of their next line.

"Local real estate consultant. Handles property assessments, development plans, that sort of thing. Been helping us document the damage these art tourists are doing to property values. Building a case, you might say."

"Where can we find him?" Harley asked.

"He works out of that new office complex on Mesa Road. The one with all the glass." Travis's laugh was as hollow as wind through empty buildings. "Can't miss it—only modern thing for miles around. Sticks out like contemporary art in desert wilderness."

"We'll need to verify this with him," Harley said.

"Be my guest." Travis shrugged. "Aldridge keeps careful records."

Harley nodded and glanced at Callaway to see if he had any further questions. He gave a minute shake of his head.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwood," Harley said. "We'll let you know if we have any further questions."

"Of course," Travis said with a tight smile. "I hope you find whoever killed those artists. Murder—it's just bad for business."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Curator crouched in the shadow of an abandoned general store, his camera like a weapon in his steady hands. Through the zoom lens, he watched James Whitehorse arrange his equipment in the dirt intersection. The performance artist moved with practiced grace, each gesture carrying the fluid confidence of someone who believed in their artistic vision—however misguided that vision might be.

From this vantage point, the Curator had clear sight lines to Whitehorse's performance space. The ghost town's weathered buildings formed a natural amphitheater around the intersection, offering multiple approaches through shadow. The Curator had already mapped every route, every possibility. His tools waited in a black duffel bag beside him—not weapons, but instruments of transformation. Of revelation.

Whitehorse adjusted his ceremonial vest, checking his camera's frame. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and blood. Perfect light for documentation. The Curator's finger moved across his own camera's shutter button, capturing reference images for later study. He needed to remember exactly how Whitehorse looked before the transformation began.

The performance artist began his opening movements, combining traditional gestures with contemporary dance in a way that made the Curator's jaw clench. Such deliberate corruption of sacred forms. Such careful manipulation of ancient meaning for modern consumption. Through the lens, the Curator watched Whitehorse's hands trace patterns in the air—patterns that deserved better than this commodified interpretation.

Time to move. The Curator packed his camera away and lifted the duffel bag, its weight familiar and comforting. The ghost town's empty buildings offered plenty of cover as he moved closer, staying in deepening shadows. His pulse quickened with each step, not from fear but from anticipation. This was always his favorite part—the careful approach, the building tension. The moment when documentation transformed into participation.

He had closed half the distance to Whitehorse when the sound of an approaching vehicle made him freeze. A silver Mercedes appeared at the edge of the ghost town, its chrome gleaming in the sunset. The Curator melted back into the shadows of a collapsed porch, watching as the car parked and a man emerged—middle-aged, wearing an expensive jacket completely unsuitable for the desert.

"James!" the newcomer called out, his voice carrying practiced enthusiasm. "I hoped I'd find you here."

Whitehorse paused his performance. "Marcus? What are you doing out here?"

"Following a tip." Marcus approached the performance space, his shoes raising small clouds of dust. "Heard you were working on something new. The gallery's very interested in your latest exploration of cultural intersection."

"It's still in development," Whitehorse said, gesturing at his camera setup. "I'm not sure it's ready for gallery presentation."

"Nonsense." Marcus moved in a slow circle around the performance space. "Your work is exactly what the modern art world needs—authentic indigenous voice filtered through contemporary lens. The way you transform traditional elements into relevant social commentary..." He smiled broadly. "Simply brilliant."

The Curator's fingers tightened around the duffel bag's strap. Filtered. Transformed. Every word from the critic's mouth was another celebration of corruption. Another validation of artistic pollution.

"I try to honor both traditions," Whitehorse said. "Find ways to bridge understanding between cultures."

"And you do it masterfully." Marcus pulled out his phone, snapping pictures. "The composition here is perfect—abandoned structures of Western expansion providing backdrop for indigenous reclamation. The symbolism is delicious."

Delicious. The Curator's teeth ground together as he watched Marcus circle the performance space like a vulture, offering empty praise for empty art. The critic's presence complicated things, but perhaps not irreparably. Perhaps this exhibition could accommodate two pieces instead of one.

No, that was too risky. He wouldn't do that unless he had no other choice.

For now, all he could do was wait—and listen. He seethed in his hiding place beneath the collapsed porch, forced to listen as Marcus and Whitehorse discussed upcoming gallery shows. Every word twisted like a knife in his gut. He remembered his own attempts to break into the art world—his carefully crafted photographs of desert landscapes, each one capturing the raw purity of untouched spaces.

The rejection letters had all said the same thing: "Not contemporary enough." "Lacks modern perspective." "Too traditional."

They hadn't wanted pure vision. They'd wanted corruption dressed up as innovation.

Marcus gestured at the weathered buildings around them. "The metaphor of decay is particularly powerful here. Have you considered incorporating more of the structures into your performance?"

The critic began walking a wider circle, studying angles, moving closer to the Curator's position. The Curator pressed himself against rough wood, feeling splinters through his shirt. His hand moved to the duffel bag, finding the handle of one of his tools. If Marcus took three more steps, he would see into the shadows beneath the porch.

And that would be just about the last thing he saw.

"The natural composition of this place," Marcus continued, "the way these buildings frame the negative space..." He moved even closer, phone raised to capture images. Two more steps.

The Curator's fingers tightened around cold metal. He hadn't planned for two exhibitions tonight, but plans could be adjusted. His heart beat steady and strong. This wouldn't be the first time he'd had to improvise.

"The way indigenous movement contrasts with colonial architecture..." One more step.

"Marcus," Whitehorse interrupted, "as much as I appreciate the positive words, could we talk about this another time? The light's perfect right now, and I should really focus on capturing this piece."

Marcus paused, lowering his phone. The Curator could see the critic's expensive shoes, inches from discovery. Could smell his cologne—something artificial and sharp that didn't belong in desert air.

"Of course, of course." Marcus stepped back, and the Curator's grip on his tool relaxed slightly. "I'll let the gallery know you're working on something spectacular. We'll talk specifics next week?"

"Next week," Whitehorse agreed. "I'll have something more concrete to show you then."

The Curator watched Marcus's feet turn away, heard his steps recede toward the Mercedes. Car door opening, closing. Engine starting. The sound of tires on dirt road growing distant.

Silence returned to the ghost town, broken only by the wind and the soft sounds of Whitehorse adjusting his equipment. The Curator waited a full ten minutes, counting his heartbeats, before easing out from beneath the porch.

Whitehorse had resumed his performance, moving through gestures that mixed traditional forms with modern dance. Each movement was an offense against purity. Each step a celebration of corruption.

The Curator moved forward through deepening shadows, his tools ready. The sun touched the horizon, painting everything in shades of fire. Perfect light for transformation. Perfect moment for revelation.

Time to begin the exhibition.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Harley was still thinking about their conversation with Travis Blackwood as she and Callaway arrived at Aldridge Properties, wondering what he'd been hiding. She knew that relying on her gut was a risky thing—even the intuition of a seasoned agent could be wrong.

But she would have bet a lot of money that hers wasn't.

Desert twilight painted Aldridge Properties in stark angles of glass and steel, the building rising from red earth like a modernist's rebuke to adobe tradition. A curved driveway swept past immaculate xeriscaping where agave plants stood like frozen sentinels beneath architectural lighting. The place screamed new money, ambition carved into every clean line and polished surface.

"Aldridge," Callaway muttered, his voice carrying old recognition. "Dealt with him last year on that disputed grazing rights case. Slick as sun-warmed rattlers, twice as likely to strike." He glanced at Harley. "Didn't know he was involved in colony land deals."

Harley's phone vibrated against her hip, Kelly's name appearing on the screen like a flare of warning in gathering dusk. The message was brief, cryptic: There was an incident. We should talk soon.

Harley felt a stab of panic. Instinctively, she called Kelly's phone.

"What's wrong?" Callaway asked, immediately reading the tension in her body.

She shook her head. "I don't know. Something with Kelly." She listened to the ringing of the phone. The silence between each ring seemed to go on forever.

Finally, an automated voice told her that the person who owned the number hadn't set up their voicemail. Harley sighed and ended the call.

What happened??? She wrote. I'm worried.

She stopped there, wondering if she should go on. Before she could decide, movement caught her eye—a figure emerging from the building's glass doors with the practiced confidence of someone who'd been watching for their arrival. Richard Aldridge moved like a man who believed in his own importance. His suit was desert-appropriate lightweight wool, but somehow avoided gathering the red dust that coated everything else for miles around. Steel-gray hair swept back from a tanned face that had clearly benefited from expensive skincare routines, while his smile carried the careful warmth of someone who'd learned to weaponize charm.

"Agents," he called out, voice carrying that particular resonance of someone used to commanding attention in boardrooms. "Travis called, said you'd be coming my way." He gestured toward the building's entrance, where subtle lighting had begun to activate against approaching darkness. "Shall we speak somewhere more comfortable? I have an excellent whiskey in my office, if you're interested."

Callaway, perhaps sensing that Harley's mind was still on her sister, spoke up. "Lead the way," he said.

They followed Aldridge through glass doors that parted silently, leaving desert heat behind for climate-controlled precision. The lobby stretched before them in clean lines of marble and steel, its surfaces gleaming beneath recessed lighting that somehow managed to feel both welcoming and coldly corporate. A massive painting dominated one wall—abstract shapes in earth tones that probably cost more than most local ranches made in a year.

Kelly's message pulsed against Harley's hip like a second heartbeat. There was an incident. What could that mean? Had the stalker shown up again? Was Kelly safe? She had half a mind to drive over to Kelly's apartment right now, but given the way Kelly had reacted this morning to being followed by her brother and sister, it was likely Kelly wanted some space.

"Quite a change from the old office," Callaway said, his drawl carrying careful neutrality as they stepped into the elevator. "Remember when you worked out of that converted gas station on Route 40?"

Aldridge's laugh sounded more polite than warm. "Times change, Agent Callaway. The region's growing. Smart money sees the potential." The elevator hummed upward with expensive smoothness. "Though some people prefer things stay exactly as they were fifty years ago."

"People like Travis Blackwood?" Harley asked, watching Aldridge's reflection fragment across the elevator's mirrored walls.

"Travis is... complicated." Aldridge adjusted his already perfect cuffs. "Old money, old ways, but not blind to opportunity. That's why he came to me about documenting the art colony situation." The elevator doors opened onto a floor that carried the same careful balance of wealth and Western aesthetic—Native American sculptures in glass cases, black and white photographs of desert landscapes hung with gallery precision.

Aldridge's office occupied the building's corner, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering commanding views of mountains painted purple by approaching dusk. A telescope stood beside his desk, its brass fittings catching artificial light like captured sunset. The promised whiskey waited on a credenza, along with several crystal glasses.

"Please, sit." Aldridge gestured toward leather chairs that matched the desert colors beyond his windows. "This is about last night, correct? About Travis's alibi?"

"You were with him?" Harley asked as she settled into the offered chair. She declined the offered whiskey with a subtle gesture. Beside her, Callaway did the same. It seemed to pain him to do so.

"All evening." Aldridge didn't seem offended by their refusal, but simply set the unused glasses aside with practiced smoothness. "We were reviewing documentation of property damage caused by art tourists. Satellite imagery, drone footage, survey reports." He moved to his desk with that same careful grace. "Travis is building a case for the county commissioners. Trying to get restrictions placed on the collective's activities."

Through the windows behind him, the desert light painted everything in shades of approaching darkness. Harley studied how the fading sun caught Aldridge's face, lighting part of it and leaving the rest in shadow.

"What time did this meeting start?" she asked as he settled into his chair.

"Six PM sharp. Travis may have old-fashioned views about some things, but he's religious about punctuality." Aldridge smiled. "We worked until just past midnight. I have security footage of him arriving and leaving, if you'd like to verify."

Without waiting for a reply, Aldridge reached for his computer mouse, and surveillance footage appeared on a wall-mounted screen—Travis's truck arriving, timestamp clear in the corner.

"The news has been full of speculation about the art colony deaths," Aldridge said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone testing waters before diving deeper. "Quite theatrical, from what I hear. The victims posed like pieces in some twisted exhibition."

As if on a whim, he rose and moved to his telescope, adjusting its position with the same precise care he seemed to apply to everything. "Interesting choice of locations, too. Ferguson's body was found near the Martinez property line—old ranch land that's been in dispute since the collective started expanding their installation sites. And Maya?" He glanced back at them, the evening light catching his profile. "Her final exhibition happened right at the edge of contested water rights territory."

Harley felt the familiar shift of pattern emerging from chaos. "You seem well-informed about the geography."

"It's my business to know these things." He turned from the telescope, his reflection ghosting across windows that held the day's dying light. "Every patch of dirt out here is part of some larger game now. Developers moving in, seeing opportunity where others just see desert. They're offering the kind of money that makes old grievances suddenly seem worth fighting over."

"The ranchers versus artists narrative," Callaway said quietly. "Convenient for someone."

"Very." Aldridge smiled knowingly. "Get the old guard fighting the new arrivals over water rights and property lines. Meanwhile, land values drop because of all the tension. Perfect time for certain interested parties to swoop in and buy everything at bargain prices." He moved back to his desk with measured steps. "Both murder sites? They're centered in areas where developers have been trying to establish footholds. Fascinating coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

Before Harley could follow that thread, her phone vibrated against her hip. She hurriedly picked it up, hoping it was Kelly. To her disappointment, however, she discovered it was someone else.

"Agent Cole, this is Deputy Santos." His voice carried the weight of fresh horror. "We've got another situation out at the Madero Ghost Town on Route 40. You need to see this."

Harley kept her expression carefully blank, aware of Aldridge studying her reactions. "When?"

"Called in about twenty minutes ago. Tourist spotted something through one of the windows. Thought it was part of a movie shoot at first, but..." Santos's voice caught. "You better get out here quick."

"We're on our way." She ended the call, desert twilight spilling through Aldridge's windows like liquid copper as she stood. Callaway was already moving, reading her signals with years of practiced partnership.

"I don't suppose you'll share what that was about?" Aldridge asked.

"Thank you for your time," Harley said with a tight smile. "We'll be in touch if we have any other questions."

They left Aldridge watching them from his carefully curated domain, the gathering darkness holding whatever truths he'd chosen not to share. Ahead of them, night prepared to reveal another carefully staged exhibition in their desert gallery of death.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Desert darkness pressed against the Jeep's windows like a living thing as Harley tried Kelly's number for the fourth time. Each unanswered ring echoed through the cab like accusations, while beside her, Callaway guided them through night-shrouded curves toward whatever waited at the ghost town.

She ended the call, staring at the screen where Kelly's message still glowed with cryptic warning: There was an incident. We should talk soon. A full hour had passed since those words had first pressed against her thoughts, each minute adding weight to her growing unease.

If she couldn't get through to Kelly…

She dialed Greg's number. He answered on the second ring, his voice carrying a forced casualness that set off immediate alarms. "Hey, sis. Kind of late for a social call."

"What happened with Kelly?" Harley asked, not bothering with preamble. Desert stars wheeled overhead through the windshield, beautiful and remote.

"It's handled," Greg said, using that tone he'd developed after their mother died—the one that said he was shouldering burdens so others wouldn't have to. "Just a minor thing. Some guy was taking pictures of her in Dad's garden. I tracked him a few blocks, but he got away."

Harley's grip tightened on her phone. "The same guy who's been stalking her?"

"Probably." There was a lightness to Greg's voice that rang false in Harley's ears. "Look, I'm taking care of it. You don't need to worry."

"That's exactly what worries me." The words came out sharper than she'd intended, desert wind whispering through poorly sealed windows like a chorus of older arguments. "What does that mean? You're taking care of it?"

His sigh carried decades of familiar patterns—her running toward danger with a badge, him staying behind to keep what remained of their family from crumbling completely. "It means I'm going to do what I have to do."

"Damn it, Greg, you can't just play cowboy and—"

"She's my sister too," he cut in. "I watched her disappear once. Watched what it did to this family. To you. To Dad." The words hung between them like smoke signals warning of approaching storms. "I'm not letting it happen again. Not letting some creep with a camera turn her back into a victim."

Harley pressed her fingers against her temples, feeling the familiar headache that came with navigating between professional authority and family loyalty. "Kelly doesn't need more violence in her life. She needs—"

"She needs to feel safe," Greg finished. "And sometimes safety comes from knowing her big brother still knows how to throw a punch when talking doesn't work."

The desert night seemed to pulse with old arguments about protection and justice, about lines that shouldn't be crossed and the cost of crossing them anyway. Ahead, their headlights caught fragments of highway signs that pointed toward the ghost town and whatever horror waited in its abandoned spaces.

"Just... don't do anything stupid," Harley said finally, feeling helpless. "Please."

"Define stupid." The attempt at humor fell flat between them. "Get back to your case, sis. I've got this covered."

"Greg—"

The call ended before she could argue further. She stared at the phone for a few moments before putting it away with a heavy sigh.

"He's going to do something reckless, isn't he?" Callaway asked quietly.

Harley stared into the darkness beyond their headlights. "Probably," she said. "I guess I'll just have to solve this case in time to stop him."

Callaway let the silence stretch for several minutes, desert stars wheeling overhead as they wound through empty miles toward the ghost town.

"I can handle this scene," he said finally, his voice carrying that gentle concern that still caught her off guard sometimes. "Process everything, coordinate with the team. Give you time to deal with family matters."

"By doing what? Babysitting Greg and Kelly both? Even if I try tracking down the stalker, that won't stop Greg from doing the same thing his own way. And Kelly… there's no telling where her head's at." The words tasted bitter. "I can't protect them if they won't let me. Besides, right now, there's a killer turning artists into exhibitions. At least I can do some good with this case. I hope."

"You're carrying a lot," Callaway said carefully. "Kelly's situation, Greg's plans, these murders. Moving plans." He paused. "It's okay to step back sometimes. Let others handle things."

"These things are too important to hand them off to someone else."

Callaway said nothing. He seemed to understand that pushing back wasn't going to convince her.

Before either of them could bridge the silence, the ghost town's weathered buildings materialized out of darkness like ancient witnesses to newer violence. Red and blue lights painted harsh patterns across abandoned walls, transforming law enforcement vehicles into strange sculptures that cast longer shadows than the desert moon. Santos waited beside his cruiser, his weathered face carved with familiar grimness as they pulled up.

"Third one," he said quietly as they approached. "Like the others—staged like some kind of art piece. Though this time… this time feels different. More personal, somehow."

With an effort, Harley focused on the moment and pushed family concerns into the background. Whatever waited for them here demanded her full attention. She wouldn't be useful to anyone if she didn't keep her head in the game and check her fears about her family at the door.

Santos led them through the ghost town's empty streets, their flashlight beams catching weathered wood and rusted metal like archeologists uncovering darker artifacts. Each step raised small clouds of dust that danced in artificial light, while somewhere in the distance, coyotes called their ancient warnings across the desert night.

The scene revealed itself in careful stages—first the abandoned storefront, its windows dark, then Whitehorse's body arranged in grotesque mimicry of ritual dance. The artist's ceremonial vest caught their lights like captured flame, while around him, his own recording equipment had been positioned to document his final performance.

"Ellen Ball found him," Santos said quietly, his flashlight beam catching details that made Harley's jaw tighten. "She collaborates with him sometimes—traditional weaving techniques mixed with modern vision. Came out to check why he wasn't answering calls about their upcoming exhibition."

The killer had taken their time, transforming Whitehorse's intended performance into something that mocked both artistic vision and cultural heritage. His body held positions that corrupted traditional movements into angular accusations, while his own camera had been carefully placed to capture everything—lens focused on the grotesque tableau like a witness forced to document its own transformation.

"Different from the others," Callaway murmured, studying how the killer had arranged Whitehorse's filming equipment. "More elaborate. More focused on documentation."

"More confident," Harley said, her mind already moving through patterns of escalation and revelation. The developer angle Aldridge had mentioned pulsed against her thoughts—how both previous murder sites centered on contested land, how artificial tensions between ranchers and artists served someone else's purpose.

She moved through the scene with careful steps, cataloging details that spoke of deepening purpose. The killer hadn't just staged Whitehorse's body—they'd transformed the entire ghost town into their gallery, using darkness and abandonment to frame their darker vision. Each empty window watched like a curator's eye, while desert wind whispered through gaps in weathered walls like an audience murmuring before a show.

"This location," she said finally, watching how moonlight painted silver patterns across the ceremonial vest. "We need to check property records, development plans. See who's trying to buy up land out here." The pieces began shifting in her mind, forming new patterns of possibility. "The killer's not just choosing victims randomly—they're selecting locations that tell their own story about property and belonging."

"You think this is about land deals?" Santos asked, his flashlight beam catching dust motes that danced like lost spirits in the abandoned space.

"I think someone's using these deaths to drive down property values. Create tension between different community groups." Each word carried the weight of emerging certainty. "The ranchers blame the artists for bringing unwanted attention. The artists feel threatened by local resistance. Meanwhile, developers wait to pick up land at bargain prices once everyone's too scared to stay."

The ghost town's empty windows seemed to pulse with new meaning—witnesses to how greed could transform art into weapon, turn creation into carefully staged destruction. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes called again, their voices carrying ancient warnings about predators that moved through darkness with patient purpose.

But could they decode these patterns of property and violence before another artist's vision became carefully corrupted exhibition? Or would more bodies appear in contested spaces, each one a marker of how human greed could transform even death into carefully staged opportunity?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Some problems needed solving outside the law.

Greg moved through the bar's parking lot like a hunting cat. Neon beer signs painted patterns across chrome and metal, transforming vehicles into strange sculptures that held their secrets in careful silence. But he knew what he was looking for—a silver Dodge Charger, late model, with that distinctive dent in the passenger door and the biker decal on the back window.

The same sedan he'd glimpsed peeling away from their father's house after Kelly's stalker fled the rose garden. He hadn't told Harley about recognizing the vehicle—his FBI agent sister would want to handle things through official channels, would talk about evidence and procedure and letting the system work. But Greg remembered how the system had failed Kelly before, remembered seventeen years of dead ends while their sister endured horrors none of them could fully comprehend.

Not this time. This time, he'd handle things the way their father would have—direct action, desert justice. He'd deal with the consequences later.

Joel Ogden's car sat in the far corner, its silver paint catching neon like spilled blood. Greg had known Joel since high school—had watched him grow from schoolyard bully into the kind of man who drank too much and talked too loud about women who "thought they were better than everyone else." The kind of man who'd stalk a woman through rose gardens, who'd burn photographs and break windows to prove some twisted point.

The kind of man who needed teaching about boundaries and consequences.

Greg's hands curled into fists at his sides. He should have recognized Joel's car earlier, should have connected his bitter rants about "stuck-up bitches" with Kelly's return to town. But he'd been focused on protecting his sister from shadows, not looking at the darkness that waited in familiar shapes.

Harley would want proof. Would want photographs and witness statements and carefully documented evidence. But Greg remembered Kelly's voice trembling when she'd talked about being watched, remembered how the cartel had taught her to sleep with one eye open and her hand near a weapon. His sister had survived seventeen years of captivity only to come home to more surveillance, more control, more men who thought they owned the right to watch her every move.

Greg wasn't going to put up with that any more. Kelly was too proud, too stubborn, to ask for his help, but that was okay. If she didn't sanction what he was doing, she wouldn't have to feel guilty about it.

The bar's door opened, spilling country music and cigarette smoke across the parking lot. Greg melted into the shadows between vehicles. He studied the small group who left the bar, searching for Joel's familiar face. He didn't see him.

Some would call this stalking—following a man, learning his patterns, waiting in darkness for the perfect moment to strike. But this was different. This was protection, was family loyalty, was the kind of justice that desert nights had witnessed since before laws tried to tame human nature.

Kelly would hate this. Would see it as another form of control, another man trying to solve her problems without asking what she wanted. But big brothers didn't get to choose their burdens—they just carried them, shoulders bent beneath the weight of responsibility that never really lifted.

Harley would eventually figure it out. Would piece together evidence that led to Greg's door, would have to decide between badge and blood when it came to handling whatever happened in this parking lot tonight. But he was counting on that same blood to stay her hand, to remind her that some problems needed solving outside the law.

Greg stared at Joel's car for another long moment, the desert wind carrying bar noise across the parking lot like scattered warnings. As tempting as it was to just sit here and wait for Joel to show up, that could take hours—Joel was known for closing down bars, for drinking until even the most patient bartenders gave up trying to cut him off. Better to handle this inside.

Besides, there was a good chance the confrontation would take them outside, anyway.

He pushed through the heavy door into the Silver Spur's familiar chaos. Wednesday nights drew crowds here—local ranch hands and refinery workers burning through paychecks, their bodies still dust-covered from day shifts that paid just enough to forget about tomorrow. Country music pulsed from ancient speakers while neon beer signs painted everything in artificial twilight.

The place hadn't changed since Greg's contracting crew used to stop in after finishing jobs—same scarred pool tables, same photos of local rodeo champions yellowing on wood-paneled walls, same smell of stale beer and broken dreams that seemed to seep from the floorboards themselves. He'd done some renovation work here years back, replacing rotted support beams while trying to convince the owner to update the electrical system. But like everything else in The Silver Spur, temporary fixes had become permanent solutions.

Joel's laugh cut through the noise—that particular bark of someone trying too hard to be the center of attention. Greg found him holding court at a corner table, surrounded by the usual crew of enablers and hangers-on.

Mike Thompson from the lumber yard, his missing fingers a testament to why you shouldn't operate machinery drunk. The Carson brothers, who'd gone from high school troublemakers to grown men still living off their daddy's ranch money. Ben Ogden, Joel's cousin, who'd lost his own contracting license after too many complaints about unfinished jobs.

Greg knew them all, had grown up with most of them. Had watched them turn from teenage wildcats into bitter men who blamed everyone else for their own failed dreams. They'd been at his father's funeral, had helped dig post holes for the new fence line last spring. Had even offered condolences when Kelly disappeared, though their sympathy had carried undertones of judgment about teenage girls who ran with the wrong crowds.

Now they clustered around Joel like coyotes around their alpha, laughing too loud at jokes that carried the same mean-spirited edge that had defined them since high school. Joel's shirt was already beer-stained, his movements carrying that loose aggression that always preceded bad decisions. A half-empty whiskey bottle stood close to his hand.

Time to find out if Joel was as tough as he used to be.

Greg crossed the distance between them in measured steps. Joel saw him coming, something flickering beneath his alcohol-glazed bravado—recognition of approaching confrontation.

"Need to talk to you about my sister," Greg said, his voice pitched low beneath the country music's twang. The table went quiet, that particular silence of men recognizing the prelude to violence.

Joel's smile was as sharp as broken glass. "Which sister? The FBI badge or the cartel whore?"

The words struck like physical blows, but Greg held himself steady. "You've been following Kelly. Taking pictures. Breaking windows."

"That's a hell of an accusation." Joel leaned back, performing for his audience of enablers. "Got any proof?"

"Saw your car this morning. Same dent, same biker decal. Same coward behind the wheel, running when confronted." In truth, he hadn't seen the dent or the decal, but he'd known they were there. The pieces fit too neatly for it not to be the same car.

The Carson brothers exchanged glances, while Ben Ogden's hand moved toward the whiskey bottle like someone anticipating the need for a weapon. Joel's face darkened, alcohol stripping away whatever cleverness he might have managed sober.

"Maybe your sister likes being watched," Joel said. "Maybe she got used to it down in Mexico, being everybody's property. Maybe—"

Greg's fist caught him before conscious thought could form, snapping Joel's head back in a spray of blood and spittle. But Greg, in his impulsiveness, had forgotten about the others—forgotten how they moved like pack animals, forgotten how they'd learned to fight dirty in high school parking lots and backroad brawls.

Ben Ogden caught him from behind, arms locking around Greg's chest while Mike Thompson's remaining fingers tangled in his shirt. The Carson brothers were already up, blocking escape routes and telling others to look the other way. Joel recovered, wiping blood from his nose with a grin that promised retribution.

The first punch drove the air from Greg's lungs. The second caught his ribs like a hammer on hollow wood. He tried to break Ben's hold, but years of construction work were no match for multiple attackers who'd done this before. Joel's fist found his face again, pain exploding behind his eyes like desert lightning.

The group was efficient, practiced—they kept Greg upright while Joel worked, didn't let him fall until they heard bones crack. The floor rose to meet him like an old friend, boot heels replacing fists as weapons of choice. Greg curled around his broken ribs, trying to protect vital organs while country music played on and other patrons found reasons to look elsewhere.

"Stay down," someone warned—probably Ben, who still remembered childhood friendships even through the alcohol. "Just stay down, Greg."

"Yeah," Joel parroted, drawing his boot back for another strike. "Just stay down, Greg." Blood from his broken nose had painted his teeth red, catching neon light like fresh kill. "Take it like a man." He slammed his boot into Greg's side, making Greg's ribs scream.

"That's enough!" The bartender's voice cut through the noise—Pete Matthis, who'd served their fathers decades ago and knew every shade of violence his bar could hold. The Carson brothers moved to intercept him, but Pete already had his shotgun in hand.

"Back off, Pete," the older Carson said, trying to sound tough despite the weapon. "Private business here."

"Nothing's private in my bar." Pete worked the shotgun's action with practiced efficiency. "And I've got Mr. Mossberg here saying this particular business is finished."

Joel landed one more kick before Ben and Mike Thompson pulled him back. "Send your sister my love, will you?"

"Last warning," Pete said, the shotgun's barrel remaining steady. "Get out now, or I'm calling every cop in three counties. And we both know you can't afford another assault charge, Joel."

The group retreated like wolves, abandoning wounded prey. Greg grabbed a chair and managed to pull himself up to a sitting position despite the searing pain in his ribs.

"Easy now," Pete said, setting the shotgun aside so he could help Greg. "Just take it easy."

"I have to…" Greg began, trying to get his feet under him. But as he pulled himself upward, the world suddenly darkened. He stumbled, lost his footing.

And everything went black.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Desert wind whispered through the Bureau's empty offices as Harley spread property records across her desk. The night shift's skeleton crew moved through distant corridors, their footsteps echoing against ceramic tile while fluorescent lights hummed overhead with mechanical patience.

She was still pursuing the theory that the killer might be committing these crimes in order to drive down land prices. Somewhere in the documents before her, she hoped, lay the evidence.

Her coffee had gone cold hours ago, untouched while she traced paths of money through real estate holdings near each murder site. Callaway sat at his own desk, conducting his own research, while outside their windows, the city's lights painted patterns across low clouds like captured flame.

"Nothing like murder to scare away land investors," she murmured. "Except, maybe, someone who knew about the murders—someone who planned them, perhaps."

Callaway said nothing. After a few moments, Harley glanced up to see if he'd been listening. Callaway was watching her, but he didn't seem to be thinking about her observation. He looked…

Concerned.

"When's the last time you ate something?" he asked quietly. "Or slept more than a few hours?"

"I'm fine." The response came automatically, worn smooth as river stones by frequent use. "We're finally getting somewhere with this. The property angle—"

"Will still be there." His voice carried gentle insistence that made something twist in her chest. "You're running yourself into the ground, Harley. Between the case, Kelly's situation, the move—"

"People are dying," she cut him off, gesturing at the crime scene photos. "Artists being transformed into exhibitions while we chase paper trails. Kelly's being stalked. Greg's probably out there right now doing something stupid and protective. I don't have time to worry about myself."

Callaway's chair creaked as he leaned forward, his face carved with shadows despite the overhead lights. "That's exactly why you need to. You can't help anyone if you burn yourself out completely."

"I can't afford to stop." But even as she said it, exhaustion pressed against her temples like a physical weight. "Every minute I spend resting is another minute the killer has to plan their next exhibition. Another minute, Kelly's stalker has to escalate."

"You're not responsible for everyone else."

"I know that."

"But you don't act like you do."

Somewhere in the distance, a janitor's cart rattled across tile. Callaway watched her with the patience of someone who'd learned to read her silences, who understood that sometimes caring meant knowing when to push and when to wait.

"At least let me get you some real coffee," he said finally. "Something to eat. We can work while we take care of basic human needs."

"Just… just give me a minute, would you?"

He rose. "I'll grab some coffee, some food. You don't even have to leave the room."

He was turning away when something on one of the papers caught Harley's eye—a name she'd seen several times now. "Bradley Cummings," she murmured.

"Who?" Callaway asked, pausing

"His name keeps showing up—not in successful acquisitions, but in rejected offers."

Callaway hesitated for a moment, as if wary of getting sucked back in. Then, with a heavy sigh, he joined her at her desk, peering over her shoulder.

"Low-ball offers," she continued, fresh energy cutting through her exhaustion as pattern emerged from chaos. "Way under market value, all rejected. But look at the dates—each one submitted just weeks before the murders started."

Callaway returned to his laptop and tapped away at the keys in his slow, methodical way.

"You really should take a typing class," Harley said.

Callaway grunted. "Old dog, new tricks." He fell silent as he focused on the screen. "Found something on Cummings," he said. "SEC filings from his development company. He started in Santa Fe back in the nineties—Cummings Development Group. Made a fortune turning old artist communities into luxury tourism spots until the market got too expensive."

Harley moved to look over his shoulder. "What else?"

"Business press coverage, local papers." Callaway clicked through archived articles. "He's got a pattern. Moves into areas where property values are low but artist communities are starting to draw attention. The Santa Fe Reporter did a whole exposé on how he transformed their warehouse district into high-end galleries."

"And now he's trying the same thing here." Harley spread the property records across her desk, each one adding texture to their emerging portrait. "He's been submitting offers on everything—ranch land, collective property, individual lots. But nobody would sell. Not the ranchers, not the collective, not even individual property owners."

"But now the murders might change that." Callaway straightened "Create enough fear, enough tension between different community groups..."

"And suddenly everyone's looking to sell." Harley's voice carried the weight of certainty. "The ranchers blame the artists for bringing violence to their territory. The artists feel threatened by local resistance. Meanwhile, property values plummet while Bradley Cummings waits to swoop in with new offers that suddenly seem reasonable compared to staying in a killing field."

She was already reaching for her keys, her mind moving through next steps with familiar precision. But before she could stand, her phone vibrated against her hip—Kelly's name appearing on the screen

"Kelly?" Relief at finally hearing from her sister shifted immediately to concern at the sound of her voice.

"Harley." Kelly's voice was strained. "It's Greg. He's... he's in the hospital. Someone beat him pretty badly."

Harley's heart dropped. "How bad?"

"Broken ribs. Concussion. They're still checking for internal bleeding." Kelly's voice caught. "He won't tell me what happened, but I heard the nurses talking. Sounds like he was in a bar fight."

Harley closed her eyes, remembering Greg's careful tone when he'd assured her he was "handling" things. Had he confronted Kelly's stalker? Gone looking for whoever had been taking those photographs?

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Presbyterian. Third floor." A pause, heavy with unspoken weight. "Harley... he kept asking if I was safe. Kept trying to tell me something about a car, about someone named Joel. But they gave him morphine before he could finish."

Joel. The name stirred something in Harley's memory—high school connections, old grievances, the kind of man who'd hold seventeen-year-old grudges. "I'm on my way."

"The case—" Kelly started, but Harley cut her off.

"Can wait. Family first. Just sit tight, okay? And don't leave the hospital."

She ended the call and turned to Callaway.

"Go," he said. "I'll keep digging into Cummings, see what else connects him to the murder sites. You need to be with her family."

She didn't argue. Instead, she strode to the door, opened it, and paused.

"Keep me in the loop," she said.

"Of course."

"And if you find more evidence pointing to Cummings—"

"I won't go after him solo." He smiled gently. "If you keep trying to take care of anyone, I'm going to have to get you a cape."

"Thanks, Callaway."

"You got it."

She hurried out. Callaway was right—she couldn't take care of everyone.

But she'd be damned if she didn't take care of her own family.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The hospital corridor stretched before Harley like a river of fluorescent light, each step carrying her past other dramas playing out in carefully curtained spaces. The antiseptic smell pressed against her skin, mingling with traces of industrial cleaner and barely contained fear that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.

She found Greg's room at the end of the hall on the third floor. Her brother lay propped up against white pillows, his face a landscape of bruises that caught the harsh light like watercolors gone wrong. Kelly sat beside him, looking small and fragile.

"Holy shit, Greg." Harley moved into the room, cataloging more injuries with every step—splinted ribs visible beneath his hospital gown, butterfly bandages holding his left eyebrow together, shadows of deeper damage painting patterns across exposed skin.

"You should see the other guy," Greg said, but the words caught on what might have been a cracked rib. He grimaced and cleared his throat.

"What happened?" Harley kept her voice neutral despite the anger pulsing beneath her skin. "The truth this time."

Greg's eyes moved to Kelly, then back to Harley. "Remember this morning? When I chased that photographer?" He shifted against the pillows, pain flickering across his features. "Got a good look at his vehicle. Silver Dodge Charger, late model. Dent in the passenger door, biker decal on the back window."

"And you recognized it."

"Joel Ogden." Greg's hands curled into fists against the hospital sheets. "Known him since high school. Always had a thing for Kelly, even back then. Used to make comments, you know? About how she thought she was too good for local boys."

Kelly went very still beside him, that particular stillness of someone recognizing an approaching threat.

"So you went looking for him." Not a question. Harley knew her brother too well.

"Found him at the Silver Spur." Embarrassment crept into Greg's voice. "Thought I could handle it. Forgot about his buddies—Mike Thompson, the Carson brothers. Ben Ogden, too." He touched his ribs gingerly. "Seems they have no qualms about an unfair fight."

"You should have told me about the car."

"Would you have handled it through proper channels?" Greg's laugh turned into a wince. "Filed reports, gathered evidence, built a case while Kelly kept getting stalked?" He shook his head, then immediately regretted the movement. "Sometimes problems need solving the old-fashioned way."

"How'd that work out for you?"

But before Greg could respond, Kelly's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Both of you need to stop. I don't need either of you trying to protect me. Not like this."

Somewhere down the corridor, a nurse's cart rattled. Greg stared at his hands, at his scraped knuckles.

"Joel's the one," he said finally. "Same car, same timing. He's always had that mean streak, that need to prove something." His eyes found Harley's across the hospital room. "You need to stop him before he escalates further."

Harley studied her brother's battered face. "And you're sure?" she asked. "You're positive it was him?"

"He didn't even try to deny it."

"That doesn't mean he's guilty. The dent, the decal—you saw those on the stalker's vehicle?"

Greg's eyelids flickered. "I didn't get a close look—"

"Damn it, Greg."

"But it's the same make, same model. I'm telling you, Harley, he's the guy. You know what his last words to me were? 'Send your sister my love.' What does that tell you?"

"It tells me he's an asshole. Not that he's the stalker."

Greg cursed under his breath and shook his head.

"So what happens now?" Kelly asked.

Harley began to pace the tiled floor, thinking. "You should have come to me," she said to Greg, her voice tight. "We could have investigated Joel properly, built a case. Now everything's gone to shit. If he's the guy, he'll be ready for us."

"And I'll be ready for him," Greg said darkly. "Next time, he won't see me coming."

Harley could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Are you serious right now? You're lying here in a hospital bed, half-dead, and you're already thinking about going after him a second time? It's out of the question, Greg."

"It's not out of the question," Greg said, struggling to sit up straighter. "Next time, I'll be smart about it. Catch him alone."

"There won't be a next time," Harley snapped. "You're not some vigilante hero, Greg. You can't just—"

"Can't just what? Protect my sister? Because the 'proper channels' worked so well last time?"

"Don't you dare throw that in my face? I spent seventeen years—"

"Stop it, both of you." Kelly's voice cut through their argument like a blade. "Greg, stop flattering yourself. You already got your ass handed to you once. And Harley..." She turned to her sister, eyes flashing. "Stop treating Greg like he's some irresponsible kid. He was trying to protect me, that's all. Even if I didn't ask for it."

The hospital room fell silent except for the steady beep of monitors. Greg sank back against his pillows, while Harley's hands curled into unconscious fists at her sides.

"I know what you both want," Kelly continued, her voice softer now. "You want to keep me safe. But I'm not that scared seventeen-year-old anymore. And I won't watch either of you get hurt trying to fight my battles."

Nobody spoke for several long moments.

"The good news is we have the car," Kelly continued. "Maybe it's Joel's car, maybe not. But either way, we have a make and a model. That's something."

"Assuming he got even that part right," Harley muttered. But her anger was already dissolving. She felt shamed by her little sister's anger.

"I'd do it again," Greg said quietly. "Joel's the one, Harley. I know it in my gut."

"Your gut isn't admissible in court." Harley ran her fingers through her hair. Kelly shot her a warning look, and Harley took a deep breath and tried to keep her tone neutral.

"We need real evidence," she said. "Something concrete that proves he's been stalking Kelly."

"So let's get it," Kelly said. "I can draw him out. Make him show himself."

"Absolutely not." Both Harley and Greg spoke at once.

"Then what's your plan?" Kelly asked, her eyes finding Harley's. "How do we prove Joel is—or isn't—the one?"

Harley felt the weight of both siblings' stares as they waited for her to come up with a solution that would satisfy the requirements of both the law and family justice.

"I need to think," she said finally. "Need to figure out how to handle this without anyone else ending up in hospital beds. Or worse." She met Kelly's eyes. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless. Not until we have a plan."

Kelly was silent for a few moments, her face revealing nothing. Then, finally, she nodded.

Harley moved to the window, watching her reflection ghost across glass that held the city's nighttime glow. Her phone felt heavy in her hand as she typed a message to Callaway: Too late to move on Cummings tonight. Following up on family situation. Will explain tomorrow.

His response came quickly: Take care of them. I'll keep digging into property records, be ready when you get back.

"You don't have to stay," Greg said from his bed, reading her intention in the way she settled into the room's only comfortable chair. "I'm not going anywhere like this."

"It's not just you I'm worried about." Harley's eyes found Kelly's. "We all need sleep. Tomorrow's soon enough to figure out next steps."

Kelly stared at the floor, saying nothing.

"We can have hospital security right outside," Harley assured her. "And you'll have your overprotective FBI sister right here." She tried to smile, to lift some of the weight that seemed to press against them all. "Nobody's coming for any of us tonight."

Neither Kelly nor Greg spoke.

Harley watched her siblings—Greg already drifting on pain medication, Kelly coiled like a spring despite her apparent relaxation. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new attempts at balancing protection with procedure. But for now, in this quiet room with its mechanical lullaby of medical equipment, she could at least try to keep them safe through one more night.

They just had to make it through tonight. Then tomorrow…

Tomorrow she wanted answers.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The squeak of a cart's wheel as it passed along the hallway startled Harley awake.

She sat up, looked around. Greg was asleep in bed, his mouth slightly ajar, while Kelly lay curled in a chair on the opposite side of the room.

Harley checked her phone—6:47 AM. She'd managed maybe two hours of sleep, drifting between consciousness and darker dreams while monitoring her siblings through the night. She felt heavy, as if her body were anchored by leaden weights.

She tapped out a quick message to Callaway: Ready to move on Cummings? He'll be at the office early if he follows the schedule in his property records.

Callaway's response came quickly: Meet you there in 30. Found more connections between him and the murder sites. You need to see this.

She stood, stretching muscles that protested her brief, uncomfortable rest.

"You're going after your killer," Kelly said. Not a question.

Surprised, Harley glanced over to see her younger sister watching her. She hadn't realized Kelly was awake.

"Someone's transforming artists into exhibitions, using murder to drive down property values," Harley said. She kept her voice low, mindful of Greg's medication-induced sleep. "If Cummings is behind it, we need to move before he stages another performance."

"And Joel? What happens when he shows up again?"

It surprised Harley to hear her sister ask her this question. It sounded like Kelly wanted her to be involved, which was a relief to Harley.

Harley settled beside her sister, close enough to catch the faint scent of stale coffee on her breath. "I want you to stay here with Greg for now. If Joel decides to come after either of you, he won't get to you here. I already spoke with security and gave them his picture. They know to watch out for him."

Kelly said nothing. She was chewing her lip, thinking.

"The best thing you can do right now is look after Greg," Harley continued. "Make sure he doesn't try anything else heroic when they release him. Let me wrap this case, build momentum with the Bureau. Then we can focus everything on proving Joel's your stalker." She caught her sister's eyes. "We do this right. No more family members in hospital beds."

After what seemed a long time, Kelly finally nodded. "I'll stay with Greg for now. But once he's released…" She shrugged. "I'm going to have to do what's necessary to keep myself safe, Harley. You know that."

"I know. And hopefully, by that time, I'll be right there with you." She squeezed Kelly's shoulder gently. "Try to rest. Let the hospital staff help with Greg. Just... stay safe until I get back."

"And then we go after Joel." Kelly stared into Harley's eyes.

"And then we go after Joel," Harley agreed. She could tell from her sister's gaze that Kelly would hold her to the promise.

She just hoped nothing happened until she was able to focus her full attention on Joel.

***

Harley's first impression of Bradley Cummings's office was that it felt like Santa Fe had exploded inside a storage unit—Southwestern art crowding every wall, turquoise and silver decorative pieces scattered across surfaces that tried too hard to look expensive. The man himself matched his surroundings—designer western wear that still carried department store creases, boots too shiny to have seen actual ranch work, a smile that seemed practiced in front of mirrors.

"Agents," he said, rising from behind his massive desk. "I was wondering when you'd make your way to me. Small town—word gets around about FBI asking questions." His practiced smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Coffee? I have an excellent Colombian roast."

"We're fine," Harley said, studying how he moved through his carefully curated space. Everything about him felt calculated—each gesture designed to project successful developer with Western flair.

"We hear you've tried to buy up some property around the Arroyo Arts Collective," Harley said.

"Of course I've been trying to acquire property out there," Cummings said as he settled behind a desk that dominated the small space. "It's the next frontier for sustainable desert development. Art colonies, high-end galleries, eco-friendly housing that honors the landscape while providing modern amenities."

His hands moved as he spoke, sketching visions in air that smelled of artificial sage. "But all my offers have been rejected. The ranchers don't trust outsiders, and the artists?" He laughed. "They think I'll turn their precious colony into another tourist trap."

"You seem to know a lot about the colony," Harley said. "Spent time there?"

"Due diligence." Cummings leaned back, perfectly at ease. "I make it my business to understand potential investments. The artists, their work, their connection to the landscape." His smile sharpened slightly. "Even their conflicts with local ranchers over water rights and property lines."

"Convenient conflicts," Callaway said from his position near the window. "The kind that might make property more affordable for the right buyer."

"If you're implying I had something to do with stirring up those tensions..." Cummings spread his hands. "The divide between ranchers and artists existed long before I showed interest in the area. I'm just a businessman who sees opportunity where others see conflict."

Harley studied him as he talked, noting the genuine enthusiasm that pulsed beneath careful presentation. Callaway stood near the window, his reflection ghosting across glass that held the morning's harsh light.

"Tell us about your movements the night David Ferguson was killed," Harley said, watching his face carefully.

"Straight to it then?" Cummings didn't seem surprised by the question. "I wondered if that's why you were here. The timing of my offers, the subsequent murders—I can see why it might look suspicious from your perspective."

It was a surprising admission. It suggested he was very confident either that they had nothing on him or that he could prove his innocence.

"The murders must be affecting property values," Harley said, watching for micro-expressions that might reveal deeper knowledge.

"Tragically. I've had to suspend all acquisition attempts. Nobody wants to look like they're profiting from death. Besides, I had my own projects to manage. Here—my schedule for the past month. Every meeting, every phone call, every hotel stay."

Callaway joined Harley, and together they studied the documentation, looking for gaps or inconsistencies. But Cummings had been meticulous—his alibis were frustratingly solid. Hotel receipts showed him checking in and out of Phoenix hotels. Meeting minutes placed him in conference rooms with investors. Security footage timestamps aligned perfectly with his story.

"Of course, documents can be falsified," Callaway said mildly.

"They can," Cummings agreed. "Which is why I've also provided contact information for everyone I met with. Feel free to verify every detail. I've nothing to hide." He pulled out another folder. "I've also included my cell phone records. The towers will show my location for each call—all in Phoenix, far from any murder scene."

Harley felt the familiar shift of pursuit changing direction, of patterns realigning into new possibilities.

"You understand we had to check," Callaway said, his voice carrying professional courtesy that barely masked his disappointment. "The timing of your offers, the locations of the murder sites..."

"All coincidence." Cummings's smile carried genuine relief at being able to prove his innocence. "Though I understand the theory. Create fear, drive down property values, swoop in with new offers that suddenly seem reasonable." He shook his head. "I may be ambitious, but I'm not a monster. I want to build something out here, not destroy what makes it special."

Harley was about to ask another question when her phone vibrated against her hip. The number wasn't familiar, but something made her answer anyway.

"Agent Cole."

"It's Keith Allen." His voice carried a tension she hadn't heard during their previous encounter. "From the Sandoval Gallery? I... I need to tell you something. About the murders. About who might really be behind them."

Harley caught Callaway's eye, reading the same shift in his posture as he recognized this could be important. Cummings was watching her curiously. She retreated across the room so she could speak without being overheard.

"Go on," she said to Allen."

"Not over the phone." Allen's words tumbled faster now. "There are things you need to see. Documentation. Evidence about who's really trying to destroy the collective."

"Where are you?"

"The gallery. In my workspace behind the main storage area." He paused. "Please hurry. I'm not sure how long... just hurry."

The call ended before she could ask more questions. Harley turned to Callaway.

"We need to get to Keith Allen," she said. "Now."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The gallery's back corridors felt too quiet as Harley and Callaway approached Allen's workspace, their footsteps echoing against the polished concrete.

Harley kept replaying her brief conversation with Allen in her head. What had he been worried about, and what had he wanted to share?

Morning light spilled through high windows, painting harsh patterns across the white walls. The air carried that particular stillness that made Harley's skin prickle—the weighted silence of spaces that should have held human movement but instead felt abandoned.

They passed carefully curated exhibitions, each piece catching light in ways that transformed art into strange witnesses. A massive abstract canvas dominated one wall, its swirls of crimson and gold seeming to watch their progress with artificial awareness. Harley remembered interviewing the gallery staff about Allen—their careful deflections, their studied indifference to the maintenance man who dreamed of being more than his job title suggested.

"Something feels wrong," Callaway murmured beside her, his voice barely carrying above their measured steps. He'd shed his jacket in the morning heat, his holster visible beneath his shoulder—a reminder that art galleries could hold darker purposes than mere exhibition.

"I know." Harley's hand stayed close to her own weapon as they moved deeper into the building's quiet heart. She'd learned to trust her instincts in situations like these.

"Allen?" she called out, her voice carrying through empty spaces that should have held movement, should have contained the usual sounds of morning preparation. The gallery's carefully maintained silence swallowed her words without echo. No response came from the shadows ahead—just that particular quality of emptiness.

They approached Allen's door. The entrance stood partially open. Cleaning supplies lay scattered across the threshold like bread crumbs leading into darkness, while somewhere deeper in the building, central air clicked on with mechanical indifference.

"Keith?" Callaway tried, but still there was no answer.

Harley caught Callaway's eye, reading in his eyes the same unease she herself felt.

They moved through the doorway, weapons ready. The workspace revealed itself in stages—first the overturned chairs, then the scattered cleaning supplies that looked like they'd been thrown in a struggle. Allen's protest art lay torn from the walls, leaving shadow marks where pieces had hung for years.

"Clear," Callaway said, checking behind a storage cabinet.

"Clear," Harley echoed, though they both knew they wouldn't find Allen here. The story this room was telling them was not leading to a happy ending.

A mockup dominated the center of the room—a perfect recreation of Allen's most famous protest piece, but twisted into something darker. Where the original had featured mannequins bowing before corporate logos, this version showed a photograph of Allen himself, posed in grotesque surrender.

"Look at the detail," Callaway said, crouching to study the base of the display. "They took their time with this. Wanted us to see it."

"He tried to call us," Harley said, anger tightening her voice. "Said he had evidence, wanted to tell us something. We should have come immediately. He probably came in this morning, saw this piece waiting for him…and knew he was in danger."

She moved around the mockup, cataloging details with professional detachment despite the guilt pressing against her chest. "The timing, the urgency in his voice..."

She tried Allen's number again, and then paused at the sound of something vibrating nearby. Callaway squatted beside a desk, reached beneath it, and pulled out a ringing cell phone. The glass was cracked, as if it had taken a hard fall.

Harley sighed heavily and ended the call.

"He could still be alive," Callaway said. "The killer leaving this picture here—it's like he wants us to follow, wants us to try to rescue Allen."

"Or Allen's body."

Callaway said nothing to that.

They moved through the space methodically, photographing everything.

"No blood," Callaway noted. "No signs of serious injury. Just the struggle. Still…it's messy. The other attacks were clean. He screwed up."

"Or the killer's gotten bolder," Harley said. "Doesn't feel the need to be so careful." She studied a torn piece of protest art that lay crumpled against one wall. "But why take Allen somewhere else? The killer didn't move the other victims."

"Maybe the killer decided this place isn't quite suitable for his next…" Callaway made a vague gesture in the air. "Exhibition."

"If not here… then where?"

A sudden shaft of morning light pierced through the high windows, illuminating something in the corner—a small security camera half-hidden behind supplies and artwork.

"Callaway," Harley said sharply, pointing.

He moved closer, examining it. "Gallery security. Feeds to an outside monitoring company after hours."

Harley checked the base of the camera. "SecureView Solutions. Looks like our killer made a mistake."

"They won't release that footage without authorization," Callaway said. He paused, then pulled out his phone with a slight smile. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you've got markers to call in." He was already dialing. "Hey, Tony. Remember that warrant you owe me from the Spiro case?" His grin widened at whatever the response was. "Yeah, need to call it in. SecureView footage, Sandoval Gallery, last twelve hours."

Harley watched him work, impressed as always by how he managed to build and maintain relationships that proved invaluable in moments like this. Other agents might have waited for official channels, lost precious hours to bureaucracy. But Callaway understood that sometimes solving cases meant knowing who owed you favors.

"And where would that be?" Callaway asked, frowning. "Uh-huh. Okay. We'll head over there right now."

He waved to Harley, and she followed him to the gallery's main office, where they found a security monitor waiting for them. Following directions from his friend, Callaway typed away at the keyboard, bringing up the appropriate footage.

The picture was grainy but clear enough to show what mattered.

"Alright, man," Callaway said as he wrapped up the call. "Yeah, we're square."

"Good work," Harley said, smiling at him.

"It's like I always tell you: I'm more than just a pretty face."

Harley leaned over his shoulder, and together they studied the footage.

3:47 AM: A white Ford Econoline van backed up to Allen's workspace entrance. The driver stayed hidden in predawn shadow, but the vehicle itself drew Harley's attention—specifically, the distinctive damage along its passenger side.

"Wait," she said, leaning closer. "Go back thirty seconds."

Callaway rewound the footage. The van paused before backing up, giving them a better view of the damage pattern—not just a simple dent but a long scrape that ended in a crumpled panel. The kind of distinctive marking that made vehicles easy to identify.

"That's something we can work with," Callaway said, already reaching for his radio to put out an APB.

Harley watched him make the call while she studied the footage more closely, looking for any other details they might use. The van was their best lead right now—their only real chance of finding Allen before the killer completed whatever exhibition they had planned.

She tried not to think about what that exhibition might look like, about how the killer seemed to be escalating with each new scene. Instead, she focused on the footage, on the practical steps they could take to find that van.

Somewhere in their city, Keith Allen waited in darkness while a killer prepared to transform his protest into performance.

And if Harley and Callaway didn't find them soon, Allen's death was all but inevitable.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Kelly watched the nurse try to convince Greg to stay another day, the nurse's mouth tight in a disapproving frown. They'd been at this for twenty minutes—Greg insisting he was fine, the medical staff clearly disagreeing.

Watching this unfold, Kelly felt torn. She thought of Harley's words about them being safe here at the hospital. Surely Harley would be upset at the idea of Greg's leaving the day after he was checked in.

But this wasn't Harley's decision to make: It was Greg's. Was it the right decision, though, or should Kelly try to convince him he was being too impulsive?

"Mr. Cole, your ribs need time to heal," the nurse said, her voice carrying the weary patience of someone who'd had this argument too many times. "And we're still concerned about possible internal injuries."

"I can rest at home," Greg said, already pulling on his shirt despite how the movement made him wince. "I've had broken ribs before from a work accident—I know how to look after myself."

Kelly noticed how his hands trembled slightly as he worked the buttons, how each breath seemed measured against the pain he was trying too hard to hide. She thought about Joel and his friends, about how much worse it could have been if the bartender hadn't stepped in with his shotgun.

"At least take a wheelchair to the exit," the nurse said.

"I can walk." Greg's stubbornness carried echoes of their father—that same refusal to show weakness that had kept him working in the copper mines long after his lungs started failing. It was both a blessing and a curse.

Kelly moved closer, torn between helping Greg maintain his dignity and wanting to side with the medical staff. Her time with the cartel had taught her how quickly injuries could turn deadly without proper care. She'd seen men try to push through broken ribs, seen how a wrong movement could drive bone splinters into vital organs.

"The doctor really wants you to stay," she said quietly.

Greg shot her a look. "I'm not letting you deal with this alone anymore," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Joel's still out there. Still watching."

"Yes, and like Harley said, we're safe here for now. Why don't you rest a few more days? Then, when you're feeling better and Harley has wrapped up her case—"

"You think I can just lie in bed, knowing what that asshole did to us? Spying on you, beating me like a dog?" His eyes gleamed with fury. "I can't sit here, letting him think he can do what he wants to our family."

"So, what? You go after him again? Maybe he kills you this time."

"I'm not going after him directly," Greg said, his voice calmer now. "Not this time. I've got another plan."

"What kind of plan?"

He just shook his head and started gathering his things—the few items Kelly had brought him last night in her rush to get to the hospital. She watched him struggle with his jacket, wanting to help but knowing he'd refuse.

"Greg, what are you planning?"

"You'll see." He straightened with effort, one hand pressed against his ribs. "Let's get out of here first."

The nurse made one last attempt to stop them at the desk, pushing forms at Greg while repeating discharge instructions he clearly wasn't hearing. Kelly noted the warnings about exertion, about watching for signs of internal bleeding, about following up with his doctor. She committed them to memory since Greg seemed determined to ignore them.

Walking through the hospital corridors, Kelly found herself scanning each corner, each doorway—old habits from her time with the cartel that had never quite faded. She watched how Greg favored his left side, how each step seemed to cost him something he couldn't quite afford to spend.

The morning heat hit them like a physical wall as they exited through the automatic doors. Kelly realized suddenly that they had no way home—Greg's truck was still at the bar where Pete had called the ambulance, and she'd taken an Uber here last night in her panic to reach him.

"I didn't think this through," Greg muttered, squinting against the sun. "Don't suppose you drove here?"

"No car," Kelly reminded him. She hadn't renewed her driver's license since being freed from the cartel. While vehicles might feel like a source of freedom to some, to her, it felt like a burden, another thing to be cared for.

Another thing to tie her down.

Greg shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with standing too long. "Could call Harley—"

"She's working her case. Besides, after this morning..." Kelly pulled out her phone, already opening the ride-share app. But Greg's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Wait," he said. "I've got a better idea."

"What kind of better idea?" Kelly asked, but Greg was already pulling out his phone. She watched him scroll through contacts, noting how his fingers still trembled slightly.

"Mike," he said into the phone after a moment. "Yeah, I know it's early. Listen, I need a favor." He paused, listening. "No, not that kind of favor. Just need a ride from Presbyterian." Another pause. "Yeah, the hospital. Long story."

There was a long pause as Greg listened.

"Thanks, Mike," he finally said. "I owe you." He ended the call and caught Kelly's questioning look. "Mike Randall—works construction with me. Good guy. We go way back."

They found a bench in the shade to wait. Kelly watched the hospital's automatic doors slide open and closed, each new arrival or departure drawing her attention. A woman helping an elderly man to a waiting car. A nurse trudging to her vehicle, presumably exhausted after a long night shift. A security guard making his rounds.

"You're doing it again," Greg said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Scanning. Checking exits. Looking for threats." He shifted on the bench, wincing. "It's automatic, isn't it?"

Kelly forced herself to stop, but her fingers found the comforting weight of her .38 Special through her purse. "We do what we must to stay alive."

They were both silent for several moments.

"I'm sorry," Greg said, his voice carrying seventeen years of accumulated guilt. "For not being there when you needed me. For not finding you sooner."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "You were nineteen, Greg. Just a kid yourself."

"Old enough to know better. Old enough to check who you were camping with, to make sure you were safe." His hands clenched in his lap. "Instead, I was too wrapped up in my own life, too busy trying to prove I could make it in construction without a college degree."

A battered Ford pickup pulled into the parking lot, rust spots showing through its blue paint. The driver—a stocky man with graying hair—waved at Greg.

"That's Mike," Greg said, starting to stand. Kelly caught how the movement made him pale slightly, how his jaw tightened against pain.

"Greg," she said, helping him up despite his attempt to wave her off. "Whatever you're planning—please be careful. I can't watch someone else get hurt trying to protect me."

"Not about protection this time," he said, but wouldn't meet her eyes. "About proof. Evidence. The kind Harley can actually use."

Mike pulled up to the curb, his expression shifting to concern when he saw Greg's condition. "Holy shit, buddy. What happened to you?"

"Had an eventful night out," Greg said with forced lightness. "Mind if we stop somewhere before you drop us at my place? Need to pick up some equipment."

Kelly studied her brother's profile as they climbed into Mike's truck, she and Greg sharing the passenger seat since the extended cab was filled with tools. Greg was planning something—something he thought would give them leverage against Joel without risking another direct confrontation.

She just hoped whatever he had in mind wouldn't get him killed.

They rode in silence for several minutes, Mike seemingly understanding that questions weren't welcome. Kelly noticed how Greg kept his right arm pressed against his ribs, how each bump in the road made him tense slightly. The doctor had wanted him to stay another day, had mentioned concerns about his kidneys after taking so many kicks.

But she also understood his need to act, to do something besides lie in a hospital bed while Joel remained free to watch and wait and plan. She'd spent too many years being watched, being controlled through careful surveillance. Even now, years after her escape, the memory of always being observed made her skin crawl.

The truck's air conditioning struggled against the morning heat, carrying traces of sawdust and coffee and honest work. Kelly remembered riding in Greg's trucks over the years, remembered how he'd always tried to take care of her and Harley after their mother died, after their father retreated into mining work and whiskey.

Now, here he was again, trying to protect her despite his own injuries. The guilt sat heavy in her chest, mingled with fear of what might happen if Joel decided to finish what he'd started.

The electronics store's sign appeared ahead, its windows advertising security systems and surveillance equipment in careful lettering that caught morning light.

Mike pulled into a parking space, his expression curious. "Equipment, huh? What kind of job are you working on?"

"Personal project," Greg said, already reaching for the door handle. His movements were stiff, deliberate. "Won't take long."

Kelly watched the exchange, noting how carefully Greg was playing this—not wanting Mike to know too much, not wanting witnesses to whatever he was planning. She felt a familiar tension building in her chest, the kind that used to warn her when the cartel was about to move her to a new location.

A sense of coming danger.

"Thanks, Mike," Greg said. "For everything."

Kelly climbed out and joined Greg in front of the electronics store.

"Security cameras," she said. "Is that your bright idea?"

"That's about the long and short of it." Greg started toward the store's entrance, each step measured against pain he couldn't quite hide. "We get him on footage, we have solid proof he's the stalker. Just like Harley asked for."

Kelly said nothing. In her experience, few problems were solved so easily.

Inside, the store smelled of new plastic and artificial cooling. A young clerk looked up from his phone, his eyes widening slightly at Greg's battered appearance. Kelly noticed how the clerk's hand moved toward the phone—probably wondering if he should call security.

"Security systems," Greg said, his voice carrying forced normalcy. "Need something with remote monitoring capability. Multiple cameras."

The clerk hesitated, then seemed to decide that selling merchandise was better than asking questions. "We've got several options. What kind of coverage area are you looking at?"

Kelly watched Greg examine the equipment, noting how his eyes kept returning to the high-end systems—the kind that could transmit to mobile devices, that could record in darkness, that could catch license plates from significant distances.

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that this was actually a good plan. With cameras, they would have advance warning if Joel decided to lie in wait for either of them. She wouldn't have to check every closet in the apartment, afraid someone had crept in.

"This one," Greg said finally, pointing to a professional-grade package that made Kelly's eyebrows rise. "And I'll need extra cameras. Motion sensors. The works."

"That's... that's our top-of-the-line system," the clerk said. "It's usually for businesses, not residential—"

"It's what I need." Greg pulled out his credit card. "And I'll need it installed today."

Kelly touched his arm. "Greg, that's got to be—"

"Worth it," he cut her off quietly. "Every penny. We'll set up the system at my place, keep you there until this whole thing's settled."

"I don't need—"

"Please." The earnestness in his face caught her by surprise. "Please let me do this for you. Let me at least try."

She took a deep breath, hating the idea but also sensing how much it would cost Greg if something happened to her again. Finally, she nodded.

The clerk started processing the sale, and Kelly felt that familiar tension building again. She'd learned to trust her instincts during captivity—they'd kept her alive more times than she could count. And right now, those instincts were screaming that this was going to end badly—for someone, at least.

She just hoped it would be Joel, not them.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Desert heat rippled across the abandoned strip mall's parking lot as Harley studied the white van through her binoculars. Exactly as described in the APB—Ford Econoline, distinctive damage pattern along the passenger side. It sat alone in the empty lot, a solitary piece of evidence that might lead them to Keith Allen.

If he was still alive.

"Tough to say how long it's been here," Callaway said beside her, his voice low despite the distance between them and the van. "Possible this one's been here for days."

"Or less than an hour."

Harley lowered the binoculars, considering their options. An officer had spotted the van during his regular patrol route—a lucky break, really. This part of town was mostly abandoned businesses and empty lots, the kind of place people came to dump vehicles they didn't want found.

"Could set up surveillance," she said. "Wait to see if anyone comes back for it."

"Could." Callaway shifted in the driver's seat. "But if it is the killer's van, and if he doesn't come back here… then we're just giving him more of a head start."

Harley thought about this for a few moments. Then, coming to a decision, she said, "I vote we process it now, try to find something that points us toward Allen. You good with that?"

"I'm golden, honey."

She arched an eyebrow. "Honey? Really?"

"What? I'm a traditionalist."

She shook her head as she opened her door. By the time her boots hit the pavement, however, she was all-business.

Callaway radioed for forensics support while Harley studied the strip mall's layout. No obvious surveillance cameras, no witnesses. Just empty buildings staring with dark windows at whatever drama was about to unfold in their parking lot.

Time to see what breadcrumbs their killer had left them.

They moved across the parking lot in tandem, weapons ready, using abandoned shopping carts and dried-out planters for cover. The van sat motionless in the harsh sunlight, its white paint reflecting heat like a mirror. No movement visible through the windows, no sound except the desert wind pushing paper trash across cracked asphalt.

Harley took the driver's side while Callaway circled toward the back, their movements synchronized by years of partnership. A lone pigeon took flight from somewhere above them, the sound sharp as gunfire in the empty lot. Harley held her position, watching, waiting. But the van remained still, indifferent to their approach.

"Clear on this side," Callaway said quietly. "No movement visible through the cargo windows."

Harley reached the driver's door, noting how clean the handle was—no dust, no fingerprints, just gleaming metal that had been recently wiped. Pausing to slip on a pair of gloves, she tried the handle. Unlocked.

She and Callaway exchanged glances, reading the same warning in each other's eyes. Too easy. Too clean. Too perfect.

"On three," she said.

They opened the doors simultaneously—Harley taking the driver's door while Callaway handled the sliding cargo door. The sound echoed across the empty parking lot, making another pigeon take flight.

Empty. Just as they'd expected.

The interior carried a sharp chemical smell—industrial cleaner, the kind that might be used to eliminate trace evidence. Harley studied the dashboard, the seats, the floor mats. Everything had been meticulously cleaned, surfaces wiped to a shine that looked wrong in a vehicle this old.

"They took their time with this," Callaway said from the cargo area. "Every surface scrubbed. Even got the ceiling." He ran a gloved finger along one of the interior panels.

Harley checked under the seats, in the glovebox, behind the sun visors. Nothing. No registration, no insurance card, not even an old fast food receipt. The van had been stripped of anything that might identify its owner or recent users.

"Air freshener," she said, identifying another scent beneath the chemical cleaner. "Pine. Strong enough to cover other smells."

"Like fear?" Callaway's voice carried an edge. They both knew what Allen must have gone through in this van—bound, helpless, being transported to whatever location their killer had chosen for his final exhibition.

Harley moved methodically through the front area while Callaway continued checking the cargo space. The steering wheel had been wiped clean, but she noticed slight indentations in the worn cover—marks from the last person who'd gripped it. Presumably the killer.

"Got something," Callaway said.

She turned, watching him crouch in the cargo area and point his flashlight at something near the floor. "What is it?"

"Pattern in the carpet. See how it's worn here?" He traced a shape in the beam of light. "Something heavy sat in this spot regularly. Recently."

Harley joined him, studying the indentations. Four distinct pressure points, evenly spaced. "Equipment case maybe? Something with sturdy legs?"

"Could be how they transport their staging materials." Callaway's flashlight caught more subtle patterns in the cargo area carpet. "Look—more marks here. And here. Whatever they carry, they keep it organized. Everything in its place."

The observation fit their killer's profile—someone who approached murder with technical precision, who treated death like a carefully staged exhibition. Even their cleaning of the van showed professional attention to detail.

"Forensics can process it," Harley said, "but I doubt they'll find anything useful. Our killer's too careful for that."

Callaway was frowning. "It doesn't make sense. He kidnaps Allen, brings him here, and then… what? Leaves on foot?"

"Maybe it was just a quiet place to change vehicles."

"But he didn't need to change vehicles. Not yet. He had time. Why not go to wherever he was planning to kill Allen, then change vehicles there?"

Harley chewed her lip, pondering the possibilities.

She moved back outside and studied the strip mall's layout with fresh eyes. Empty storefronts stared back at her, their windows dark with accumulated grime. A former convenience store, a defunct tax preparation office, a closed clothing shop…

She studied the area again. It was hard to imagine why anyone would use this spot for switching vehicles—there wasn't even space for a second vehicle. It seemed more likely that the killer had, as Callaway had suggested, taken Allen somewhere on foot.

And if so, it couldn't be far away.

"Come on," she said to Callaway. "Let's look around. They might be nearby."

The empty storefronts loomed before them as they began methodically checking each one. Most were locked tight, their windows clouded with years of desert dust. But as they rounded the corner of the old convenience store, Harley noticed fresh scuff marks on the back door—subtle scrapes in the grime that spoke of recent use.

"Here," she said quietly.

The door opened with surprising ease, its hinges suspiciously well-oiled for an abandoned building. Inside, the air felt thick with old merchandise. Their flashlight beams caught empty shelves and fallen ceiling tiles, transforming mundane retail space into something more sinister.

The smell hit them first—metallic and sharp beneath layers of dust and decay. Harley's hand tightened on her weapon as they moved deeper into the building, following that telltale scent toward whatever waited in the shadows.

They found Keith Allen in what had once been the store's back office. The killer had positioned him carefully, his body arranged in a grotesque mirror of his most famous protest piece—"The Corporate Supplication." But where the original had featured mannequins bowing before corporate logos, this version showed Allen himself forced into that same position of surrender, his body contorted to match the poses he'd once crafted in anger.

"Shit," Callaway muttered.

The killer had taken their time, using Allen's own artistic vision against him. Protest signs from his workspace lay scattered around the body like fallen standards, their messages about artistic integrity and corporate greed now reading like bitter accusations. The killer had even recreated the lighting from Allen's original installation, positioning battery-powered work lights to cast harsh shadows that emphasized the mockery of his pose.

But this staging felt different from the others. Where Ferguson and Ramirez had been transformed into corrupted versions of their own art, Allen's final exhibition carried a more personal edge. The killer hadn't just mocked his artistic vision—they'd turned his entire identity as a protest artist into an indictment.

"Look at the details," Harley said, studying how the killer had positioned each element. "They knew his work intimately. Knew exactly how to corrupt it into something that called out what they saw as his hypocrisy."

"How do you figure?"

"The original piece was about artists selling out to corporate interests. But here..." She gestured at how the killer had arranged Allen's maintenance uniform, making it central to the tableau rather than trying to hide it. "They're saying he was the fraud—pretending to be an outsider artist while working within the very system he claimed to protest."

The desert wind whispered through broken windows, stirring papers that rustled like dying breaths.

Harley circled the scene slowly, each detail adding weight to a theory that had been building in her mind. The killer's staging was technically perfect—every angle precise, every shadow carefully considered. But something about it felt hollow, like an actor performing emotions they'd never actually felt.

"Remember what Townsend said?" she asked. "About how the collective was trying to create dialogue between past and present, between tradition and innovation?"

Callaway nodded, his flashlight beam catching dust motes that danced like lost spirits around Allen's body.

"Look at how the killer's staged each victim. Ferguson's sculptures twisted into mockery. Maya's ropes turned against her. And now this." She gestured at Allen's grotesque tableau. "It's not just about murder. It's about punishment. About showing contempt for what these artists were trying to create."

"Someone who hates art?" Callaway asked.

"Someone who hates what it represents." The pieces were shifting in her mind, forming new patterns of possibility. "Change. Innovation. The transformation of spaces they think should stay pure." She thought about the property angle, about Aldridge's careful explanations of development and opportunity. "What if our killer isn't trying to drive down property values to buy cheap land? What if they're trying to destroy the very idea of desert art colonies?"

She moved closer to Allen's body, studying how the killer had positioned each element of their savage exhibition. "Their technical knowledge is perfect—they understand rigging, staging, theatrical lighting. But there's no... appreciation here. No real understanding of what these artists were trying to accomplish."

"Just hatred," Callaway said quietly. "Pure and focused."

"Exactly." Harley straightened, her mind racing through implications. "We've been looking for someone connected to the art world—another artist, maybe, or a failed critic like Allen. But what if we're dealing with someone who learned all these technical skills for a different purpose? Someone who sees art as corruption rather than creation?"

"Then I think," Callaway said, "our suspect pool just got a whole lot bigger."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The crime scene photos seemed to pulse with hidden meaning as Harley spread them across her desk, each image adding texture to a pattern that grew clearer with every viewing.

Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, but she couldn't stop staring at the details. There was something here, something that had been nagging at her since they'd found Allen's body. A deeper truth about their killer's relationship with art itself.

"Coffee?" Callaway's voice drew her attention. He stood in the doorway, two steaming cups in hand, his own exhaustion visible in the shadows beneath his eyes.

"Please." She accepted one of the cups, but her attention immediately returned to the photos. She felt as if she were peering into the killer's diary, but it was written in a language she hardly knew.

Callaway settled into the chair beside her desk. "Got the van report back," he said. "Stolen three weeks ago from a cleaning company in Santa Fe. Killer wiped it down completely—no prints, no fibers, nothing we can use." He paused. "But that's not what's got you excited, is it?"

As disappointing as this news was, Harley wasn't particularly surprised. The van would have been hidden better if the killer was worried about what they might find in it.

Harley pulled Ferguson's crime scene photo closer. "Look at this. See how the killer positioned David's body? It looks like one of his sculptures at first glance, but it's deliberately wrong. They twisted his signature spiral forms into something harsh, angular. It's like they studied his work just enough to know how to corrupt it."

"Or they just couldn't get it right," Callaway said. "Maybe our killer isn't as skilled as we assumed."

Harley shook her head. "The work is too consistent to be a mistake—if you're a rookie, you're all over the place. You don't do everything wrong in the same exact way."

She moved to Maya's photo next. "It's the same thing here. Maya's rope work was all about connection, about weaving cultures together. But look how the killer used those same techniques to create something suffocating, constraining. They understood the technical aspects perfectly, but completely missed—or deliberately perverted—the deeper meaning."

"And Allen?" Callaway asked, following her train of thought.

"That's where it really shows." She tapped the most recent crime scene photo. "Allen's protest pieces were about exposing corruption in the art world. The killer turned that message back on him, but in a way that shows they never really understood what he was trying to say. They just saw surface rebellion, not the deeper critique he was attempting."

Callaway leaned closer, studying the images. "Someone who sees the technical elements but misses the soul of the work?"

"Exactly." Harley felt fresh energy cutting through her exhaustion as the pattern solidified. "It's like... imagine someone who can perfectly recreate a dance's movements but completely misses its meaning. They have all the technical skill but none of the understanding. Or worse—they actively despise what these artists were trying to create."

She spread all four crime scene photos out, letting the killer's progression tell its story. "Each scene gets more elaborate, more technically precise. But also more angry, more focused on punishing these artists for daring to transform spaces our killer thinks should stay pure."

"Like someone who learned theatrical staging just to mock it," Callaway said quietly.

"Yes." Harley sat back, her mind racing through implications. "We need to look for someone with extensive technical knowledge of both art installation and theatrical staging, but who isn't actually part of the art world. Someone who sees these desert art colonies as corruption rather than creation."

Callaway's chair creaked as he leaned back. He started drumming his fingers on the desk.

"There's something going on here that we're not aware of," Harley said, pushing back from her desk to pace the small office. The movement helped her think. "Something we can't see. It's like we're putting together a puzzle, but we're missing a few pieces."

"So how do we find those missing pieces? You want to go back to AAC, knock on more doors?"

Harley shook her head. "No, they've made it clear they don't want to talk to us." She paused, thinking. "We should go back to Travis Blackwood."

"We already cleared him."

"But that doesn't mean he was being completely truthful with us. He knows something, Callaway—I'm sure of it. And he's right in the middle of all this conflict between the ranchers and the artists."

Callaway was silent, thinking.

"And maybe if he knows he's not a suspect," Harley said, "he'll speak more freely."

"Still feels like a bit of a jump. Why Travis? Other than your gut telling you that he's withholding information."

"Because I don't think the killer's an artist, a part of the AAC. And if you want an outsider's perspective on the collective, you can't do much better than Travis Blackwood."

Callaway grunted. "Not exactly an unbiased perspective."

Harley raised an eyebrow. "Is there even such a thing?"

***

Heat waves shimmered across the ranch's gravel drive as Harley guided her Jeep toward the Blackwood property. They found Travis in the horse corral, working with a young bay stallion that danced nervously at the end of a lead rope.

This, Harley thought, was the real Travis Blackwood. Not the stereotype he presented to outsiders.

He spotted them approaching and his posture shifted subtly—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. Practiced belligerence settled over him like a familiar coat. But Harley had seen beneath it now, had caught that glimpse of his true nature with the horse.

"Thought we were done," he called out as they approached the corral fence. The stallion pulled against the lead rope, sensing its handler's tension. "Already told you where I was those nights."

"Not here about alibis," Harley said, keeping her voice neutral. "Just want to understand the situation better." She gestured at the horse. "He's beautiful. Quarter horse?"

Something flickered in Travis's eyes—surprise at her knowledge, perhaps, or wariness about this different approach. "Morgan, actually. Good eye, though."

"My uncle raised horses in Kentucky," she said. "Taught me a thing or two about conformation." She studied the stallion's lines. "Good shoulder angle. Strong hindquarters. He'll make a fine cutting horse."

Travis's hand moved unconsciously along the lead rope, gentling the nervous animal. For a moment, his carefully maintained hostility cracked slightly. "That's the plan. Got good bloodlines, just needs consistent handling."

"Like most things," Callaway said quietly. "Consistency builds trust."

The words hung in the desert air between them. Travis's expression hardened again, but not before Harley caught something else in his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or fear.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"The truth," Harley said. "About who's really behind the push to drive artists out of the desert."

Travis's hand tightened on the lead rope, making the stallion dance nervously. "Already told you about the water rights disputes, the property damage—"

"You told us what you wanted us to hear," Harley cut in. "What someone wanted you to say. But we both know there's more to this story."

"Don't know what you're talking about." But his eyes wouldn't quite meet hers.

"Travis." Harley kept her voice gentle, remembering how he'd worked with the horse. "Someone's killing artists. Staging their bodies like exhibitions. Meanwhile, tension builds between ranchers and the collective, property values drop, and developers circle like vultures." She paused, letting the words sink in. "You're caught in the middle of all this. Who stands to gain from this situation, Travis?"

The stallion pulled against the lead rope again, picking up on its handler's growing unease. Travis took several moments to quiet the animal, his movements carrying that same patience she'd witnessed earlier. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"You don't understand what's at stake here."

"Then help us understand," Callaway said.

Travis glanced toward his house, then the distant mountains, as if searching for watchers. "Things I say could have consequences. For my ranch, my family's legacy."

"Things you don't say could have worse consequences," Harley said. "More artists could die, more families be destroyed." She stepped closer to the fence. "We can protect you, Travis. But only if you tell us what you know."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I don't need protection."

"You sure about that?" Callaway asked. "The way I see it, we've got a cauldron here. All those artists at the AAC—they think it's one of you ranchers killing them."

"Bullshit."

"And the longer this goes on, the more they're going to be tempted to take matters into their own hands. You've had to deal with a few broken fences, sure. But just wait till someone torches your house in the night."

Harley glanced at Callaway, surprised by the approach he was taking. But she didn't interfere. His eyes gleamed with conviction. It might have been Harley's gut that led them here, but they were following Callaway's gut now.

Travis glanced away. He seemed to be considering his options.

"I was approached by someone a few months ago," he finally said, his voice barely carrying above the desert wind. "Offered to fund my legal battles against the collective. Said he understood about protecting traditional ways of life, about preserving the desert's natural beauty."

"He just, what, showed up at your house?" Callaway asked.

Travis shook his head dismissively. "Ran into him at a restaurant. My wife's in the restroom, and this guy comes over, says he recognizes me from TV—I was in this truck ad a few years ago. Anyway, he says he's heard about the trouble I've been having with the artists and wants to talk."

"What did you say?" Harley asked.

Travis shrugged. "Nothing really. My wife showed up then, and the guy told me to think about it and politely excused himself. Then, the next night, he called me."

"How'd he get your number?"

"Probably found it online. Easy enough to do these days."

"And what did you two talk about?" Callaway asked. "You and this Mr…?"

"Lambert. Richard Lambert. He offered to fund my legal battles. Could recommend some solid attorneys, too."

Harley raised her eyebrows. "That's quite an offer. What did he want in return?"

"Just wanted me to be visible. To speak up at town meetings, challenge the collective's expansion plans." Travis wouldn't meet their eyes. "Said I'd be doing everyone a favor. Said the artists would be gone soon anyway, one way or another."

Harley felt her pulse quicken. "He said that specifically? That they'd be gone?"

"Yeah." Travis finally looked at her, his expression haunted. "Didn't think much about it at the time. Figured he meant through legal channels, property disputes. But then people started dying..." He trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Why didn't you come forward sooner?"

"Because he owns half this county now. Man like that, he can make things happen. Make problems disappear."

Or people, Harley added mentally.

She studied Travis’s weathered face, the deep lines carved by years of sun and hard choices. He wasn’t lying—not outright—but there was something he wasn’t saying, something caught in the tight set of his jaw.

"You’re scared of him," she said, not a question but a statement, testing the waters.

Travis’s laugh was short and bitter, like the crack of dry wood. "Scared? No. Wary, maybe. You don’t cross a man like Lambert without knowing the cost. I’ve seen what happens to folks who try—ranchers who wouldn’t sell, families who pushed back. One day they’re fighting, the next they’re gone. Packed up and moved, or..." He stopped, his eyes flicking to hers, then away again. "Or just gone."

Callaway shifted beside her, his silence a steady pressure that urged her to keep pressing. "And you think he’s capable of murder?" she asked, her voice low enough to keep the wind from carrying it. "Not just pushing people out, but putting them in the ground?"

Travis rubbed a hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe away the words he didn’t want to say. "I don’t know anything, Agent Cole. That’s the truth. But when he talked about the artists being gone ‘one way or another,’ it didn’t sound like a figure of speech no more—not after Ferguson, not after Ramirez." His voice dropped, barely audible over the rustle of desert brush. "I’ve got a wife, kids. You think I want to be the one who tests how far he’ll go?"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Metal sang against metal as Nadia adjusted the angle of her grinder, sparks cascading like fallen stars in the thick afternoon light.

The sculpture before her—a twisting spire of reclaimed steel and copper that stretched upward, clawing toward the desert sky—refused to yield to her vision. Something about the central joint nagged at her, a subtle instability that whispered of failure. It wasn’t enough support, she knew, not for the weight pressing down from above.

She switched off the grinder, the sudden silence ringing in her ears as the tool’s whine faded into the hum of the workshop. Stepping back, she studied the piece through narrowed eyes, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. The sweat trickled down her neck anyway, a warm rivulet cutting through the dust and grime that clung to her skin despite the industrial fans rattling overhead.

The space had once been a mechanics’ garage, its concrete floor still stained with decades of oil and grease, before the Arroyo Arts Collective claimed it. They’d transformed it—or tried to—bolting fans to the rafters and throwing open the roll-up doors to catch whatever breeze the desert deigned to offer. But the heat lingered, pooling beneath the corrugated metal roof like a living thing, heavy and oppressive, pressing against her shoulders as she worked.

The problem with the sculpture, she decided after a long moment of scrutiny, was balance. The upper section’s weight distribution was off by a few critical degrees, a flaw invisible to an untrained eye but glaring to hers. It would hold for now, sure—stand tall in this sweltering afternoon—but the desert’s extremes were unforgiving. Come night, when the temperature plummeted and the metal contracted, that joint might weaken, might buckle under the strain.

She’d seen it before: what thrived in the day’s heat could fracture in the predawn chill, a lesson the landscape taught over and over.

Just like my marriage failed, she thought, the familiar bitterness rising like bile in her throat. What looked stable in one light—Michael’s polished smile, his carefully curated life—could splinter apart in another, revealing the cracks she’d been too naive to see at first.

She reached for her water bottle, its scratched plastic warm against her palm, and took a long sip. The liquid was tepid, almost hot from sitting in the sun that streamed through the open doors, but it soothed her parched throat all the same. Three years had passed since she’d fled Minneapolis, escaping Michael’s subtle, suffocating manipulations. He’d never raised a hand to her—too sophisticated, too refined for that—but his weapons were sharper: quiet comments that eroded her confidence, gentle suggestions that her sculptures were a waste of time, that she’d be better off teaching art at his university, safe and contained within his world.

Each word had been a chisel, chipping away at her until she barely recognized herself.

The desert had saved her in its harsh, unyielding way. The collective had offered sanctuary when she'd needed it most—a sprawling refuge of misfits and dreamers who understood the compulsion to wrestle meaning from raw materials. Space to work, freedom to create, a community that didn’t question her need to pour herself into steel and copper until her hands bled and her mind quieted. Even now, as she stood alone in her workshop, the faint sounds of other artists drifted through the open doors—the rhythmic thump of a pottery wheel spinning clay, the hesitant scales of an old piano being tuned, the murmur of quiet conversations weaving through the air like threads in a tapestry. It was a reminder she wasn’t truly alone, not anymore.

And yet, in this moment, she was.

The workshop stretched around her, vast and empty save for her tools and the half-finished spire, and lately that solitude had begun to feel heavier, a weight settling into her bones. She shook off the thought, forcing her focus back to the sculpture.

Running calloused fingers along the joint in question, she tested its warmth—still holding the afternoon sun’s heat, a faint pulse against her skin. This piece mattered more than most. Her first major commission since arriving at the collective, it bore the stamp of her signature style: industrial salvage twisted into organic forms, a dance of strength and fragility. The university in Santa Fe had sought her out specifically for it, their letter praising the way her work bridged the mechanical and the natural.

Success here could mean more commissions, more recognition—a tangible vindication for choosing this dusty, uncertain path over the safe academic cage Michael had tried to trap her in.

A shadow slid across her workbench, sharp and sudden, pulling her from her reverie.

Nadia turned, expecting to see another artist—maybe Tomás with his endless requests to borrow her torch, or Lila with the latest gossip about the murders that had rattled the collective. But the workshop’s open doorway framed only desert wind and the lengthening fingers of afternoon light stretching across the concrete floor.

Still, something felt wrong. She held her breath, listening. The background noise had shifted—no more pottery wheel churning, no more piano notes stumbling through scales, no more soft voices threading through the air. Just silence, thick and unnatural, broken only by the faint tick of cooling metal as her sculpture settled in the dropping temperature.

“Hello?” she called, her voice sharper than she'd intended, laced with the false bravado she’d honed during her marriage to mask the fear underneath. “Someone there?”

Only silence answered, stretching taut across the workshop like a wire ready to snap. The tick of the metal ticked louder in her ears, a metronome to her quickening pulse.

She moved toward the door, her boots scuffing softly against the gritty floor, telling herself it was nothing. Paranoia, that’s all. The collective had been on edge since Maya’s death—every creak of a beam, every rustle of wind through the junipers setting nerves alight. It was natural to feel jumpy, working alone with a killer still out there, their shadow looming over every unfinished piece.

The shadow flickered again, this time across the sculpture’s polished upper spire, a dark smear against the copper’s gleam.

Nadia’s heart stuttered, a cold jolt racing down her spine. That wasn’t the wind playing tricks with the light—that was someone standing in her doorway, their reflection caught in the metal’s mirror-like surface. Someone watching her with terrible, deliberate purpose.

The grinder grew heavy in her trembling hands, its weight suddenly foreign, unwieldy. She turned slowly, dread pooling in her gut, already knowing what she would find.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Harley pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples as they pulled into the visitor parking at Lambert Development Group. The lack of sleep was getting to her.

The building rose before them, all gleaming glass and polished stone that reflected desert light like a mirror. Inside that mirror, she caught her own reflection—dark circles beneath her eyes, hair hastily pulled back, clothes that had seen better days.

When was the last time she'd eaten? Really eaten, not just grabbed coffee and a protein bar between case developments?

"You look like hell," Callaway said quietly as they approached the entrance.

"Thanks for that." She tried to smile, but it felt forced. Her whole body ached with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest. Not with artists dying.

The lobby wrapped around them in cool marble and subtle lighting, everything designed to whisper wealth without shouting it. A young woman sat behind the reception desk, her blazer perfectly pressed, her smile professionally welcoming.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her name tag identifying her as Jessica Bray.

Harley showed her badge, noting how Jessica's smile didn't waver—she was clearly used to law enforcement visits in corporate settings. "We need to speak with Richard Lambert."

"I'm afraid Mr. Lambert is out of the office at the moment." Jessica's voice carried practiced regret. Through the glass walls behind her, Harley could see Lambert's corner office—dark now, but impressive even in shadow. "Would you like to make an appointment?"

"It's rather urgent," Callaway said, leaning slightly on the desk. "FBI business."

"I understand, but Mr. Lambert's schedule is quite full." Jessica's fingers moved across her keyboard with practiced efficiency. "I can fit you in next Tuesday at 2 PM."

"This concerns an ongoing investigation," Harley said, fighting to keep irritation from her voice. Her head was pounding now, lack of sleep making it hard to maintain professional patience. "When do you expect him back?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss Mr. Lambert's movements." Jessica's smile remained perfectly in place, but something in her eyes suggested she was used to deflecting unwanted visitors. "If you'd like to wait in our conference room, I can let you know when he returns."

Harley glanced at the indicated room—all glass walls and ergonomic chairs, perfectly positioned where Jessica could keep an eye on them. No chance of exploring, of finding whatever evidence might connect Lambert to the murders.

"Perhaps you could give us his cell number?" Callaway tried.

"I'm afraid that's confidential information." Jessica's tone suggested they weren't the first to try this approach. "But I'm happy to have him call you when he's available."

Harley studied the receptionist, noting the subtle tells of someone protecting more than just a busy executive's schedule. The way Jessica's hand stayed near the phone, how her eyes kept tracking their movements. Was she warning Lambert even now, through some silent signal system?

"We'll wait," Harley said finally, her exhaustion making the words come out sharper than intended.

They settled into the conference room's expensive chairs, the glass walls making Harley feel like an exhibit in someone else's gallery. She could see Jessica watching them between calls.

"She's not going to tell us anything," Callaway murmured.

"No." Harley rubbed her eyes, wishing she'd grabbed more coffee before coming here. "But maybe that tells us something too. Why have a receptionist trained to handle law enforcement visits unless you're expecting them?"

Callaway shrugged. "Because he's hiding something. Doesn't necessarily mean it has anything to do with our investigation, though."

Harley said nothing. She felt restless, frustrated by this setback. The glass conference room felt like a fishbowl, with Jessica's careful gaze never far away.

Then Harley noticed an older man watching them through the doorway—maintenance staff, judging by his uniform. Something in his expression caught her attention—recognition, maybe, or concern.

She caught Callaway's eye. He nodded slightly, understanding without words. "Think I'll get some coffee," he said loudly enough for Jessica to hear. "Want some?"

"Please." Harley stayed seated as Callaway left the room and engaged Jessica in conversation about the building's coffee options, deliberately positioning himself to block the receptionist's view of the conference room.

The maintenance man slipped inside, his movements suggesting urgency. "You're investigating the artist murders," he said quietly, his name tag identifying him as Frank Casalino. "And now you're looking at Lambert."

"You know something about that?" Harley kept her voice low, watching how Frank's eyes kept darting toward the reception desk.

"Been here fifteen years. Seen things. Heard things." He moved to adjust the room's thermostat, making his presence look legitimate. "Lambert's been buying up desert property all across New Mexico. But not here. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because he's waiting." Frank's voice carried the weight of someone who'd witnessed too much to stay silent. "Property's too expensive here—all these artists moving in, bringing attention. But now?" He shook his head. "People dying, ranchers fighting artists, everyone scared? Prices will drop. Then he'll swoop in, buy everything at once."

Harley leaned forward. "How do you know this?"

"Because I clean his office. See the paperwork he forgets to file away. Man's been playing both sides—funding ranchers like Blackwood to fight the artists, while encouraging developers like Cummings to make offers he knows will be rejected." Frank's hands moved restlessly as he adjusted the thermostat again. "Creating conflict, making everyone think this land's more trouble than it's worth."

The pieces clicked into place in Harley's mind. "So when people finally decide to sell..."

"He'll be ready. Already has shell companies set up, paperwork prepared." Frank glanced toward reception, where Callaway was still engaging Jessica in conversation. "But since these murders started? He's been different. Nervous. Comes and goes at strange hours."

"You think he's connected to the killings?"

"I think he knows more than he's saying." Frank stepped back toward the door. "That's all I can tell you. But be careful. Man like that, with his connections? He can make problems disappear."

"Why are you telling us this?"

Frank paused. "My daughter's an artist at the collective. Works with glass and light. These murders..." He swallowed hard. "Someone needs to stop this. Before more artists die."

He slipped out just as Callaway returned with coffee. Through the glass walls, Harley watched Frank resume his maintenance rounds, his presence unremarkable in the carefully curated corporate space.

"Learn anything interesting?" Callaway asked quietly.

"Oh yes." Harley took the coffee, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "We've been looking at this all wrong. It's not about individual property deals—it's about creating enough chaos to drive everyone out at once."

"Okay," Callaway said slowly. "So how do we prove this?"

She gestured at Conway's office.

"We'll need a warrant to get in there," Callaway said.

Harley smiled. "Don't you know a judge who owes you a favor?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Time to figure out what Lambert's been up to, Harley thought.

The desert sun still blazed overhead as she and Callaway returned to Lambert Development Group, warrant in hand. Judge Mullins had taken some convincing, but Callaway's reminder about that hunting accident last fall—and how discreetly the Bureau had handled certain details—had helped push things along.

"This feels good," Callaway said, patting his jacket pocket where the warrant resided. "Being on this side of the law again."

"As opposed to skulking around talking to maintenance staff?" Harley managed a tired smile. The coffee hadn't done much to combat her exhaustion, but at least now they could act.

Jessica's smile faltered when she saw the warrant. "But Mr. Lambert specifically said—" She caught herself, pressing her lips together.

"Said what?" Harley asked.

"Nothing. I need to call our legal department."

"You can call whoever you'd like," Callaway said, already moving past her desk. "But we're going in now."

The corner office felt exactly as Harley would have expected—carefully curated artwork on the walls, designer furniture arranged to project power, floor-to-ceiling windows offering commanding views of the mountains. Everything suggested wealth without being ostentatious.

"Check the desk first," she said, pulling on latex gloves. "I'll take the filing cabinets."

They moved carefully through the space, but found nothing obviously incriminating. The files were meticulously organized, everything properly documented.

"Too clean," Callaway muttered, carefully replacing papers in the desk. "Like someone knew we might come looking."

Harley studied the computer on Lambert's desk—top of the line, probably password protected with high-end security. "We need Ray," she said, already pulling out her phone.

He answered on the first ring. "Please tell me you need my exceptional skills and charm."

"Just the skills this time." She put him on speaker. "We've got an office computer that needs cracking. How soon can you get here?"

"Actually I can help remotely."

"How?"

"IP address and hostname should be enough—they'll be on a sticker on the back of the computer. Most corporate setups are pretty standard."

Harley moved behind the desk, where she found a white label with the information. She read it off to Ray.

"Perfect. Now I just need you to hit Control-Alt-Delete and get to the login screen."

Harley did so, watching the screen change. "Done."

"Now, give me a few minutes. Their network security's actually pretty decent. Almost like he's got something to hide." Keys clicked rapidly in the background.

"What exactly are you doing?" Callaway asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Running a specialized exploit through their network—kind of like finding all the loose threads in a sweater and pulling them simultaneously. Corporate networks have predictable weak points. I just need to... there we go."

The screen flickered as Ray worked his way into the system. Harley watched windows open and close rapidly as he gained access.

"Now you just let the master work," Ray said. "This might take a few more minutes to get through his personal security layers."

While Ray worked, Harley studied the office more carefully. Everything was arranged with almost obsessive precision—desk items aligned at perfect angles, files organized by some system she couldn't quite decipher. The kind of order that suggested someone who liked controlling every detail.

"Got it," Ray said after several minutes. "I'm in. His password was 'ArtIsCorruption' by the way. With zeroes for the O's. Charming guy."

Harley leaned closer to the screen as files began opening. "Look at this," she said to Callaway. "He's got folders on each victim. Details about their work, their daily routines..."

"Their artistic styles," Callaway added, reading over her shoulder. "Like research for someone planning to corrupt their vision."

"There's more," Ray said. "Found some encrypted emails. Give me a second... yeah, these are definitely suspicious. He's been corresponding with someone about 'cleansing the desert of artistic pollution.' Real manifesto stuff."

Movement caught Harley's eye—Jessica at her desk, phone pressed to her ear, speaking in urgent whispers. The secretary's usual composure had cracked, revealing genuine distress.

"Keep digging," Harley told Callaway. "I need to check something."

She crossed to the reception desk just as Jessica ended the call. "Who were you talking to?"

"That's confidential—"

"Was it Lambert?" Harley kept her voice low but firm. "Were you warning him?"

"I was just leaving a message. He's not answering."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know." Jessica's hands twisted together. "He left hours ago, said he had a meeting. But he always tells me where he's going, and this time..." She swallowed hard. "This time he just left."

"Think," Harley pressed. "Did he mention anything about artists? About the collective?"

"No, nothing."

"We need to know where he is!"

"And I'm telling you, I don't know!" Jessica's distress seemed genuine. Still, that didn't mean she couldn't help them.

"What kind of vehicle does he drive?" Harley asked, preparing to put out an APB.

"He drives—" Jessica paused, thinking furiously.

"What?" Harley asked.

"I don't want to get him in trouble if he hasn't done anything wrong."

"Look at me," Harley said, pulling a chair close to Jessica's desk and sitting down. "I know you're trying to protect your boss. That's admirable. But lives are at stake here. Artists are being killed."

"And you think Mr. Lambert has something to do with it?"

Harley chose her words carefully. "I think it's urgent we speak with him."

Jessica's fingers played nervously with a pen on her desk. "You don't understand. Mr. Lambert gave me this job when no one else would. After my divorce, with two kids to support..." She trailed off, swallowing hard.

"I do understand loyalty," Harley said softly. "But I also understand guilt. If something happens to another artist, if we could have prevented it but didn't... that's the kind of thing that haunts you forever." She leaned closer, catching Jessica's eyes. "Trust me, I know. My sister disappeared once. For seventeen years, I wondered if I could have done something differently, if I could have prevented it somehow."

Jessica's resolve seemed to waver. "He's been different lately," she said quietly. "More intense. Spending hours alone in his office, talking about cleansing the desert of corruption." She glanced around, lowering her voice further. "Sometimes I hear him practicing speeches about artistic pollution, about protecting sacred spaces. It scared me, but I told myself he was just stressed about property deals."

"Help us find him," Harley pressed. "Before someone else dies."

Jessica took a deep breath, then nodded. "He drives a company vehicle. A black Suburban, part of the corporate fleet." She opened a drawer, pulled out a folder. "All company vehicles have GPS trackers installed. It's policy for insurance purposes."

Harley felt a surge of hope. "Can you access the tracking system?"

"No, but IT can." Jessica's fingers moved across her keyboard. "I have the fleet management login information here somewhere..."

"Hold that thought." Harley hurried back to Lambert's office, where Callaway was still going through files. "Ray," she said into the phone that was still connected. "We need another favor."

"For you? Anything. Especially if it involves dinner after—"

"Focus, Ray. Lambert's driving a company vehicle with GPS tracking. Jessica has the fleet management login. Can you access it?"

"Can I access it? Please." Keys clicked rapidly in the background. "What's the login info?"

Harley relayed the information Jessica provided. For several tense moments, there was only the sound of Ray's typing and muttered commentary about outdated security protocols.

"Got it," he said finally. "The tracking system shows his vehicle at... huh. That's interesting."

"What? Where is he?"

"According to this, he's at some place called 'The Desert Echo Installation.' About forty miles outside town, off Route 77." More typing. "Looks like it's a remote art piece—giant steel sculptures designed to create specific acoustic effects with the wind. Pretty cool actually. The artist used mathematical principles to—"

"Ray. Focus."

"Right, sorry. The vehicle's been stationary at those coordinates for about half an hour now. Want me to send them to your phone?"

"Please." Harley was already moving, Callaway falling into step beside her. "And Ray? Thank you. I mean it."

"So... about that dinner—"

She ended the call, already dialing dispatch as they hurried toward the elevator. "This is Agent Cole. I need backup at Desert Echo Installation, Route 77 mile marker 156. Possible kidnapping in progress, suspect should be considered armed and dangerous."

They burst out of the elevator into the lobby, Jessica watching them with worried eyes. "Agent Cole," she called out. "Be careful. Mr. Lambert... he keeps a gun in his briefcase. Says it's for coyotes, but..."

Harley nodded her thanks as they pushed through the building's glass doors into desert heat. The coordinates Ray had sent appeared on her phone, and she pulled them up on the GPS as Callaway guided their vehicle through afternoon traffic.

"Think he's taken another artist?" Callaway asked quietly.

Harley studied the satellite view of their destination—a sprawling installation of steel sculptures rising from desert earth like ancient monuments. "If he has, we might still have time. The other murders were elaborately staged."

"Not Allen's."

Harley clenched her jaw. "Then let's just hope we're not far behind."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Desert light painted harsh shadows across towering sculptures as Harley drew her weapon, every sense attuned to potential threat. The installation loomed before them like an alien cityscape—massive steel forms that twisted toward the evening sky, their polished surfaces catching sunlight in ways that transformed simple reflection into suggestions of movement.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as they approached Lambert's abandoned Suburban. The vehicle sat empty, its black paint absorbing the dying light while its windows reflected only sky. No signs of struggle, no blood—just that particular emptiness that suggested its occupants had walked away under their own power.

A scream shattered the desert silence—high and desperate, cut off too quickly.

"That way," Callaway said, already moving. They rushed between towering sculptures, weapons ready, boots raising small clouds of red dust with each step. The art pieces rose around them like canyon walls, some reaching thirty or forty feet into the air, their shadows lengthening as the sun sank toward distant mountains.

The installation's architect had designed it as an immersive experience—a maze of steel and shadow where visitors could lose themselves in contemplation of form and light. But now those same artistic qualities transformed the space into something more sinister. Polished surfaces caught and redirected light in unpredictable ways, creating phantom movements that drew the eye and disrupted focus. Sound bounced between metal walls, making it impossible to determine the scream's origin.

They reached an intersection where three paths diverged between looming sculptures. Mirrors had been incorporated into some of the pieces, doubling and redoubling the maze's complexity. Harley caught fragments of her own reflection, fractured across curved steel like prophecies of fragmentation to come.

"Which way?" Callaway asked, his voice tight with urgency.

Before she could answer, another sound echoed through the maze—not a scream this time, but something metallic. A clang, maybe, or the sound of a tool against steel. But the installation's acoustic design scattered the noise, bouncing it between surfaces until direction became meaningless.

"Split up," Harley said, though everything in her training argued against it. "Cover more ground."

Callaway nodded grimly. They each chose a path, moving carefully between walls of sculpted metal that seemed to pulse with captured light. Harley glimpsed his reflection in a polished surface, fractured and multiplied until she couldn't tell which image was real and which was artifice.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the maze's twisting passages, and she was alone.

The evening light painted everything in shades of amber and blood, transforming familiar shapes into suggestions of threat. Shadows moved at the corners of her vision, but when she turned to track them, they resolved into nothing but reflections caught in cunningly angled mirrors. Her own image appeared and disappeared as she moved, sometimes whole, sometimes shattered across multiple surfaces.

The maze's design used curves rather than right angles, creating spaces that flowed into each other like desert arroyos carved by flash floods. Steel walls rose smooth and impassable on either side, their surfaces alternating between matte and mirror-polish. The effect was deliberately disorienting—even the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet, desert dust caught in patterns that suggested movement where none existed.

Somewhere ahead, metal sang against metal—that same ringing sound they'd heard earlier, but closer now. Or was it? The installation's acoustic design made distance impossible to judge, transforming every noise into a puzzle of reflection and redirection.

Harley moved deeper into the maze, hyperaware of every shadow, every suggestion of movement. Her training kept her weapon ready, her breathing steady, but she couldn't completely suppress the urge to look over her shoulder at each new intersection. The dying sun painted everything in deeper shades of red and gold, while ahead, darkness gathered between towering sculptures like pooling ink.

She caught a flash of movement in her peripheral vision—just a reflection, she told herself, just another trick of light on polished steel. But then she heard footsteps, the sound bouncing between metal walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Callaway?" she called out softly, but only echoes answered.

She took another step forward, then froze. Something glinted in the dying light—a thin wire stretched across the path at ankle height. Her eyes followed its path to where it connected to the base of a tall, rickety-looking statue. If she'd hit that wire, the statue would have crashed down right where she was standing.

And judging by the look of it, it was heavy enough to do some serious damage.

Harley carefully stepped over the wire, noting how Lambert had positioned it where shadows and reflections would mask its presence. The trap spoke of preparation, of someone who'd planned for pursuit through this artistic maze.

She moved deeper into the installation, checking each new turn for similar setups. There—another tripwire, this one connected to what looked like pieces of rebar propped at head height. How many more traps might there be out here? Had Lambert intended to be followed, intended for there to be extra casualties?

Or were the traps designed to be a distraction to help him escape?

Harley abruptly came to a halt as she realized she'd lost her bearings. The maze's twisting paths had completely destroyed her sense of direction. Which way was the entrance? Where was Callaway? The sculptures' mirrored surfaces reflected dying sunlight in ways that made navigation nearly impossible. She couldn't even use the sun's position to orient herself—the maze's high walls blocked most of the sky, leaving only fragments of deepening twilight visible overhead.

Her phone buzzed. She answered quickly, keeping her voice low. "Cole."

"Got eyes on anything?" Callaway asked, his voice equally quiet.

"Just tripwires. He's been busy." She pressed herself against a steel wall, using its reflective surface to check the path behind her. "I've lost all sense of direction in here."

"Same. But I think I'm on the north side of—"

A scream cut through their conversation—raw and desperate, echoing between metal walls. But this time, the maze's acoustic design worked in their favor. Having two points of reference let them triangulate the sound's origin.

"Central plaza," they said simultaneously.

"The heart of the installation," Harley said. "Where all these paths are supposed to lead. Makes sense—best sight lines, most escape routes."

"I'm about fifty yards out, I think. Northwest corner."

"Southeast here, maybe sixty yards." Harley was already moving, checking each step for traps. "He'll be expecting us."

"Then let's not disappoint him."

They ended the call without another word. Harley moved faster now, though still carefully. The heart of the installation would be the perfect stage for Lambert's final exhibition—a place where art and death could merge in ways that satisfied his twisted vision of desert purity.

She just hoped they weren't too late to stop his performance.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Desert twilight turned everything to blood and shadow as Harley approached the heart of the installation. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, each breath measured against the need for silence. The weight of her weapon felt reassuring in her hands, but she knew how quickly things could go wrong in situations like this—how a moment's hesitation or a fraction of a second's delay could mean the difference between life and death.

The central plaza opened before her like an amphitheater designed by someone who'd dreamed in steel and shadow. Massive sculptures rose in concentric circles, their polished surfaces catching the dying light in ways that transformed simple reflection into suggestions of movement. The space had been designed to create perfect acoustics—every sound would carry, every whisper would find its audience.

At first, she saw only emptiness—red dust stirred by desert wind, sculptures casting longer shadows as the sun sank toward distant mountains. Then movement caught her eye—real movement this time, not just reflections playing tricks.

A woman hung suspended between two massive sculptures, strips of steel cable binding her arms and legs. She was conscious, her eyes wide with fear but also anger.

Lambert himself stood on a raised platform of steel plates, making final adjustments to something above the woman's head—more cable perhaps, or something designed to complete his twisted exhibition. He moved with the careful precision of someone who needed everything to be exactly right. His suit was stained with red dust, his usual corporate polish transformed by hours of manual labor.

Then, suddenly, Lambert's hands went still. He was looking at one of the steel panels—and the reflection of Harley caught in it. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as their eyes met across polished steel. Then he moved with surprising speed, pressing a knife against the woman's throat.

"That's far enough, Agent Cole. Wouldn't want to spoil the composition."

"It's over, Lambert." Harley kept her weapon steady, searching for an angle that wouldn't put the woman at risk. "You really want to add an FBI agent to your body count?"

"This isn't about body count." He adjusted his grip on the knife, its edge catching dying sunlight. "This is about cleansing. About showing the world what happens when we let corruption masquerade as creation."

"By killing artists? By staging elaborate murders?"

"By transforming their false visions into truth." He gestured at the cables binding the woman. "Look how I've used her own techniques against her. She claims to understand metal, to speak its language. But she perverts its natural forms, twists it into mockeries of real beauty."

Harley needed to keep him talking, buy time for Callaway to get into position. "Why are you so obsessed with cleansing the desert?"

Something flickered across his face—old pain, maybe, or buried rage. "I grew up here, you know. Before the artists came, before they started defacing sacred spaces with their installations. My father worked this land—honest work, ranching and mining. He understood what the desert really meant."

"And the artists don't?"

"They're parasites." He spat the word like poison. "They come here with their grants and their visions, thinking they can improve on perfection. The desert doesn't need their improvements. It was pure before they arrived."

"So why now?" Harley kept her voice calm, professional, though her finger stayed ready on the trigger. "Why start killing?"

"Because they wouldn't listen!" Real emotion cracked through his corporate veneer. "I tried working through the system—buying land, protecting it from development. But they kept coming, kept spreading their infection. Then I saw Ferguson's installation on the news—'Transforming Desert Spaces' they called it. Like this place needed transformation."

He made another adjustment to something above the woman's head—Harley could see it now, a complex arrangement of cables and pulleys that would slowly constrict, turning the artist's own medium into the instrument of her death.

"That's when I knew what had to be done," he continued. "Not just removing their art, but showing everyone the true cost of corruption. Each death a lesson, each scene a warning about defiling sacred spaces."

"And the property angle?" Harley asked. "Playing both sides, driving down land values?"

"A means to an end." His smile was terrible in the dying light. "Money helps, of course. Lets me protect more land once this is finished. But that was never the real purpose."

Movement caught Harley's eye—just a flash of shadow between sculptures, but enough to tell her Callaway had joined the party. She decided to keep Lambert talking in the hopes that it would allow Callaway to get closer.

"What would your father think?" she asked. "About his son becoming a killer?"

Lambert's face twisted. "He'd understand. He saw what was coming, warned me about artistic corruption when I was young. Made me promise to protect the land, keep it pure." His hand tightened on the knife. "I failed him once—let my wife fill our house with desert 'art,' let her talk about beauty and vision until I barely recognized my own home. But not anymore. Now I'm fulfilling my promise."

"By becoming exactly what you claim to hate?" Harley took a careful step forward. "By turning murder into performance art?"

"This isn't art!" Real rage now, cracking through his careful control. "This is justice. This is—"

The shot caught him high in the shoulder, spinning him away from the woman. Callaway's aim was perfect—just enough to separate Lambert from his hostage without risking a killing blow.

But Lambert wasn't finished. He lunged for the mechanism above the woman's head, reaching for whatever would trigger his final exhibition.

Harley's second shot caught him in the leg, dropping him to the steel platform. The knife clattered away, catching dying sunlight like fallen stars.

"It's over," she said.

But Lambert's hand had already found the lever he'd been adjusting—a simple mechanism that controlled the complex array of pulleys and cables above. Before Harley or Callaway could stop him, he yanked the lever hard. Metal sang against metal as the system activated.

The cables binding the woman began to constrict, each pulley turning with mechanical precision. The artist's own techniques for weaving metal forms had been transformed into an elaborate death trap—cables designed to slowly tighten until they cut through flesh and bone.

Callaway tackled Lambert, driving him away from the controls, but the damage was done. The system was self-sustaining now, each weight and counterweight working together with terrible purpose.

"Help me!" the woman gasped as the cables tightened further. Blood appeared where metal bit into her wrists.

Harley holstered her weapon and rushed to the control mechanism, but quickly saw the problem. Lambert had designed it as a one-way system—once activated, the weights would continue their work until they reached the bottom of their track. No way to reverse it, no way to stop it.

"Hold on," she told the woman, studying how the cables were woven. If she could just find the primary load-bearing strand...

But they were all load-bearing, she realized. Lambert had created an interconnected web where cutting any single cable would increase pressure on the others.

The woman screamed as the cables constricted further. Blood ran down her arms now, dripping onto the red earth below.

Think! Harley told herself. The answer had to be here somewhere. Lambert was methodical, precise—he would have built this according to engineering principles...

Then she saw it. The whole system depended on the weights dropping at a controlled rate. But what if...

"Callaway!" she shouted. "Your knife!"

He tossed it to her while maintaining his hold on Lambert. Harley caught it and scrambled up onto the platform, following the cables to where they disappeared into a steel housing that contained the pulleys.

"What are you doing?" the woman gasped, her voice tight with pain.

"Hoping I remember enough physics," Harley muttered. She wedged the knife into the housing's seam and pried, metal protesting until the cover finally gave way.

Inside, she found what she'd suspected—a precisely calibrated system of weighted cylinders that controlled the cables' descent. But precision was also a weakness. If she could jam the mechanism...

She yanked off her belt and fed it into the housing, wrapping it around the central cylinder. Then she pulled hard, using the leather to bind the mechanism's moving parts.

Metal shrieked in protest as the system fought against this interruption of its intended purpose. For a moment, Harley thought it wouldn't work—that the weights would simply tear through the leather and continue their deadly descent.

But then the mechanism caught, cylinders grinding to a halt. The cables stopped tightening, held in suspension by this improvised brake.

"Now!" Harley said, moving to where the woman hung. With the system locked in place, she could cut the cables without causing them to constrict further. She worked quickly but carefully, sawing through each strand until finally, mercifully, the woman slumped free.

Harley caught her before she could fall, helping her away from the killing device that had nearly claimed another artistic vision as its victim.

Still supporting the woman's weight, Harley turned to where Callaway had Lambert subdued. The developer's face was twisted with raw hatred as he watched his final exhibition fail.

"You don't understand," he spat, struggling against Callaway's grip. "I was purifying this place, cleansing it of—"

"Save it for your confession," Callaway said, tightening the handcuffs.

The wail of approaching sirens echoed through the installation's steel corridors—backup finally arriving. Desert twilight painted everything in deeper shades of crimson and shadow, transforming the art pieces into silent witnesses to a tragedy narrowly averted.

The woman's breathing was steadying, though blood still ran from the cuts on her wrists and ankles where the cables had bit deep. "He was going to use my own techniques," she said quietly. "Turn my art into..."

"But he failed," Harley said firmly. "You're alive. Your vision survives—and more importantly, so do you."

The first officers appeared at the plaza's entrance, weapons drawn. Harley waved them forward, watching as they took control of Lambert. He seemed smaller now, his corporate authority stripped away to reveal just another man whose obsession had turned to madness.

Medical personnel hurried to check the woman's injuries. As they led her toward a waiting ambulance, she paused and looked back at her corrupted work—the cables and pulleys that had nearly claimed her life.

"I'll make something new from this," she said, her voice carrying fresh determination. "Something about survival, about art persisting despite those who'd destroy it."

Harley watched them go, feeling as if a heavy weight had fallen from her shoulders. Evidence would need processing, statements would need taking, paperwork would need filing. But for now, she simply stood in the gathering darkness, letting desert wind whisper through an installation that would no longer hide murder in its shadows.

"You okay?" Callaway asked quietly, moving to stand beside her.

She nodded. The adrenaline was fading, and the exhaustion was creeping back in

 "Let's wrap this up," she said. "I need to check on Kelly and Greg."

Together they walked toward the maze's entrance, leaving Lambert's failed exhibition behind. His obsession with purity had led only to corruption, his hatred of art transformed into its own dark performance.

But the desert would endure, as it always had—finding its own balance between tradition and transformation, between preservation and progress.

Just as it was meant to do.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Through the one-way glass, Harley watched officers process Lambert as she held her phone to her ear. His expensive suit was stained with desert dust, his corporate polish completely stripped away. He sat quietly, almost serenely, as they took his fingerprints. Like he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do, even if his final exhibition had failed.

"He did what?" Harley asked into her phone, Kelly's words pulling her attention from the scene before her. "Greg checked himself out? Against medical advice?"

"Said he couldn't just lie there," Kelly replied, her voice carrying equal parts exasperation and affection. "He's home now. I'm keeping an eye on him."

Harley sighed—there was no point getting worked up about it now. "How's he doing?"

"Hurting, but he won't admit it. You know how he is." There was a pause, then: "We stopped at an electronics store on the way home. Got security cameras installed."

Harley pinched the bridge of her nose. "Kelly..."

"I know what you're thinking. But it's not a bad idea, really. If Joel comes back, we'll have proof. The kind of proof you said we needed."

"That's not..." Harley sighed, choosing her next words carefully. "I just don't want you living in fear, constantly watching for threats. You've had enough of that."

"This isn't fear," Kelly said firmly. "This is being practical. Being prepared. And it's my choice this time—not something forced on me by others."

The distinction caught Harley off guard. She hadn't considered it that way—hadn't thought about the difference between surveillance imposed by others and security measures chosen freely.

"Besides," Kelly continued, "the cameras aren't just for me. They're for Greg too. He needs to feel like he's doing something like he's not helpless to protect his family again."

"Just... be careful, okay? Both of you. When this case wraps up—and all I have left to do is to take care of some paperwork—then we'll deal with Joel properly."

"I know." Kelly's voice softened. "Go finish your paperwork. But get some sleep too, okay? You sound exhausted."

After ending the call, Harley turned to find Callaway watching the news on a small TV in the corner. Nadia Adams, the artist they'd freed, was being interviewed outside the hospital, her bandaged wrists visible but her voice steady.

"I won't let this change how I create," she was saying. "Art isn't about safety—it's about transformation, about finding beauty even in darkness. And this place, this desert? It deserves to be transformed, to be honored through creative vision."

The reporter asked about developers' plans for the area.

"They'll fail," Nadia said with quiet certainty. "Not just Lambert's murderous vision, but anyone else who thinks they can erase art from these spaces. We're not going anywhere. In fact, we're planning new installations—collaborations between artists and ranchers, bridging the divide that Lambert tried to widen."

The camera cut to Travis Blackwood standing beside several artists from the collective. "We were played against each other," he said, looking uncomfortable in front of the cameras but determined to speak. "Made to think we were enemies when really, we all want the same thing—to protect this land, to honor it in our own ways."

"Looks like some good might come from this after all," Callaway said, muting the TV. "Those developers that were circling like vultures? They're backing off fast. Nobody wants to be associated with what Lambert did."

Harley nodded, already moving toward her desk where case files waited. But Callaway caught her arm.

“You need rest,” he said quietly.

“I need to file these reports while everything’s fresh.”

“What you need is to take care of yourself.” His voice carried a gentle insistence, cutting through the haze of her fatigue. “When’s the last time you ate something real? Or slept for more than a couple hours?”

She started to protest, but exhaustion made the words feel hollow, crumbling before they could fully form. “The paperwork—”

“Will still be here tomorrow.” He smiled—that particular smile that still made her heart skip despite the weight pressing against her chest. “I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“Trust me?” His eyes were warm, inviting—and slightly mischievous.

She studied him for a moment, the lines of his face softened by concern and something deeper she couldn’t quite name. Whatever he had planned, it had to be better than more hours hunched over reports while worry about Kelly and Greg gnawed at her concentration. “Okay,” she said finally, nodding. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He grabbed both their coats, tossing hers over her shoulders with a playful flourish. “Then let’s get out of here. I promise it’ll be worth missing a few hours of paperwork.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you have in mind?”

His smile widened, a glint of secrecy in his gaze. “What would be the fun in that?”

***

The neon sign of Maria’s Diner buzzed faintly against the deepening desert twilight, its red and blue letters casting a soft glow across the gravel parking lot. Harley raised an eyebrow as Callaway pulled his truck to a stop, the familiar sight of the diner stirring memories she hadn’t revisited in years.

She could still picture the chipped Formica tables, the jukebox that hadn’t worked since she was a teenager, the way the air always carried the mingled scents of coffee and frying onions.

“A diner?” she asked, unable to hide the faint smile tugging at her lips. “This is your grand plan?”

“Not just any diner,” he said, cutting the engine and turning to face her. “You told me once this was where you and Kelly used to come after school—back when things were simpler. Figured it might be a good place to get some real food into you. And maybe steal a quiet moment before the world pulls us back in.”

Her chest tightened at the memory—those afternoons with Kelly, splitting a plate of fries and arguing over who got the last sip of their shared milkshake. It had been their refuge, a place where the growing complexities of life couldn't reach them. She hadn’t realized she’d told Callaway about this place, but it didn’t surprise her that he’d remembered.

“Alright,” she said softly. “You win this round.”

"Come on," he said. "Let's see how much it's changed."

Inside, the diner was exactly as she remembered—maybe a little more worn around the edges, but still stubbornly holding onto its charm. The walls were lined with faded photographs of Flor Blanca through the decades: dusty ranchers posing with prize cattle, kids splashing in the plaza fountain, a black-and-white shot of the diner itself when it was new, Maria’s name freshly painted above the door. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of sizzling burgers and brewing coffee, a balm against the sterile chill of the precinct they’d left behind.

A waitress—young, with a streak of purple in her dark hair—led them to a booth near the window, the vinyl seats creaking as they slid in. Harley’s stomach growled audibly as she settled against the cracked red cushion, and she caught Callaway’s amused glance.

“Don’t say it,” she warned, but there was no heat in her tone.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, handing her a laminated menu streaked with years of fingerprints. “Though I’m guessing you haven’t eaten since that protein bar I saw you choke down yesterday morning.”

She didn’t argue—couldn’t, really. The last real meal she’d had was a distant memory. She scanned the menu, the familiar offerings grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected: green chile cheeseburgers, enchiladas smothered in red sauce, a side of sopapillas she could already taste with honey dripping off the edges.

“I’ve never actually eaten here,” Callaway admitted, studying his own menu with the same focus he’d give a case file. “Heard about it plenty, though. Figured it was time to see if the hype holds up.”

“You’ve been in New Mexico how long, and you’ve never been to Maria’s?” Harley shook her head, pretending to be scandalized. “I’m not sure we can keep working together.”

“Guess I’ll have to rely on you to guide me through the menu.” He leaned back, his grin easy and unguarded. “What’s the play—something safe, or do I go all in on the chile?”

“Go all in,” she said without hesitation. “The green chile cheeseburger’s a classic for a reason. And get the fries—they’re better than they have any right to be.”

The waitress returned, jotting down their orders with a practiced flick of her pen: two green chile cheeseburgers, a double order of fries, and coffee—black for Harley, a splash of cream for Callaway. As she walked away, Harley caught the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the low murmur of other diners—a couple of ranchers at the counter, an older woman reading a paperback in the corner. It was ordinary, unremarkable, and yet it felt like a gift after the chaos of the case.

“You’re quiet,” Callaway said after a moment, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. “What’s going on in there?” He tapped his temple lightly, his gaze steady on hers.

“Just… taking it in,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the diner around them. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. Last time was with Kelly, before everything went sideways. Feels strange to be back.”

“Good strange or bad strange?”

She considered that, running her fingers along the edge of the table where years of use had worn the Formica smooth. “Good, I think. It’s like stepping into a memory, but with you here, it’s not just about the past. It’s… the present, too.”

His eyes softened and he reached across the table, resting his hand near hers—not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of it. “Thought you could use a break from running on fumes,” he said quietly. “After Lambert, after all that mess with art turning into something ugly… maybe we needed a reminder that not everything has to be a fight. Sometimes it’s just about sitting down, eating something good, and letting the world spin without us for a little while.”

Harley’s throat tightened at the care behind his words. She’d spent so long pushing forward—through cases, through Kelly’s disappearance, through the guilt of not being there when her family needed her—that she’d forgotten what it felt like to pause. To let someone else carry a piece of the load, even if it was just for an hour over greasy diner food.

“When did you get so wise about these things?” she asked.

"Must be all that time spent with a brilliant FBI agent," he said, his smile returning. "Speaking of which—I was thinking about the house. Maybe we could set up a corner in the kitchen, you know? A spot for your fancy coffee maker since I know you live on that stuff. And a shelf in the living room for some of those books you're always hauling around."

She studied him, really seeing how much thought he’d put into weaving her life into his—not just as a partner in the field, but as someone sharing a home, a future. “You’ve been planning this out, haven’t you?”

“You caught me red-handed,” he admitted, his tone light but his eyes serious. “I want it to feel like yours too, Harley. Not just my place you’re crashing in. A real space for us.”

The sincerity of it hit her harder than she would have expected, and she found herself reaching for his hand, letting her fingers brush his in a rare moment of unguarded connection. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For understanding. About the cases, about Kelly, about all of it.”

“That’s what partners do, right? In work and life.” His thumb traced a gentle arc across her knuckles, the touch lingering as the waitress returned with their coffee.

Harley pulled back reluctantly to wrap her hands around the chipped ceramic mug, the heat seeping into her palms as she inhaled the rich, bitter scent. Across from her, Callaway stirred cream into his, the spoon clinking softly against the cup. For a while they sat in comfortable silence, the diner’s hum wrapping around them like a blanket—plates clattering, the ranchers debating cattle prices, the faint hiss of the grill as their burgers cooked.

The food arrived in a glorious mess of melted cheese and roasted chiles, the fries crisp and golden beside towering burgers that smelled like everything she’d been missing. Harley took a bite, the flavors exploding across her tongue—spicy, savory, a hint of smokiness that reminded her of desert campfires. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring it, and when she opened them, Callaway was watching her with a grin.

“Good call?” he asked, already halfway through his own burger.

“Better than good,” she said, reaching for a fry. “You might’ve just earned yourself a permanent spot on my food recommendation team."

“High praise,” he said, laughing. “Though I’ll admit, I was worried it might not live up to the hype. Didn’t want to disappoint the expert.”

“You didn’t,” she assured him, and meant it. The meal was more than just food—it was a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of exhaustion and reminding her she didn’t have to face everything alone.

They ate slowly, trading small stories between bites—Callaway recounting a disastrous attempt at cooking for his old precinct, Harley admitting she’d once burned a pot of water trying to impress a college boyfriend. The normalcy of it soothed her, each laugh and shared glance chipping away at the tension of the case.

Her phone buzzed against her hip, shattering the moment. She almost ignored it, tempted to let it go to voicemail and hold onto this fragile peace a little longer. But years of training—and the nagging fear that it might be about Kelly or Greg—made her check the screen.

Deputy Santos’s name glowed up at her, along with a text: Shots fired at your brother’s residence. Responding units en route. Thought you should know.

Her heart stuttered. Shots fired?

“What is it?” Callaway asked, his voice sharp as he read the shift in her expression.

“Greg’s house.” She was already sliding out of the booth, reaching for her coat. “Someone’s shooting.”

“I’m driving,” he said, tossing cash onto the table—no time to wait for the check. She didn’t argue, her hands shaking as she shrugged into her jacket, the taste of chile and comfort forgotten.

Whatever was happening over there, she just hoped they weren’t too late to stop a tragedy.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Red and blue lights glowed across Greg's front yard as Harley leaped from Callaway's truck before it had fully stopped.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took in the scene before her—a silver Dodge Charger parked at an angle in the driveway, a man crouched behind it using the wheel well as cover. Kelly stood on the front porch, holding an outstretched .38 Special in both hands. To her right, Greg leaned against the doorframe, their father's old shotgun braced against his shoulder despite how the position must have pained his broken ribs.

"Kelly!" Harley called out, moving forward with her own weapon drawn. "Greg! What's going on?"

"Stay back!" Greg shouted. "He's armed!"

"I'm not here to cause trouble!" the man behind the car shouted, his voice carrying genuine fear. "I swear, I just wanted to apologize!"

Harley recognized the voice. It was Joel Ogden. Did he really expect them to believe he'd come back here just to apologize?

"Everyone, put your weapons down!" a voice shouted. Harley glanced over to see four police officers using their vehicles as cover while they trained their weapons on the three people involved in the altercation.

"Lower your own weapons!" Harley shouted at them. "We're with the FBI!"

The officers looked at one another, as if unsure to handle these newcomers.

"It's true, I do have a weapon," Joel said. "But not on me. It's in the glove box. I didn't think I'd need it."

"Bullshit!" Greg said.

"Greg, Kelly, put your weapons down," Harley said. "Let's just all take a breath."

"You don't seriously believe him, do you?" Greg demanded. "He was the one taking pictures of Kelly yesterday morning. Who knows what he came back for, but it sure wasn't to apologize."

"I never took pictures of your sister, I swear!" Joel shouted. "I wasn't even in town yesterday morning! I was in Santa Fe with my folks!"

Another shot rang out, Kelly's bullet striking the car's quarter panel inches from Joel's position. He ducked lower, and the four police officers began shouting at her to put her weapon down.

"Kelly, hold your fire!" Harley shouted, desperate to defuse the situation. If just one of those officers got jumpy, it might cost Kelly her life. "I'm going to check Joel for weapons, okay? Don't shoot me."

Kelly said nothing as Harley approached Joel. She glanced to the side to see that Callaway had joined the four police officers. He was talking to them, no doubt trying to calm them down.

"Put your hands on the vehicle," she said to Joel. He did so, looking relieved. She patted him down quickly but found only a knife, which she tossed aside.

"He's clean!" she shouted.

Greg lowered the shotgun. Reluctantly, Kelly lowered her gun as well.

"It had to be him," Greg said. "I saw his car."

Did you? Harley thought, recalling how she'd asked him about the decal on the vehicle, and he hadn't been sure whether the retreating vehicle had carried the same decal as Joel's car.

"Please," Joel said, raising his hands slowly above the car's hood. "I just wanted to make things right about what happened at the Silver Spur."

"Bullshit," Greg said.

"I was drunk before when you showed up, accusing me of stalking your sister," Joel went on. "You came at me, man. I had to defend myself."

"Defend yourself? Is that what you call five against one?"

"Like I said, I was drunk. Things got out of hand."

"I saw your car," Greg said. "I know it was you spying on us yesterday morning."

"That's impossible. Like I said, I was in Santa Fe."

"Can you prove that?" Harley asked.

Joel nodded. "I've got receipts from Santa Fe—gas stations, restaurants, my folks' address. I swear." His eyes found Kelly's across the yard. "I really did just come to apologize. I know your family's been through a lot."

Joel's alibi seemed to take all the fight out of Greg and Kelly. Greg sagged against the porch railing, while Kelly stood frozen, her face a blank canvas.

Callaway left the four officers and joined Harley and Joel. "Come on," he said to Joel, guiding him away. "Let's go have a chat."

Harley suspected he was going to try to convince Joel not to press charges. Harley took the opportunity to have a private moment with her siblings.

"I was so sure about the car," Greg said as Harley joined him and Kelly on the porch.

"Silver Chargers aren't exactly rare around here," Harley said. "The real stalker probably has a similar vehicle."

Kelly hadn't moved, her face a mask of carefully controlled emotion. "I could have killed him," she said. "When he had nothing to do with this."

"You were just trying to defend yourself. And the important thing is nobody got hurt."

"What do we do now? If it wasn't Joel..."

"Now we do this right," Harley said. She gestured at the security cameras Greg had mounted. "These are good quality—they'll catch anyone trying to watch the house. And I can get patrol cars doing regular sweeps of your apartment complex."

"I don't want to live in a cage," Kelly said. "Even a cage made of cameras and patrol cars."

"It's temporary," Harley assured her. "Just until we catch whoever's really doing this." She touched Kelly's arm gently. "Let me help, okay? Not as an FBI agent, not as an overprotective sister. As someone who has resources and training that might actually make a difference."

Kelly studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But no more following me around. No more treating me like I'm made of glass."

"Deal." Harley looked at Greg. "And you—no more vigilante justice. We do this as a team or not at all."

Greg managed a weak smile. "Yes, ma'am."

They watched Callaway talking with Joel, the conversation seeming to go well judging by their body language.

"So what exactly does that mean, doing this as a team?" Kelly asked. "Are we just waiting around for the stalker to show up again?"

"I'll look at cameras in the area, see if any of them caught that car. We might get lucky. I'll ask around town, too, see if there's anyone who might have been less than enthusiastic about your return."

"Oh, there are a few," Kelly said grimly.

"Then I'll make a list, see if any seem like the stalker type. I'll profile them, just like I do for work." She placed her hands on her sister's shoulders. "We're going to stop this person. I promise you that."

She gave Kelly's shoulders a squeeze, then stepped out of her space.

"Good news," Callaway said from behind Harley as he climbed the porch steps. "He's not pressing charges."

"Good," Harley said. "But with any luck, we'll be pressing charges of our own soon."

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was a start. And sometimes, she knew, that's all you needed—a place to begin, a way to push back against the darkness.

They just had to be patient, be smart, and be ready when their stalker finally showed their true face.

EPILOGUE

Through her binoculars, she watched the Cole siblings huddled on their father's porch, their body language speaking volumes about the tension still lingering after the near-gunfight. The whole scene had been deliciously dramatic, a family drama playing out on a desert stage.

She shifted position in her vehicle, parked far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to catch every nuance through her high-powered lenses. The cameras Greg had installed were good quality, she had to admit. But she knew their blind spots, their limitations. They wouldn't spot her from this far away.

Joel's arrival had been an unexpected gift. She'd watched the confrontation unfold with professional appreciation, noting how each sibling fell into familiar roles—Greg the protector, Kelly the survivor, Harley trying to bridge the gap between family loyalty and legal procedure.

Their dynamics were fascinating, really. Like watching actors who'd performed the same play so many times they'd forgotten it wasn't reality.

She wasn't interested in the family, however, not as a whole. She was interested in only one person.

That was why she'd been following Kelly, taking pictures of her. She knew it would stir the hornets' nest, and that was fine by her. Their little detour after Joel—that had come as a complete surprise. But a welcome surprise, nonetheless.

What would have happened if Kelly had actually shot him? she wondered. But she knew the answer: Kelly would have been arrested for homicide.

And this time, her older sister wouldn't have been able to clear her.

The woman lowered her binoculars, a smile playing at her lips as she watched the siblings talk. They probably thought they were safe now, with their cameras and their plans to work together. They'd convince themselves that Joel's innocence meant the threat level had decreased, that they could handle whatever anonymous stalker lurked in the shadows.

But the stalking had never been about Kelly, not really. Every photograph, every careful surveillance, every moment of making the younger Cole sister feel watched—it was all theater. They had no idea what this was really about.

She started her engine and pulled away slowly, leaving the Cole siblings to their illusion of safety. Let them think they could catch Kelly's stalker with cameras and patrols. Let them believe they were finally working together toward a solution.

They had no idea that Kelly had never been the real target.

That honor belonged to Harley alone.

NOW AVAILABLE!

NOWHERE STILL

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 15)

When whispers of environmental scandal turn into murder among the crop circles of experimental farmland, FBI Agent Harley Cole is thrust onto a trail littered with corruption and corpses. With each clue entwining tighter around industry secrets, Cole’s search for justice grows more urgent—as does her need to ensure that no more death blooms.

“This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don’t have to wake up early!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

NOWHERE STILL is book #15 in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestseller NOT NOW (a free download) has received over 600 five star ratings and reviews.

A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured FBI agent, the HARLEY COLE series is a riveting mystery, packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll, and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are now available!

“This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn’t put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

“Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

NOWHERE STILL

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 15)

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); OF the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising five books (and counting); of the ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting);  of the MAGGIE FLIGHT SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the MEG THORNE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising twelve books (and counting); of the BRYNN JUSTICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising twelve books (and counting); and of the BETH DRAKE suspense thriller series, comprising twelve books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

MAGGIE FLIGHT SUSPENSE THRILLER

FINAL KILL (Book #1)

FINAL CHANCE (Book #2)

FINAL MISTAKE (Book #3)

FINAL LIE (Book #4)

FINAL BREATH (Book #5)

FINAL WHISPER (Book #6)

FINAL HOUR (Book #7)

ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIND ME (Book #1)

FIND HER (Book #2)

FIND HELP (Book #3)

FIND HOME (Book #4)

FIND HIM (Book #5)

FIND YOU (Book #6)

FIND HOPE (Book #7)

FIND NO ONE (Book #8)

FIND OUT (Book #9)

FIND DEATH (Book #10)

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)