C H O O S I N G

Y O U

(A Hailey Rock Mystery—Book 14)

R y l i e   D a r k

Rylie Dark

#1 bestselling author Rylie Dark is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including the Hailey Rock, Morgan Stark, and Sadie Price series. Rylie’s most recent latest releases are the Hannah Mercy, Sloane Riddle, and Hayden Smart series.

Please visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Rylie Dark. 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 Bits And Splits, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

SERIES BY RYLIE DARK

HANNAH MERCY

SLOANE RIDDLE

HAYDEN SMART

ARIA BRANDT

CASEY FAITH

BECCA THORN

JESSIE REACH

KELLY CRUZ

MAEVE SHARP

ALEX QUINN

TARA STRONG

HAILEY ROCK

SADIE PRICE

MIA NORTH

CARLY SEE

MORGAN STARK

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Dr. Sarah Winters' head snapped up, startled by the crisp ringing that jolted her from her daze. Blinking hard against the strain in her eyes, she tapped the stack of unfinished insurance forms to settle them back into order. The clock on her office wall read 11:42 PM, and her neck cracked as she straightened in her chair. The small desk lamp cast harsh shadows across the cramped office space. Empty coffee cups littered the surface of her desk. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on a paper plate.

The bell rang again—three sharp dings.

Sarah froze as the reality of the ringing settled on her.

That was the doorbell. It hung over the front door and would ring when someone opened the door. Usually that meant someone coming inside… but how…?

Her hand hovered over the form she'd been completing, her mind reaching for an explanation. She'd locked the front door at seven. She remembered the distinct click of the deadbolt sliding into place. The sign clearly displayed CLOSED to anyone looking through the glass door.

Sarah pushed back from her desk. The wheels of her chair caught on the uneven linoleum floor. The sound echoed in the quiet veterinary clinic. The only other noise came from the soft whir of the refrigerator that held vaccines and medication samples.

"Hello?" she called out. Her voice sounded thin in the empty building.

No response.

Sarah stood up. Her back muscles protested after hours of hunching over paperwork. She reached for her phone and slid it into the pocket of her scrubs. The clinic consisted of a waiting area, two exam rooms, a small surgery, and her office. There are not many places for someone to hide, but it is not impossible either.

The bell rang a third time—insistent.

Sarah moved to her office door. The hallway beyond was dark. She'd turned off most lights hours ago to save on the electric bill. Rural veterinary medicine didn't pay well. Every penny counted.

She flicked on the hallway light. Harsh fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life, illuminating the corridor with its worn vinyl flooring and walls covered in educational posters about heartworm prevention and feline dental care.

"We're closed," she called out, louder this time. "You'll need to come back tomorrow morning."

Sarah stepped into the hallway. The door to Exam Room 1 stood open, just as she'd left it. Exam Room 2 remained closed. The surgery door was ajar, showing darkness beyond. She moved cautiously toward the waiting area, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking slightly against the floor.

As she rounded the corner, Sarah stopped. The waiting room was empty. Chairs lined the walls. Outdated magazines sat in neat stacks on the side tables. The reception desk stood unoccupied, the computer screen dark. The front door remained locked, the deadbolt visibly engaged.

But the bell that hung above the door was still swinging slightly, recently disturbed. Something had set it swinging.

Sarah's pulse quickened. She scanned the room again. Nothing seemed out of place: the pet scale was in the corner, the rack of pamphlets undisturbed, and the water dispenser sat with paper cups refilled and untampered with.

Then she noticed it: a small puddle on the floor near the door, the sort that pools under rain boots or drips from coats coming in from bad weather, the sort that should have been mopped up or evaporated since they’d closed hours before.

Outside, the drizzling had become very loud in Sarah’s ears as her breath caught in her chest.

Suddenly, from down the hall to her right, “H-help. Please!”

She whirled around, a gasp in her throat. She squinted into the dimness of the hallway.

A tall figure stood just beyond the reach of the waiting room lights: male, broad-shouldered, wearing what looked like a dark work jacket and jeans. His face remained in shadow. In his arms, he cradled something wrapped in a plaid blanket.

"My clinic is closed," Sarah said, her voice steadier than she felt. "There's an emergency service in Lakeville."

"Please," the man said. His voice sounded strained. "It won't make it that far."

The bundle in his arms shifted. Sarah's professional instincts kicked in. She stepped forward, medical training overriding her caution.

"What happened?" she asked, moving closer.

"Found it on the side of the road," the man said. "Hit and run, I think."

Sarah reached for the light switch on the wall. Her fingers found the plastic toggle. The hallway was flooded with harsh fluorescent light.

The man blinked against the sudden brightness. Work boots caked with mud. Faded blue jeans. Heavy canvas jacket with a logo Sarah didn't recognize. Eyes that didn't quite meet hers.

"Bring it into Exam Room 1," Sarah said, gesturing toward the open door. "I'll take a look."

The man didn't move. The bundle in his arms remained suspiciously still. No sounds of distress. No movement beneath the blanket. Sarah's unease returned, stronger now.

"What kind of animal is it?" she asked, taking a step back.

The man advanced. One step. Two. His boots left muddy imprints on the clean floor. The distance between them closed rapidly.

"Let me see it first," Sarah said, extending her hands toward the bundle.

The man moved with unexpected speed. The blanket dropped from his arms, unfurling to reveal nothing but empty fabric. No injured animal. No creature in need of her help. Just an empty blanket that pooled on the floor between them.

Sarah's mind registered the deception a second too late. The man's right hand shot out. But by pure instinct, she threw herself backward. Careening off the wall, the man’s grasping fingers only came away with a few strands of loose hair.

Dashing back, Sarah could feel the man behind her like the pressure of a storm rising. The nearest door was her office, and in her panic, she threw herself against the frame, stumbling inside.

"Help!" Sarah screamed, her hand fumbling for the latch as she tried to shove the door closed, leaning against it, trying to bar out the boogeyman outside.

The door stopped abruptly, something stopping it from closing those last few inches. Sarah drew back, jiggling the handle as she threw herself against it again. However, the moment she drew back, the force on the other side pushed the door open.

The door connected with her shoulder and chest, knocking her back against her desk. Papers flying like birds taking flight. The man was on her now, and a commotion of loose items crashing from the desk and counters filled the space as she struggled to get around his grasping hands.

Something soft pressed against her face: a cloth, damp. The pungent chemical smell filled her nostrils, sweet, cloying… strange.

She tried to step back. Her heel caught on the edge of her desk. Her balance faltered. The man's other arm wrapped around her waist, preventing her from falling, pulling her closer instead. The cloth pressed harder against her nose and mouth.

Sarah tried to scream—tried to fight. Her hands clawed at his arm. Her nails scraped against the rough fabric of his jacket. Her lungs burned for air. She had no choice but to inhale. The chemical taste flooded her mouth as her vision blurred at the edges, and dark spots danced across her field of view.

She was losing consciousness, enough of her mind remaining to realize what that meant. She’d be found dead—maybe by the girl who worked the front desk of the clinic… maybe by a hiker when the frost and thaw of the chill seasons passed… maybe not for fifty years until her bones were turned by an excavator setting down the foundation for a parking lot.

But this was it. She’d done all she could, saved as many animals as could be saved by her hands and mind. There would be no more.

And as Sarah Winter’s limbs went nerveless and her head lolled, she saw one last flare of hazy light before the blackness.

CHAPTER ONE

Hailey wasn’t sure if it was providence or luck that had caused her mother and father to step into the backyard for a midnight stroll. They hadn’t been out more than a few minutes before the gas leak blew up their house.

Waving goodbye to her parents, stepping away from the motel room where they were now staying, she tried to keep her expression positive. But as the door shut behind her, she scowled.

This was all her parents had left… but at least they had their lives.

She turned to look at the small motel once more, her stomach churning. Her sister Alice had been shot, still recovering from the wound in her head, though conscious and lively enough to share in Hailey's concerns. Victor Drake was leading a smear campaign against Hailey while he settled into the Pleasant community safety board—an irreproachable member of the community, a man who had paid his debt to society, being harassed by an FBI agent with a vendetta, or so he claimed.

And now her parents’ home had been blown-up.

Stifling her anger, Hailey tried to count her blessings. She was lucky her family was still alive—all of them.

Hailey pulled her FBI windbreaker tighter around her body as she walked across the motel parking lot. The Sleepy Pine Motel's neon sign buzzed overhead, one letter flickering weakly in the early morning light. Gravel crunched under her boots. A thin layer of frost covered her Bureau-issued SUV.

She stopped at her vehicle, breath forming clouds in the cold Missouri air. The door handle was ice-cold against her palm. Hailey slid into the driver's seat and sat motionless for a moment, staring at the motel room where her parents now lived. Room 114. The curtains were drawn. The paint on the door was chipped. The concrete walkway outside was cracked and uneven.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not after everything they'd already been through.

Hailey started the engine. The dashboard clock read 6:47 AM. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Graham.

"Meeting with county sheriff at 8. Don't be late."

Her finger hovered over the screen. The county sheriff: Alice, her sister. Why was she setting up a meeting? She was still recovering from a gunshot wound that had come too close to being fatal. Hailey's jaw tightened. She typed a quick ‘On my way’ and set the phone down.

The SUV's tires squealed as she pulled out of the parking lot too quickly. She needed coffee. She needed sleep. She needed answers. Well, she could handle one of those on her own. She’d need some providence of her own for the other two.

Pleasant’s Main Street was quiet at this hour. The bakery lights were on, the smell of fresh bread wafting through the crack in her window. The hardware store was still dark. The community bulletin board outside the post office displayed a new poster: Fundraiser for 4-H - This Sunday.

Hailey's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

She pulled into the gas station at the edge of town. The bell jingled as she pushed through the door. The cashier nodded at her, recognition in his eyes. Everyone in Pleasant knew who she was now: FBI Agent Hailey Rock. The hometown girl who'd made good. The woman whose family seemed cursed.

The woman who’d punched the latest hometown hero.

It was infuriating that people saw Drake as Pleasant’s own little savior now. But she knew better. His family had roots that ran deep in their crime syndicate. Two of his brothers were in prison. Victor had only recently been released, and he’d come to Pleasant to torment the woman who’d taken down his crime family.

Hailey was in his crosshairs. Which meant everyone she loved was in danger.

The only problem? No proof.

Victor kept his hands clean. At least, he appeared to.

Another nagging thought dragged through her sleepless brain… What if she was wrong? What if it wasn’t Drake at all?

She frowned, shaking her head. He was toying with her. That much was obvious.

Hailey poured coffee into a paper cup, black and scalding. She paid without small talk, ignoring the cashier's curious stare. Back in her vehicle, she took a burning sip and winced. The coffee tasted like it had been sitting on the warmer since midnight.

The drive to the sheriff's station took seven minutes. Seven minutes to compose herself. Seven minutes to push down the anger that threatened to overwhelm her professional demeanor. She parked in the visitor's spot, not the family space Alice had once jokingly designated for her.

The station was a single-story brick building, understaffed and underfunded. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The dispatch desk was empty. A bulletin board displayed wanted posters and community notices. The 4-H fundraiser flyer was pinned there too.

Graham waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall. His suit was pressed, his tie knotted perfectly. No signs of the sleepless nights she knew he'd been having.

Graham straightened when he saw her. The movement was fluid but careful. His broad shoulders filled out his navy suit jacket, the fabric stretched slightly across his back—a result of too many hours at the gym and not enough visits to his tailor. The fluorescent lights highlighted the silver at his temples, a recent development that had appeared during their last three cases. His military-style haircut was freshly trimmed, the sides nearly bare, the top just long enough to show the natural wave he constantly tried to tame.

"You look like hell," he said, his voice low and gravelly from lack of sleep.

"Good morning to you too," Hailey replied, taking another sip of her terrible coffee.

Graham's eyes—hazel with flecks of gold that caught the light when he smiled—scanned her face. The crow's feet at the corners deepened with concern. She knew what he saw: dark circles, bloodshot eyes, the tight set of her jaw that hadn't relaxed in weeks.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her elbow. The touch was brief, professional enough for the workplace, but intimate in its familiarity. His hand was warm through the fabric of her windbreaker. The simple contact steadied her, as it always did.

"How are they?" he asked.

"Alive," Hailey answered. "Dad's pretending everything's fine. Mom keeps cleaning the motel room like she can somehow make it feel like home."

Graham nodded. His expression softened. The lines around his mouth—lines that hadn't been there when they'd first been partnered three years ago—relaxed slightly. He shifted his weight, favoring his uninjured side. The slight limp was barely noticeable now, but Hailey caught it. She caught everything about Graham Vance.

"Alice is waiting," he said, pushing away from the wall. "She's got the conference room set up."

Three years as partners. Two years as lovers. The relationship had developed slowly, professionally at first. Long stakeouts. Shared hotel rooms with separate beds. Case files spread across dinner tables. Then came the lingering glances. The accidental touches that became deliberate. The night when a particularly brutal case had broken them both, and they'd found comfort in each other's arms.

The Bureau frowned on office romances. They'd been discreet—professional during work hours.

"She moved from the conference room,” Graham said.

“Where to?”

“Her office. Dr. Morrow's with her."

Hailey's eyebrows rose. "The medical examiner? Why?"

Graham straightened his posture. "That's why we're here."

They walked down the narrow hallway. The floor tiles were cracked in so many places that they’d started to lose little triangles and squares of material at a time. Ordinarily, that would call for repairs, maybe a local contract to smooth it out. Not these days, though. Budget cuts. Always budget cuts. Alice's door was closed. The nameplate read Sheriff A. Rock in simple black letters.

Graham knocked twice. Alice's voice came through, strained but clear. "Come in."

Alice sat behind her desk, her left arm in a sling. Her uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of a bandage. Her face was pale, dark circles under her eyes. Dr. Elaine Morrow stood beside her, gloved hands resting on a file folder.

"Hailey," Alice nodded. No sisterly hug. No warm greeting. Just professional acknowledgment.

"You should be home resting," Hailey said.

"Can't. Not now." Alice gestured to the chairs across from her desk. "Sit down. Both of you."

Hailey and Graham sat. The chairs were uncomfortable, the padding worn thin. Dr. Morrow remained standing, her posture rigid.

"We have a situation," Alice said. She nodded to Dr. Morrow.

The medical examiner cleared her throat. "Dr. Sarah Winters, veterinarian at Pleasant Valley Animal Clinic. Body was discovered by her receptionist when she arrived to open the clinic at 5 AM."

Dr. Morrow placed three photographs on Alice's desk, spreading them out with her gloved fingers. Hailey leaned forward. The images showed a small veterinary examination room with mint green walls. Metal cabinets lined one wall. A counter with medical supplies occupied another. In the center, a stainless steel examination table dominated the space.

And on that table lay Dr. Sarah Winters.

Hailey's stomach clenched. The woman was positioned on her back, arms at her sides, legs straight. Someone had removed her lab coat and draped it over a nearby chair. Her blue scrubs were neatly arranged, as if she'd simply lain down for a rest. But her skin held the unmistakable pallor of death. Her eyes were closed. Her mousy brown hair had been freed from its bun and brushed out across the metal surface beneath her head.

"Shit," Graham muttered.

"It gets worse," Alice said, her voice tight with pain as she shifted in her chair. "Look at the details."

Dr. Morrow pointed to the second photograph. "The killer placed a patient chart at the foot of the table. It's labeled with her name, age, weight, and presenting complaint."

Hailey squinted at the image. The chart was standard veterinary paperwork. Under ‘Patient Name,’ someone had written ‘Sarah Winters’ in neat block letters. Under ‘Species,’ they'd written ‘Human.’ Under ‘Presenting Complaint,’ two words: ‘Professional misconduct.’

"There's more," Dr. Morrow continued, pointing to the third photograph. "An identification tag was attached to her wrist, the kind used for animals awaiting surgery. And these were placed on the counter."

The image showed a neat row of instruments laid out on a clean surgical drape. Scalpels. Forceps. Clamps. Surgical scissors. A bone saw. All meticulously arranged by size.

"Cause of death?" Graham asked.

"Preliminary findings suggest asphyxiation," Dr. Morrow said. "There are chemical burns in her nasal passages and throat consistent with chloroform inhalation. No external trauma except for defensive wounds on her hands and forearms. I'll know more after the autopsy."

Hailey stared at the photographs. The clinical precision of the scene. The attention to detail.

Alice’s expression softened somewhat. She lowered her voice, though the others could clearly still hear.

“How’s mom and dad?” she murmured.

Hailey met her sister's eyes, the professional barrier between them momentarily dissolving. "Managing. Mom's ‘stress-cleaning’ the motel room. Dad's pretending everything's normal. And Drake—”

“Hailey…” Alice cut her off, a frown spreading on her lips.

This was a point of disagreement between the two sisters. While Alice had initially been receptive to Hailey’s suspicions, the lack of evidence was starting to take its toll. Victor Drake had done nothing since coming to Pleasant. He’d charmed Mindy, ingratiated himself with the local businesses and families downtown, and been a victim of Hailey Rock’s unlawful fist. The last of these had earned him a healthy dose of sympathy and brought down headaches on Alice in the form of angry calls and an FBI inquiry into Hailey’s behavior.

Hailey believed Drake had been the one to shoot Alice. To nearly kill their parents. But she had no proof—and after the touching reports of Victor Drake risking his own life to save two drowning kids… well, to Hailey’s mind, Alice was going over to the dark side.

Just how Victor had wanted her to, Hailey decided.

Alice’s jaw was tight. The unspoken weight of their family's situation hung in the air for a moment before she straightened in her chair, wincing as the movement pulled at her wound.

"Back to the case," Alice said, her voice returning to its official tone. "Dr. Morrow, anything else we should know?"

The medical examiner adjusted her latex gloves, the thin material stretching over her prominent veins and age spots. "Time of death approximately between midnight and two AM. The body wasn't moved—she was killed right there on that examination table. And there's one more detail."

Dr. Morrow reached into her folder and produced another photograph. This one showed a close-up of Dr. Winters' right hand. Between her thumb and index finger was a small puncture wound.

"Injection site," Dr. Morrow explained, her voice matter-of-fact. "After subduing her with chloroform, the killer administered something. I've taken blood samples for toxicology, but it will take time for results."

Hailey studied the image. "Any idea what was injected?"

"Nothing definitive yet," Dr. Morrow replied. "But given the lack of visible trauma beyond the defensive wounds, I'd speculate it was the actual cause of death. The chloroform was just to incapacitate her."

Graham leaned forward in his chair. "Security cameras?"

"None inside the clinic," Alice answered. "One across the street at the gas station, but it's angled wrong. We're canvassing for witnesses, but at that hour..." She shrugged her good shoulder.

"Professional misconduct," Graham read from the report. "Was Dr. Winters involved in any malpractice cases? Complaints from pet owners?"

Alice tilted her head. “She was well-liked in the community. Been the town vet for fifteen years. Sure, there was the odd complaint. She actually called about a week back about a client throwing a fit in the lobby. It wasn’t anything that would lead to this though… at least." Frowning now, Alice shook her head. “I’ll pull the file. Something Harris, I think. A horse breeder.”

Turning their collective attention back to the pictures, Hailey’s eyes narrowed.

"The scene is too organized," Hailey said, setting the photograph down. "Too controlled. This wasn't a crime of passion or opportunity. The killer planned this, brought supplies, knew the layout of the clinic."

"And knew she'd be there late," Graham added. "Working alone."

Dr. Morrow gathered the photographs with her gloved hands, sliding them back into the folder. "I need to get back to the morgue. The autopsy is scheduled for noon. I'll call when I have more."

Alice nodded. "Thank you, Doctor." Alice then turned to her sister. “Are you good?”

Hailey hesitated. “Are you referring to this case… or…”

“Or,” Alice confirmed curtly.

Hailey’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a psychopath roaming our streets pretending to be a good Samaritan.”

Alice rubbed at her face. She glanced at Graham. “Mind giving us a second?”

Graham held up his hands as if at gun point and followed Morrow out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

Hailey scowled at her sister but held her tongue as her gaze flicked to the bandage around her head.

Alice's eyes hardened. "I was shot, not killed. This town needs its sheriff."

"This town needs a sheriff who can stay alive," Hailey countered. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Alice, we've got a dead veterinarian staged like an animal, our parents living in a motel after their house exploded, and you're walking around with two bullet holes in you."

"One bullet, two holes," Alice corrected, her tone flat. "Entry and exit." She shifted in her chair, wincing slightly. "Look, I know what you think about Drake—"

"What I know about Drake," Hailey interrupted.

“People change.”

“And some assholes stay the exact same.”

Alice's hand came down hard on the desk. Papers jumped. A pen rolled to the floor. Pain flashed across her face at the sudden movement.

"Dammit, Hailey. I'm not stupid. I'm keeping an eye on him."

"That's not good enough." Hailey stood, pacing the small confines of the office. Her boots made dull thuds against the thin carpet. "He's playing a long game. First, he gets the town to love him. Then he gets on the community safety board. Now our parents' house blows up, and everyone calls it a gas leak? It's not a coincidence."

"We don't have evidence—"

"Because he's smart! He's always been smart." Hailey stopped pacing, planted her hands on Alice's desk. "The timing, Alice. Think about the timing. Right when we're closing in on the 4-H case, right when we're making progress—boom. Our parents nearly die. You get shot. And now a veterinarian turns up dead, staged like an animal."

Alice stared at her sister. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows under her eyes, deepening the hollows of her cheeks. The bandage peeked out from her collar, stark white against her skin.

"You think Drake killed Dr. Winters?"

"I… maybe not. But the chaos he’s sowing is allowing psychos to get away with shit.”

“Taney county had murders before Victor Drake arrived,” Alice snapped back. But before Hailey could rebut, Alice lifted a hand. She went quiet for a moment, her good hand tapping a rhythm on the desk. "I have a guy watching Drake. Like you asked. I’m not sticking my head in the sand on this, Hailey. We looked. He’s clean—squeaky clean. Nothing untoward. So now I need you focused on this case first. A woman is dead. She deserves our full attention."

Hailey straightened. Her shoulders remained tense, her jaw tight. "Fine. But I'm not backing off Drake."

"I wouldn't expect you to. But you’re still at the center of an investigation, Hailey. And I’m not throwing my career away to shield you from it. Whatever you do… it’s on you. Got that?" Alice reached for the folder Dr. Morrow had left, adding it to a pile of current cases for reference.

Hailey moved to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Alice? Be careful."

Her sister nodded once, a sharp dip of her chin.

Graham was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as Hailey emerged from Alice's office.

"We good?" he asked.

"We're heading to the crime scene." Hailey's voice was clipped, professional. She brushed past him, heading for the station's front entrance.

Graham caught up to her in three long strides. His limp was barely noticeable now, but Hailey saw the slight hesitation in his sidelong glance.

She didn’t bother to return it.

Alice was convinced. The whole town was convinced that Drake was a good guy.

But one bad guy was definitely out there, and he’d just murdered a vet in her own office.

The only question was why?

CHAPTER TWO

Graham drove while Hailey stared out the passenger window. The SUV's tires hummed against the asphalt. Pleasant Valley Animal Clinic sat on the outskirts of town, a converted ranch house with a gravel parking lot and a weathered sign featuring a stylized paw print. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the entrance, fluttering in the morning breeze. Three police cruisers were parked haphazardly in the lot. An unmarked van from the county crime lab was backed up to the front door.

"You want to talk about it?" Graham asked, pulling into an empty space near the tape.

"About what?" Hailey's voice was flat.

"Whatever has you grinding your teeth so hard I can hear it from over here."

Hailey unclenched her jaw. She hadn't realized she'd been doing it. "Not now." Alice’s admonishment to focus on the case at hand was still lingering in her brain.

Graham killed the engine. The silence between them expanded, filled only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant sound of a police radio. He didn't push. That was one of the things she appreciated about him—he knew when to press and when to wait.

The clinic was a single-story building with white aluminum siding and green trim around the windows. A wooden ramp led up to the front door, accommodating pet owners with mobility issues or large animals. The sign in the window had been flipped to ‘CLOSED.’ Behind it, Hailey could see movement—officers processing the scene.

She opened her door. The cold air hit her face, a welcome shock that cleared her head. Her boots crunched on the pebbled ground. Frost still clung to the shadowed areas of the parking lot. Her breath formed clouds that dissipated quickly in the morning light.

A deputy stood guard at the tape line. Young. Nervous. His hand hovered near his service weapon when they approached, then relaxed when he recognized them.

"Agent Rock, Agent Vance," he nodded. "Sheriff said you'd be coming. Scene's still active. Dr. Morrow was here earlier. Did she catch you at the Sheriff’s?"

Hailey gave a simple nod of confirmation as she ducked under the tape. Graham followed, his movements careful, deliberate. The deputy handed them each a pair of blue booties to cover their shoes.

"Who found her?" Graham asked, balancing on one foot to slip the protective covering over his leather oxford.

"Receptionist. Tara Wilson. Twenty-two. Started working here right out of high school," the deputy replied. "She's pretty shaken up. Detective Reyes took her statement and wanted to send her home with her mom, but we held her once we knew you were coming."

Hailey finished with her booties and straightened. "Anyone else been inside? Besides law enforcement?"

"No, ma'am. The receptionist was the first one here this morning."

Hailey nodded. The front door of the clinic was propped open. The smell of disinfectant wafted out, mixed with something else—the metallic tang of blood, faint but unmistakable.

She stepped into the clinic, Graham close behind her.

The waiting room was small but neat. Chairs lined the walls, a low table scattered with dog-eared magazines about pet care. A fish tank bubbled in the corner, tropical fish darting between plastic plants. A reception desk faced the door, the computer screen still glowing with an appointment calendar.

A crime scene technician was dusting the doorframe for prints. Another photographed muddy boot prints on the linoleum floor. The tracks led from the entrance, down the hallway, and disappeared around a corner.

"Size eleven or twelve," Graham murmured, crouching to examine the prints. "Work boots. Deep tread pattern."

Hailey followed the trail with her eyes. "He didn't try to hide his presence."

"Or didn't care if we knew he was here."

They moved deeper into the clinic. The hallway was narrow, lined with educational posters about heartworm prevention and the importance of spaying and neutering. Three doors opened off the corridor: two exam rooms and what appeared to be a small surgical suite.

The activity centered around Exam Room 1. The door stood open, bright lights illuminating the interior. Two more techs worked inside, one collecting fibers from the floor, another carefully bagging items from the counter.

Hailey paused at the threshold. The room matched the photographs Alice had shown them. Green walls. Metal cabinets. The examination table in the center. The stainless steel surface had been wiped clean, but Hailey could still see the outline where Dr. Winters' body had lain. The chart remained at the foot of the table, sealed now in an evidence bag.

"The killer staged her like a patient," Graham said, his voice low.

Hailey nodded. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in details. The cabinets were neatly organized, labels facing outward. No signs of a struggle here. The surgical instruments remained in their precise arrangement on the counter, also bagged as evidence.

"The receptionist said nothing was missing," one of the techs offered, looking up from her work. "No drugs, no equipment. Nothing disturbed in here except the doctor herself."

"And the struggle?" Hailey asked. "Dr. Morrow mentioned defensive wounds."

The tech pointed toward the hallway. "Back there. In her office. Looks like that's where he grabbed her."

Hailey moved back into the corridor, following it to its end. A door emblazoned with a nameplate that read ‘Dr. Winters’ stood open. The room beyond was small—just large enough for a desk, a filing cabinet, and a small bookshelf. Here, the signs of struggle were evident. The chair was overturned. Papers were scattered across the floor. A coffee mug had shattered in the corner, dark stains marking where the liquid had splashed.

He surprised her while she was working late," Hailey said, stepping carefully into the office. The space smelled of coffee and vanilla hand lotion. A framed veterinary license hung crooked on the wall. "She fought back."

Graham examined the doorframe. "No signs of forced entry to the building. She either let him in or he had a key… Or he figured out a way to prop a door or window to come in later.”

“Think he might’ve been a customer? Snuck back?”

“Can’t rule it out.”

Hailey crouched near the desk. Blood droplets marked the linoleum floor—small, scattered spatter consistent with defensive wounds. She traced the pattern with her eyes, reconstructing the struggle.

“Maybe tried to run, but he caught her here." Her finger indicated a larger blood smear near the overturned chair. "She fought. Scratched him, maybe. But he had the chloroform ready."

Graham nodded. "Then he dragged her unconscious body to the exam room, positioned her on the table, and administered the lethal injection."

"Why?" Hailey stood, her knees popping. "Why go through all this trouble? The staging, the patient chart, the instruments?"

"It's a message," Graham said. "Professional misconduct. He's punishing her for something."

Hailey moved to the bookshelf. Veterinary textbooks lined the top shelves. Framed photographs occupied the lower ones. Dr. Winters with various animals—a German Shepherd with a cone around its neck, a gray tabby cat, a horse wearing a blue ribbon. Dr. Winters at her graduation, holding her diploma. Dr. Winters with an older couple, presumably her parents.

"No personal life?" Hailey asked.

Graham shook his head. "Deputy said she lived alone. No spouse, no kids."

"Everyone has connections." Hailey picked up one of the frames. The photo showed Dr. Winters with a group of people, all wearing matching t-shirts that read "Pleasant Valley Animal Haven." Eight adults and three teenagers stood in front of a barn, smiling at the camera. Dr. Winters was in the center, her arm around a tall man with a beard. "Professional connections, at least."

Graham leaned in to look at the photo. "Animal rescue group. Volunteer organization?"

"We need to talk to people who knew her," Hailey set the frame down. "Find out if she had conflicts with anyone. Professional disagreements. Disgruntled clients."

"The receptionist might know."

Hailey nodded. “It’s a small town. Someone knows. But yeah… That’s a good place to start.”

As Hailey and Graham stepped around the tacky blood staining the floor, Hailey could only hope this was a case of small-town vengeance driven to its limit. But as the image of the patient file flashed in her min, Hailey felt a dreadful coil in her stomach that told her what she did not want to admit.

This was not some impulsive attack, and it would not stand alone for long.

CHAPTER THREE

The morning sun had risen higher, but its warmth struggled to penetrate the chill that hung over the clinic's parking lot. Hailey and Graham made their way outside, removing their blue booties as they crossed the threshold. The crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, yellow against the gray morning sky. A crow landed on the clinic's roof, its black feathers glossy in the sunlight. It watched them with beady eyes, head cocked to one side.

A county sheriff's van was parked at the far end of the lot. Its white exterior was smudged with road grime, the department logo faded from years of exposure to the elements. The side door stood open. Inside, a young woman sat hunched on a bench seat, a standard-issue gray blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Tara Wilson looked even younger than her twenty-two years. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the van. Her hands clutched a paper cup of what looked like untouched coffee, the steam no longer rising from its surface. She wore a simple blue blouse and jeans, both wrinkled as if she'd slept in them. A light jacket hung open despite the cold.

As Hailey and Graham approached, Tara's gaze remained fixed on the gravel at her feet. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from crying. Tear tracks had dried on her cheeks, leaving faint salt lines. Her hands trembled, causing ripples in the cold coffee.

A female deputy sat beside her, notepad open on her lap. She looked up as the agents approached, nodded once in recognition, and leaned over to murmur something to Tara. The young woman's shoulders stiffened under the blanket. She didn't look up.

"Ms. Wilson?" Hailey kept her voice soft, professional. "I'm Special Agent Hailey Rock, and this is my partner, Special Agent Graham Vance. We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Winters, if you're up to it."

Tara's head lifted slowly. Her eyes—pale blue and bloodshot—darted between them before settling somewhere over Hailey's left shoulder. She nodded once, a barely perceptible movement.

"I already told the police everything," she said. Her voice was thin, reed-like. "I don't know what else I can say."

Graham stepped forward, his movements deliberately slow and non-threatening. "Sometimes talking through it again helps us notice details we missed before. And we have some specific questions about Dr. Winters herself, not just what you found this morning."

The deputy stood, closing her notepad. "She's been here for three hours. Might want to keep it brief." Her tone carried a warning.

Hailey nodded. "We'll keep it brief.”

Tara's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened with renewed focus. "I'll try to help. Sarah—Dr. Winters—she was good to me. She deserves..." Her voice cracked. "She deserves better than this."

The deputy stepped away, giving them space but remaining within earshot. Graham moved closer, his large frame blocking the wind that cut through the parking lot. Hailey positioned herself at eye level with Tara, crouching beside the van's open door.

"Can you walk us through this morning?" Hailey asked. "What time did you arrive at the clinic?"

Tara swallowed hard. "Five o'clock. I always come in early on Thursdays to update the files and prepare for the mobile clinic visits." Her fingers tightened around the paper cup. "The door was locked, like normal. I used my key. The waiting room was dark, so I turned on the lights and went to check the overnight messages."

"Did anything seem out of place in the waiting room?" Graham asked.

Tara shook her head. "No. Everything looked normal. The appointment book was where it always is. The fish had been fed." She paused, her brow furrowing. "Wait. There was mud on the floor. I remember thinking it was strange because we'd mopped yesterday evening."

Hailey nodded encouragingly. "What did you do next?"

"I called out for Dr. Winters. Sometimes she comes in early too. When she didn't answer, I went to check her office." Tara's breathing quickened. "That's when I saw the mess. Papers everywhere. Her chair knocked over. Blood on the floor."

"What did you do then?" Graham's voice remained steady, grounding.

"I called out again. Louder. I was scared, but I thought maybe she'd fallen, hurt herself." Tara's eyes filled with fresh tears. "I followed the hallway, checking each room. Then I got to Exam Room 1." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The light was on. And she was just...lying there. Like she was sleeping. But I knew. I knew right away she wasn't breathing."

Hailey gave her a moment, then shifted the focus. "Tara, did Dr. Winters have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who might have wished her harm?"

Tara's expression changed, surprise momentarily replacing grief. "Dr. Winters? No. Everyone loved her. She was the best vet in three counties. People drove hours to bring their animals to her."

"No unhappy clients? No one who blamed her for a pet's death?"

"Well..." Tara hesitated. "There was the Millers' dog last month. Sarah couldn't save him—cancer, too far gone. Mr. Miller yelled a bit, said we should have caught it sooner. But that happens sometimes when people are grieving…”

“Anyone else?" Hailey said. Some yelling wasn’t what she was looking for.

Tara paused, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. "Well...there was Jeffrey Harris."

Hailey and Graham exchanged a quick glance. Harris. That was the name Alice had mentioned in the initial briefing. Maybe the dispute Alice barely remembered was something worth worrying about after all.

"Jeffrey Harris?" Hailey prompted, keeping her voice neutral.

Tara nodded, a new tension visible in her shoulders. "He owns Willow Creek Stables about twenty minutes outside town. Breeds and shows horses—expensive ones." She took a shallow breath. "His prize stallion, Midnight Commander, got into some toxic plants last week. Nearly died. Dr. Winters worked through the night to save him."

"And did she?" Graham asked. "Save the horse?"

"Yes." Tara's voice hardened slightly. "Thirty-six hours of intensive care. Dr. Winters slept on a cot in the treatment room, checking his vitals every hour. She even called in a specialist from Columbia for consultation."

Hailey leaned forward. "So what was the problem?"

"The bill." Tara's knuckles whitened around her coffee cup. "Emergency services, specialist consultation, all the medications—it came to almost twelve thousand dollars. Harris went ballistic when he saw it."

"Ballistic how?" Graham's tone remained conversational, but Hailey noticed his posture shift slightly, more alert.

"He came in screaming. Called Dr. Winters a thief, a fraud." Tara's eyes fixed on a point in the distance, reliving the memory. "He knocked over the display of pet food in the waiting room. Scared a woman who was there with her cat so badly she locked herself in the bathroom."

"Was he physically threatening?" Hailey asked.

"He slammed his fists on the reception desk so hard my computer jumped." Tara's voice trembled. "Dr. Winters came out when she heard the commotion. She tried to explain the charges, told him she'd work out a payment plan if needed."

"How did Harris respond to that?" Graham asked, pulling out his notebook and jotting something down.

"He got in her face. Said she was price-gouging, taking advantage because she knew how valuable Midnight Commander was." Tara set her coffee cup down on the bench beside her. "He told her—his exact words—'I will destroy your practice, your reputation, and you personally if you don't make this right.'"

The crow on the roof cawed once, the sound sharp in the quiet parking lot. Hailey felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.

"What happened after that?" she asked.

"Dr. Winters told me to call 911. Harris knocked the phone out of my hand when I reached for it." Tara rubbed her wrist absently. "Then Jim Wheeler from the hardware store came in. He's this huge guy, used to play college football. He got between them, told Harris to leave before the police arrived."

"And did he?" Hailey asked.

"Yes, but not quietly." Tara's voice strengthened as she recounted the memory. "He backed toward the door, pointing at Dr. Winters the whole time. Said she'd regret crossing him. Said he knew people." She shivered despite the blanket. "Jim stayed until closing that day. Dr. Winters reported it to Sheriff Rock."

Graham made another note. "When did this happen?"

"Five days ago. Last Saturday morning." Tara wrapped her arms around herself. "Dr. Winters seemed worried after that. She started checking that all the doors were locked during the day. Asked me to park closer to the building."

Hailey stood, her knees protesting after crouching for so long. "Did Harris ever come back? Or contact the clinic again?"

"Not that I know of." Tara hesitated. "But Dr. Winters was working late more often this week. Said she had paperwork to catch up on, but I wondered if she was avoiding going home alone."

"One more question," Graham said gently. "The photograph in Dr. Winters' office—the animal rescue group. Can you tell us about that?"

Tara's expression softened slightly. "Pleasant Valley Animal Haven. Dr. Winters volunteered there every Sunday. They rescue abused and neglected farm animals mostly—horses, pigs, a few cows. She did all their veterinary work pro bono."

"Who runs the rescue?" Hailey asked.

"Marcus Delaney. He's in the photo with her—the tall guy with the beard." Tara's voice dropped. "They were close. He's going to be devastated."

Graham nodded, pocketing his notebook. "Thank you, Tara. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please call us." He handed her his card.

Tara took it with trembling fingers. "Are you going to find who did this to her?"

Hailey met the young woman's eyes directly. "Yes." The single word carried the weight of a promise.

As they walked back toward their vehicle, Graham kept his voice low. "Harris seems like our first person of interest."

"Threatening her publicly five days before her murder?" Hailey nodded. "Definitely worth looking into."

"And this Marcus Delaney. Tara said they were close."

"We should talk to both of them." Hailey pulled out her phone, checking the time. "Let's start with Harris. If he's at his stables, we don’t want to give him a chance to hear we’re coming."

With all the trail paths and open country surrounding the town, Hailey knew all too well how easy someone could disappear if they felt so inclined… and someone used to the wide spaces and ready access to a strong horse? If they didn’t want to be found, trailing them might not be difficult… it might be impossible.

CHAPTER FOUR

The drive to Willow Creek Stables took twenty-three minutes—the last three spent navigating a winding gravel driveway that cut through rolling pastureland. The SUV kicked up dust clouds behind them, the particles catching sunlight in the rearview mirror. Hailey sat in silence, staring out the window at the meticulously maintained property. White four-board fencing bordered emerald pastures. Sleek horses grazed in groups of two and three, their coats gleaming in the late morning sun.

"Not exactly hurting for money," Graham commented as they approached the main complex.

The stables were impressive—a sprawling structure of weathered red cedar with a black metal roof. The architecture was modern but designed to evoke traditional horse country aesthetics. Large sliding doors stood open at the front entrance, revealing a wide center aisle inside.

A two-story house sat on a small rise beyond the stables, its stone facade and large windows overlooking the entire operation.

Graham parked in a graveled area near the stable entrance. Three pickup trucks were already there—two mud-splattered work vehicles and one high-end crew cab with custom wheels and a polished chrome grill. A small metal sign beside the main doors read Willow Creek Stables - Est. 1997 - Private Property - No Trespassing.

Hailey stepped out of the SUV, gravel crunching under her boots. The air smelled of fresh hay, horse manure, and leather polish—not unpleasant, but distinct. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor engine rumbled.

Closer, she could hear the rhythmic sound of hooves on packed dirt.

"Someone's in the riding ring," Graham said, nodding toward a fenced arena visible around the side of the building.

They approached the stable entrance. Inside, the center aisle was wide enough for two horses to pass comfortably. The concrete floor had been swept clean, not a straw out of place. Box stalls lined both sides, each with a sliding door and brass nameplate. Most doors were closed, but Hailey could see horses inside several stalls—magnificent animals with intelligent eyes that watched the strangers with interest.

A young woman in her early twenties emerged from one of the stalls, carrying an empty feed bucket. She wore mud-spattered boots, jeans, and a Willow Creek Stables polo shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, practical for work around horses. She stopped short when she saw them.

"Can I help you?" Her tone was polite but cautious, her eyes taking in their professional attire and Hailey's FBI windbreaker.

Hailey stepped forward, badge in hand. "I'm Special Agent Hailey Rock, FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Vance. We're looking for Jeffrey Harris."

The young woman's expression tightened. "Mr. Harris is in the arena with a client." She glanced toward the riding ring. "He doesn't like to be interrupted during lessons."

"This isn't optional," Hailey said, keeping her voice level but firm. "We need to speak with him now."

The stable hand hesitated, then set down her bucket with a soft clang against the concrete floor. "I'll get him. You can wait here." She turned and hurried toward the arena, her boots echoing on the hard surface.

Graham moved closer to Hailey, his voice low. "Nice place. Very... pristine."

They waited in silence, taking in their surroundings. The nameplate on the nearest stall read Midnight Commander. Hailey stepped closer, peering through the bars. Inside stood a magnificent black stallion, at least seventeen hands high, with a white star between his eyes. The horse regarded her with wary interest, ears pricked forward.

"That's the twelve-thousand-dollar patient," Graham murmured.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention back to the main aisle. Two people were walking toward them—the stable hand and a man in his fifties wearing pressed khakis, polished riding boots, and a navy quarter-zip pullover. His salt-and-pepper hair was expensively cut, his clean-shaven face deeply tanned. His posture radiated confidence bordering on arrogance.

"I'm in the middle of a lesson with an Olympic hopeful," the man said without preamble. "Whatever this is, it'll have to wait."

Hailey held up her badge. "Mr. Harris? I'm Special Agent Rock, and this is Special Agent Vance. We need to ask you some questions about Dr. Sarah Winters."

Something flickered across Harris's face—surprise, quickly masked. "The vet? What about her?"

"When was the last time you saw her?" Graham asked, his tone conversational but watchful.

Harris crossed his arms. "Saturday. At her clinic. We had a... disagreement about billing."

"A disagreement?" Hailey raised an eyebrow. "We heard you threatened her."

Harris's jaw tightened. "I expressed my dissatisfaction. I reacted… strongly… at the thought of being gouged for routine care."

"Twelve thousand dollars doesn't sound routine," Graham noted.

"For emergency care then,” Harris shot back. “Look, when you breed champions, you get used to the idea that people are going to try and pad the bill. And a treatment for some suburban princess’s trail horse is too often half what the same treatment runs a real money-horse like the kind I breed. My stallion? A horse worth half a million? I’ve had more than one person try that kind of highway robbery." Harris glanced at the stable hand. "Emma, go tell Mrs. Whitaker I'll be back shortly. Have her work on posting trot in the meantime."

The young woman nodded and retreated toward the arena. Harris waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.

"Look, I was angry. When I saw it, I thought the bill was excessive. But that's a far cry from whatever you're implying." Harris uncrossed his arms, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his khakis. His stance was defensive, but his eyes remained steady, meeting Hailey's gaze without flinching.

"Where were you last night between midnight and two AM, Mr. Harris?" Hailey asked, watching his face carefully.

"At home. Sleeping." Harris's answer came quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. "Like most normal people."

"Anyone who can verify that?" Graham asked.

Harris's mouth tightened into a thin line. "I live alone. My wife and I divorced three years ago."

Hailey nodded toward the stall behind them. "That's Midnight Commander? The horse Dr. Winters treated?"

"Yes. He's my best breeding stallion. Four generations of champion bloodlines."

"Must have been pretty upset when he got sick. Potentially losing an animal worth that much money."

Harris's shoulders tensed, then deliberately relaxed. "Of course I was upset. But Dr. Winters did save him. I never denied that."

"Just didn't want to pay for it," Hailey said.

Harris's face flushed slightly. "I reacted poorly. I admit that. But after I calmed down, I called around to other equine specialists. Got some second opinions on what emergency treatment like that should cost." He hesitated, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his features. "Turns out her bill was fair. Maybe a little better than fair, actually. I had this idea of what something like that cost from twenty years back. Another high-value horse like… I’m sorry. That doesn’t matter."

Hailey exchanged a quick glance with Graham. "Did you tell Dr. Winters that?"

"I was planning to. I had my accountant prepare a check yesterday. Was going to drop it off this afternoon with an... apology."

The word seemed to catch in his throat, as if rarely used. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet, from which he extracted a folded check. He handed it to Hailey.

The check was made out to Pleasant Valley Animal Clinic for $12,437.50, dated yesterday. The memo line read "Midnight Commander treatment - payment in full."

"This doesn't change the fact that you threatened her," Hailey said, handing the check back.

Harris took it, refolding it carefully. "I lost my temper. Said things I shouldn't have. What’s all this about anyway?" His voice took on an edge. "I've built this business over twenty-five years. I employ eight people full-time. I'm not going to throw all that away over a veterinary bill."

"You said 'I know people' when you threatened her," Graham noted. "What did you mean by that?"

Harris's expression tightened. "It was just talk. Hot air. I know people on the state veterinary board who could review her billing practices. That's all I meant." He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, a gesture that seemed unconscious, betraying his discomfort. "Look, I didn't even know anything had happened to her. What exactly are we talking about here?"

Hailey studied him carefully. "Dr. Winters was found dead this morning at her clinic. Murdered."

The color drained from Harris's face. His shoulders sagged visibly, and he reached out to steady himself against the stall door. Midnight Commander nickered softly, sensing the change in energy.

"Murdered?" Harris's voice had lost its defensive edge, replaced by genuine shock. "That's... That's horrible."

Graham watched him closely. "You seem surprised."

"Of course I'm surprised! She's—she was—the best large animal vet in three counties." Harris swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his tanned throat. "I was angry, yes. But I would never... I couldn't..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Hailey noticed his hands—they trembled slightly as he stuffed the check back into his wallet. Not the calculated composure of someone who'd rehearsed this reaction.

"I need to sit down," Harris muttered, moving to a tack trunk positioned against the wall. He lowered himself onto it, the polished wood creaking slightly under his weight. He stared at the concrete floor, the immaculate stable suddenly seeming less important.

"What time did you go to bed last night, Mr. Harris?" Graham asked, his tone gentler now.

Harris rubbed his face. "Late. I don't sleep well since the divorce. Watched some mindless reality show until about eleven. Had a couple of bourbons. Went to bed around midnight, I think."

"Any phone calls? Texts? Something that would place you at home during that time?"

"I took a sleeping pill. Turned my phone off." Harris looked up, realization dawning in his eyes. "You think I did this. Because of that argument. That’s why we’re talking right now, isn’t it?"

"We're talking to everyone who had recent contact with Dr. Winters," Hailey said, not directly confirming or denying his statement. "Especially those who had conflicts with her."

Harris stood abruptly, pacing the concrete aisle. A horse whinnied somewhere deeper in the barn, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. "This is insane. Yes, I was angry. Yes, I said things I shouldn't have. But I was going to pay her. Going to apologize." He stopped, turning to face them. "And now I can't. Now she's dead, and I never made it right."

The regret in his voice sounded genuine. His eyes had taken on a haunted quality, focusing on something beyond the physical space they occupied.

Hailey studied Harris carefully. The rigid posture he'd displayed when they arrived had collapsed into something more vulnerable. His tanned face had paled to an ashen hue. Tiny beads of sweat formed along his hairline despite the cool temperature in the barn. His hands—steady and confident during their initial conversation—now fidgeted with his wedding ring, a habit that had likely persisted despite the divorce.

A horse shifted in a nearby stall, the sound of hooves on bedding breaking the silence. Dust danced in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through a high window, illuminating the concrete aisle between them. The smell of leather, hay, and horse sweat hung in the air, earthy and grounding.

Hailey felt the familiar tug in her gut—the intuition that had guided her through countless investigations. The man before them was arrogant, short-tempered, and accustomed to getting his way. He had threatened Dr. Winters in a moment of anger. But a calculated murderer? The careful staging of the body, the meticulous arrangement of surgical tools, the clinical precision of the crime scene—none of that matched the impulsive, blustering man who stood before them.

This wasn't their killer.

She caught Graham's eye, a subtle shift of her gaze that communicated her assessment. His nearly imperceptible nod confirmed he'd reached the same conclusion.

"Mr. Harris," Hailey said, her tone firm but less accusatory, "we appreciate your cooperation. We'll need to verify your whereabouts, of course. Security cameras at your property entrance? Neighbors who might have seen your vehicle?"

Harris nodded, some color returning to his face. "There's a camera at the main gate. Records everyone coming and going. And my housekeeper comes in early—six AM. She can confirm my car was in the garage this morning."

"We'll need access to that footage," Graham said. "And contact information for your housekeeper."

Harris nodded again, pulling out his phone with still-unsteady hands. "I'll call my security company right now. Have them save everything from last night."

Hailey took a step closer. "Until we've completed our investigation, we'd appreciate if you remained in the area. No sudden business trips or vacations."

Harris looked up from his phone, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You don't think I did it? Still?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," Hailey replied, maintaining her professional demeanor. The concrete floor felt solid beneath her boots, grounding her as she delivered the standard line. "But yes, we'd like you to stay local and available for follow-up questions."

Harris's shoulders sagged with visible relief. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, disheveling the carefully maintained style. "I didn't kill her. I was angry, yes. But I'm not a killer."

Hailey nodded, not confirming or denying his proclamation of innocence.

Graham made a note in his small notebook. "We'll need your official statement. An agent will be in touch to arrange that."

Harris nodded, his businessman demeanor slowly returning. "Of course. Whatever you need."

As they walked back to their vehicle, the dust of the corral grinding beneath their feet, Graham kept his voice low. "What do you think?"

"Not our guy," Hailey said, equally quiet. "The remorse seemed genuine. And the staging at the crime scene—that took planning, patience. Harris strikes me as the type to lash out in anger, not methodically arrange a victim like a scientific specimen."

"Agreed." Graham unlocked the SUV with a beep that seemed out of place in the pastoral setting. "This rescue connection is interesting though. We’ll check with the housekeeper and the security team.”

The SUV's engine rumbled to life. As they pulled away, Hailey caught a glimpse of Harris in the rearview mirror, still standing in the stable doorway, watching them leave. His posture had stiffened again, but something in the set of his shoulders suggested a man shaken.

Hailey felt a cold chill.

Somewhere out there, someone had gotten away with murder… for now.

CHAPTER FIVE

The man adjusted the focus to the binoculars and the powerful lenses, bringing Marcus Delaney into perfect clarity. From this vantage point on the wooded ridge overlooking Pleasant Valley Animal Haven, the entire property was visible—the weathered red barn. In these fenced pastures, rescued animals grazed, the modest farmhouse with its wraparound porch and peeling white paint.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the property. A light breeze carried the scents of hay, manure, and wet earth up the hillside. Birds chirped in the trees overhead, oblivious to the human predator.

Marcus moved with unhurried purpose across the muddy yard, a large bucket in each hand. His faded blue work shirt stretched across broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. Even from this distance, the deep lines etched into his face were visible—markers of age, yes, but also of kindness. Of empathy. His thick beard, more salt than pepper now, caught the sunlight as he turned toward the horse paddock.

The killer's finger stroked the rubber eyepiece of the binoculars. So easy to watch. So easy to remain unseen.

Three horses approached the fence as Marcus neared—an emaciated thoroughbred with protruding ribs, a one-eyed appaloosa, and an ancient palomino with a twisted front leg: All rescues. All damaged in some way. All are finding sanctuary here under Marcus's care.

Marcus set down the buckets and reached out to the thoroughbred, his weathered hand moving with practiced gentleness. The horse, skittish and distrustful from years of abuse, initially flinched away. But Marcus remained still, patient, and his posture was non-threatening. After a moment, the animal stretched its neck forward, nostrils flaring, and allowed the human to stroke its bony face.

The killer felt a tightening in the chest. This man understood suffering. He understood patience—understood the long, difficult road to healing.

Marcus filled the feed troughs with measured scoops from the buckets. His movements were efficient, born of years of routine. There was no wasted motion and no hurry. The horses ate eagerly, their tails swishing at flies. Marcus murmured to them as they fed, his words inaudible at this distance, but his tone clearly soothing.

The killer shifted position, the fallen leaves crackling quietly underfoot. The binoculars revealed new details—the mud caked on Marcus's work boots, the frayed edges of his shirt collar, the careful way he examined each animal as it ate, checking for signs of distress or illness.

Ordinarily, he would have called Dr. Winters for that, the killer knew. Yes, he would have picked up the phone without hesitation if one of his charges showed symptoms he couldn't address. Sarah would have come immediately, her medical bag in hand, ready to work for free because these animals mattered. Because Marcus's work mattered.

As Marcus finished with the horses, he gathered the empty buckets and moved toward the small treatment barn at the far edge of the property. The building stood apart from the others—its weathered boards and metal roof barely visible through a stand of ancient oak trees. The isolation was deliberate. That barn housed the most traumatized animals, the ones who needed quiet and solitude to heal.

The killer lowered the binoculars and moved through the woods with practiced silence. Fallen leaves dampened footsteps. The lengthening shadows provided cover. Even the barbed wire fencing meant to keep animals in and predators out proved to be a small obstacle for the killer.

Years of hunting had perfected this careful stalking—the balanced weight distribution, the controlled breathing, the absolute awareness of every twig and branch that might betray his presence.

Marcus's broad back remained in view, moving steadily across the pasture. He stopped to secure a loose board on a fence, pulling a hammer from his back pocket. Three solid strikes. The sound carried clearly through the still afternoon air. He tested the board with a strong push, nodded with satisfaction, and continued toward the isolated barn.

The killer descended the wooded slope, maintaining some distance but narrowing the gap. A memory surfaced—Marcus Delaney's face among a sea of others, five years ago.

Marcus had approached afterward, offering condolences—but too late. Much too late.

The killer reached the edge of the treetop, crouching behind a tangle of blackberry bushes. From here, the isolated barn was clearly visible. Its red paint had faded to a dull rust color. The sliding door hung slightly crooked on its track. A single bulb illuminated the entrance, attracting moths that fluttered in erratic patterns.

Marcus paused at the door, setting down his buckets. He reached into his pocket and removed something small—a sugar cube—and made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. After a moment, a dark shape appeared in the shadowy interior—a horse, moving with hesitant steps toward the light.

The animal was skeletal, its black coat dull and patchy. Scars crisscrossed its flanks—evidence of whipping, of deliberate cruelty. One ear was partially missing. Its eyes held the vacant look of an animal that had surrendered to pain, that expected nothing but more suffering.

Marcus remained absolutely still, arm extended, the sugar cube resting on his palm. He spoke to the horse in a low, gentle murmur. The words were indistinct, but the tone carried patience, soothing, without demand or expectation.

The killer watched, finger twitching against the binocular strap. Marcus Delaney was good with broken things. His patience was legendary in the county.

The killer felt his anger only growing, though.

He scowled deeply and then paced after Delaney, moving swiftly towards the man and the horse.

CHAPTER SIX

The newly minted FBI field office occupied the second floor of a nondescript government building in downtown Pleasant. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh glow over the institutional beige walls and gray carpet tiles. Hailey's desk faced Graham's, their workspaces mirror images of controlled chaos—stacked files, half-empty coffee cups, and yellow legal pads covered in handwritten notes.

Hailey rubbed her eyes, the strain of staring at her computer screen for hours leaving them dry and irritated. The clock on the wall read 4:37 PM. Outside the narrow windows, the afternoon light was already fading, winter’s short days already asserting themselves.

"Anything?" Graham asked, not looking up from the file he was reviewing. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, his tie loosened slightly at the collar. A paper plate with the remains of a sandwich sat pushed to one corner of his desk.

Hailey sighed, leaning back in her chair. The springs creaked in protest. "I've gone through Dr. Winters' client records for the past year. Twenty-seven complaints total—mostly about billing or wait times." She picked up a printout, scanning the highlighted sections. Three clients filed formal grievances with the state veterinary board. All were dismissed."

"What were the standouts?" Graham's voice was steady, methodical. The voice that had talked her through countless investigations, that had become as familiar to her as her own thoughts.

"First one—Mrs. Eleanor Wilkins claimed Dr. Winters misdiagnosed her Persian cat's stomach issues. Turned out the cat was eating rubber bands." Hailey flipped the page. "Second, the Johnsons sent repeated comments over months about the price for emergency surgery on their Great Dane. Third—Martin Greaves believed Dr. Winters was negligent when his show rabbit died during a routine neutering."

Graham looked up, his hazel eyes catching the overhead light. "Any threats from these people?"

"Nothing documented. Wilkins wrote a nasty review online. It looks like the Johnsons paid in installments, grumbling the whole time. Greaves demanded a refund, which he received." Hailey tossed the printout onto her desk. "Nothing that screams 'I'm going to stage you like an animal specimen and murder you.'"

Graham nodded, his expression thoughtful. "The staging is what keeps coming back to me. It's too... deliberate. Intentional."

Hailey picked up her lukewarm coffee, grimaced at the taste, but drank it anyway. "Professional misconduct." She set the cup down with more force than necessary. "We're missing something."

Graham pushed his chair back and stood with a slight grimace that betrayed his old injury. He crossed to the bulletin board mounted on the wall between their desks. Photos of the crime scene were pinned there, alongside a timeline of Dr. Winters' last known movements.

"The receptionist said Dr. Winters was working late more often this week." Graham tapped the timeline they'd constructed. Monday night until 9:30 PM. Tuesday until 10:15 PM. Wednesday—the night she was killed—she was still there at midnight when the killer arrived."

Hailey stared at the photos. The clinical precision of the crime scene. The patient chart with ‘Professional misconduct’ written in neat block letters. The surgical instruments are arranged by size.

"What if it's not about her veterinary practice at all?" Hailey said, rising from her chair. Her boots made dull thuds against the thin carpet as she joined Graham at the bulletin board. "What if 'professional misconduct' refers to something else entirely?"

The fluorescent light above them flickered, casting momentary shadows across the crime scene photos. The air conditioning kicked on with a mechanical groan. In one of the other offices they shared the building with, a phone rang three times before someone answered it.

"What do we know about her personal life?" Graham asked, turning to face Hailey. The lines around his eyes deepened, evidence of too many late nights and too much coffee.

"Not much. No spouse. No children. Parents are both deceased according to her employment records. The animal rescue connection is the only personal relationship we've uncovered so far."

"The rescue founder, Marcus Delaney," Graham said, writing out the name on a card and adding it to their board with a question mark in black marker.

"We should talk to him," Hailey said, turning back to her desk. She rummaged through a stack of files and pulled out a thin folder. "Pleasant Valley Animal Haven. Founded twelve years ago. Specializes in abused and neglected farm animals." She flipped open the folder, scanning the printout inside. "Delaney is a former high school biology teacher. Retired early to run the rescue full-time."

Graham leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest. His white shirt had developed creases throughout the day, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked with old scars—souvenirs from the case that had brought them together three years ago.

"Biology teacher," he repeated. "That's interesting."

Hailey looked up. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

The staging. The clinical precision." Graham nodded slowly. "Could indicate someone with scientific training."

"Or someone familiar with veterinary procedures." Hailey flipped through more pages in the folder. "Dr. Winters volunteered at the rescue every Sunday. Provided free veterinary care to all the animals."

"So Delaney and Winters worked closely together," Graham said.

"They did." Hailey closed the folder, tapping its edge against her palm. "Tara said they were close. We need to find out how close."

She reached for her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Alice's number. Her sister should know about this potential lead. Despite their disagreements over Drake, Alice was still the county sheriff—and a good one.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Then Alice's recorded voice: "This is Sheriff Rock. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Hailey frowned. Alice always answered her calls, especially during an active investigation. She ended the call without leaving a message and tried again. Straight to voicemail this time.

"Alice isn't answering," she said, setting her phone down on the desk with more force than necessary. The plastic case clacked against the laminate surface.

Graham raised an eyebrow. "Maybe she's resting. Doctor's orders."

"Alice? Resting during a murder investigation?" Hailey shook her head. "Not likely."

She was about to try a third time when Graham's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His posture changed immediately—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening.

"Vance," he answered, his voice clipped and professional.

Hailey watched his face as he listened to the caller. The lines around his mouth deepened. His free hand clenched into a fist, then deliberately relaxed. His eyes met hers, and she felt a cold weight settle in her stomach.

"We're on our way," he said, ending the call. He was already reaching for his jacket.

"What is it?" Hailey asked, though she knew from his expression it wasn't good.

"Another body." Graham's voice was tight with controlled tension. "At Pleasant Valley Animal Haven."

The air seemed to leave the room. Hailey grabbed her windbreaker from the back of her chair, moving on autopilot. "Marcus Delaney?"

"Caller didn't say. First responder is still securing the scene." Graham checked his sidearm, a habit so ingrained he probably didn't realize he was doing it.

And as she pulled the FBI office door closed behind her, Hailey could only pray their only suspect hadn’t just become their second victim.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The gravel road leading to Pleasant Valley Animal Haven wound through dense Missouri woodland before opening onto a clearing. Barbed wire fencing, rusted and sagging in places, marked the property boundary. A hand-painted wooden sign hung from a post at the entrance: Pleasant Valley Animal Haven - Second Chances Begin Here. The letters were faded, weather-worn, but still legible in the late afternoon light.

Hailey gripped the dashboard as Graham navigated the final stretch of rutted driveway. The SUV's suspension groaned in protest. Through the windshield, the rescue facility came into view—a collection of weathered buildings arranged in a rough semicircle around a central yard. A two-story farmhouse with peeling white paint. A large red barn with a sagging roof. Several smaller outbuildings and animal shelters. Fenced pastures stretched beyond, disappearing into the treetops.

"Three patrol cars," Graham noted, nodding toward the vehicles parked haphazardly near the barn. Their light bars flashed silently, red and blue pulses cutting through the gathering dusk. Yellow crime scene tape had already been strung across the barn entrance.

Hailey's phone buzzed. Alice's name appeared on the screen.

"Where have you been?" Hailey answered, not bothering with a greeting.

"At the scene," Alice's voice was tight, strained. "I got here ten minutes ago. It's bad, Hailey."

"We’re here. Who's the victim?"

A pause. Marcus Delaney. The rescue founder."

Hailey met Graham's eyes as he parked beside the patrol cars. His expression remained neutral, but she saw the slight tightening around his mouth. The confirmation of their suspicion.

"We just parked," Hailey said. "We'll be right there."

The air outside was cold, the temperature dropping with the sun. Hailey's breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly in the dying light. The smell hit her immediately—the earthy scent of animals and hay, undercut by something sharper, metallic: blood.

A young deputy stood at the crime scene tape, his face pale beneath his uniform cap. He nodded at their badges without speaking, lifting the tape for them to duck under. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. New to the job, Hailey guessed. Probably his first homicide.

Inside the barn, the temperature dropped further. The cavernous space was dimly lit by a single overhead bulb and the tactical flashlights of the officers working the scene. Dust particles pirouetted in the beams of light. The earthen floor was packed hard from years of use, scattered with fresh straw. Horse stalls lined both sides of the central aisle, most empty, their gates standing open.

Alice stood at the far end of the barn, her left arm still in a sling. Dr. Morrow was beside her, medical bag at her feet, gloved hands clasped in front of her. Their breath formed visible clouds in the cold air. Both women turned as Hailey and Graham approached, their expressions grim.

"In here," Alice said, gesturing toward the last stall with her good arm.

Hailey's boots sank slightly into the mixture of earth and straw as she moved forward. The smell grew stronger—blood and something else, something chemical that didn't belong in this rural setting. The wooden walls of the barn rose high above them, the exposed beams disappearing into shadow. A barn owl watched from a rafter, unblinking eyes reflecting the flashlight beams.

The last stall was larger than the others—a foaling stall, designed to give a mare and her newborn extra space. The gate stood open. Inside, portable work lights had been set up, illuminating the scene with harsh, unforgiving clarity.

Hailey stopped at the threshold, her trained eyes taking in every detail.

Marcus Delaney lay on his back in the center of the stall, positioned on a bed of clean straw. His arms were at his sides, palms up in a position of surrender or supplication. His legs were straight, feet pointing slightly outward. Someone had removed his work boots and placed them neatly at the foot of the makeshift bed, laces tied and aligned with precision.

He wore faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt, the plaid pattern dark with blood around the chest and abdomen. His beard had been combed, the salt-and-pepper strands arranged with unnatural tidiness. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, as if he might be sleeping rather than dead.

But it was the items surrounding the body that transformed the scene from merely tragic to deliberately macabre.

A horse's halter had been placed around Delaney's neck, and the leather strap had been adjusted to fit his human form. A feeding bucket sat near his head, filled not with oats or grain but with small paper cups of water—the kind used to dispense medication to animals. A grooming kit was open beside him, the brushes and combs arranged by size and function.

Most disturbing of all was the tag attached to his wrist—identical to the one found on Dr. Winters. Under ‘Patient Name,’ someone had written ‘Marcus Delaney’ in the same neat block letters. Under ‘Species,’ they'd written ‘Human.’ And under ‘Presenting Complaint’ were the words: ‘Moral negligence.’

Graham crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene. "Time of death?"

Dr. Morrow stepped forward, her movements efficient despite her age. "Preliminary estimate, between noon and two PM. Rigor mortis is well established but not complete."

"Cause?" Hailey asked, her eyes still cataloging details of the scene.

"Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen," Dr. Morrow answered, her voice clinical despite the grim surroundings. "I count seven distinct penetrations. The weapon appears to be a narrow blade, possibly a hunting knife or similar implement. Not serrated."

Hailey crouched beside Graham, studying the victim's face. Marcus Delaney had been in his fifties, his features weathered by years of outdoor work. Deep lines framed his mouth and eyes—laugh lines, the kind earned through a life of genuine emotion. Even in death, there was a gentleness to his expression that seemed at odds with the violence done to his body.

"Defensive wounds?" Graham asked, gesturing to Delaney's hands.

"Minor lacerations on the palms and fingers of both hands. He tried to fight off his attacker."

"So different from Dr. Winters. She was subdued with chloroform, then injected with something. This is... messier."

"Same staging concept, though. Same tag system. Same clinical arrangement of the body and surroundings."

Alice moved closer, grimacing slightly as the movement pulled at her wounded shoulder. "The woman who found him—Jasmine Torres—she works here part-time. Says she came to feed the evening shift and found the barn door open. Delaney was already dead."

"Where is she now?" Hailey asked, rising from her crouched position.

"In the house with a female deputy. She's pretty shaken up."

Hailey nodded. "We'll talk to her in a minute." She turned back to the scene, her eyes drawn to the tag on Delaney's wrist. "Moral negligence."

"Professional misconduct for the vet," Graham said. "Moral negligence for the rescue operator."

"Someone's passing judgment," Hailey murmured. "Making a statement."

The barn fell silent except for the soft hooting of the owl overhead and the occasional creak of the old structure settling. The portable lights cast long shadows across the straw-covered floor, stretching the investigators' silhouettes into elongated versions of themselves.

Dr. Morrow closed her medical bag with a decisive click.

Hailey turned to her sister. "The connection to animal rescue is impossible to ignore. Both of them were deeply involved.”

“Who would be targeting people who care for animals, though?" Alice asked.

Graham hesitated. “I mean… whoever is doing this seems to have some know-how of the industry. This arrangement hints to me they’re not an outsider when it comes to animal care.”

“Delaney was involved in a higher capacity,” Hailey pointed out. “He was a decision-maker.”

“You think this is a coup?”

"I mean, if he was involved in making difficult decisions at the rescue, someone might have disagreed with those choices," Hailey mused, her gaze returning to the body. "Who decides which animals get resources? Which ones are beyond saving? And if he had a role in country-wide decisions…”

Alice nodded slowly. "Triage in animal rescue is controversial. Some people believe every animal deserves unlimited care, no matter the cost or prognosis."

"The staging suggests someone familiar with veterinary protocols," Graham added. "The patient tags, the clinical arrangement. This isn't random."

Hailey stepped back from the stall, her mind racing through possibilities. "We need to know if Dr. Winters and Delaney made any controversial decisions recently. Animals they couldn't save. Resources they had to allocate."

"I'll check if any other local animal welfare advocates have received threats," Alice said, wincing as she shifted her weight. "There's a county board meeting next week about updating our animal ordinances. Maybe there's a connection."

Graham's phone buzzed. He stepped away to answer it, his voice low as he moved toward the barn entrance where the reception was better. The wooden structure creaked around them, and the sound amplified in the growing silence. Outside, the sky had darkened to deep indigo, the first stars appearing above the tree line.

Hailey turned back to the body, studying the careful arrangement. Every detail seemed deliberately placed—the combed beard, the positioned hands, the neatly tied boots at his feet. The killer had taken time with this display, unrushed despite the violence of the attack.

"We should talk to Torres," Hailey said finally, tearing her gaze away from Marcus Delaney's still form. "See what she knows about his recent activities."

Alice nodded, leading the way out of the barn. The night air felt cleansing after the confined space and its grim contents. Floodlights had been set up around the perimeter, casting harsh white light across the muddy yard. More law enforcement vehicles had arrived, their headlights cutting through the darkness as they navigated the rutted driveway.

The farmhouse stood a hundred yards from the barn, its windows glowing with warm yellow light that seemed incongruously peaceful. The white paint peeled from its clapboard siding in long curls, revealing weathered gray wood beneath. A wraparound porch sagged slightly on its aging supports.

Graham rejoined them, slipping his phone into his pocket. "That was the tech team. They're going through Delaney's office computer."

"Find anything?" Hailey asked.

"His calendar. Lots of appointments, as you'd expect." Graham's expression changed, a subtle tightening around his eyes that Hailey had learned to recognize as significant. "But there's one entry that stands out. Next Wednesday, the county courthouse. Listed as 'Testimony - Welfare Ordinance.'"

Alice stopped mid-stride. "The animal welfare revision hearing. County commissioners are voting on strengthening our intervention laws."

"What revisions?" Hailey asked.

"Lower thresholds for animal seizure in neglect cases," Alice explained. "Right now, we can't intervene until animals are actively dying. The new ordinance would allow earlier intervention based on conditions—inadequate shelter, lack of veterinary care, that sort of thing."

Hailey felt the pieces shifting in her mind, potential patterns emerging. "Controversial?"

"Very. Ranchers and farmers see it as government overreach. Animal welfare groups see it as necessary protection." Alice grimaced, adjusting her sling. "Delaney was one of the most vocal supporters. He's seen the worst cases at his rescue."

Graham pulled out his notebook, flipping to a clean page. "Dr. Winters? Was she involved in this ordinance debate?"

"She was scheduled to testify too," Alice confirmed. "As an expert witness about the medical conditions she'd treated in neglect cases."

The implications hung in the cold night air between them. Two key witnesses for the animal welfare ordinance, both murdered within hours of each other. Both staged in ways that mocked their professional roles.

They reached the farmhouse porch, the wooden steps groaning under their weight. A deputy opened the door before they could knock, nodding in recognition at Alice.

"She's in the living room, Sheriff. Still pretty shaken up."

The interior of the farmhouse matched its exterior—worn but clean, the furnishings simple and functional. The walls were painted a faded yellow, family photos and animal portraits hanging in mismatched frames. A wood stove in the corner radiated heat, fighting against the chill that had settled over the property.

Jasmine Torres sat on a sagging couch, a mug of untouched tea on the coffee table before her. She was young—early twenties at most—with dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and olive skin that had paled with shock. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched a tissue.

"Ms. Torres?" Hailey stepped forward, badge in hand. "I'm Special Agent Rock, and this is my partner, Special Agent Vance. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Delaney."

Jasmine looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. "I already told the other officers everything I know."

"Sometimes details come back when you talk through it again," Graham said gently, taking a seat in an armchair across from her. The furniture creaked under his weight. "And we have some specific questions about Mr. Delaney's work."

Jasmine nodded, twisting the tissue in her hands. "Okay."

Hailey remained standing, positioning herself where she could observe Jasmine's reactions. "How long have you worked for Mr. Delaney?"

"Almost two years. Part-time, mostly evenings and weekends. I'm taking veterinary technician courses at the community college." Jasmine's voice was steadier than her hands, as if focusing on the questions helped her maintain composure.

"And today? What brought you to the rescue?"

"Evening feeding shift. I usually get here around four. The animals need to be fed and checked before nightfall." Jasmine glanced toward the window, where darkness had fully descended. "Marcus—Mr. Delaney—he always did the morning rounds himself. I handle evenings most days."

"Was it unusual for the barn door to be open when you arrived?" Graham asked.

Jasmine nodded. "Very. Marcus was strict about keeping gates and doors secured. Animals could escape or injure themselves otherwise." Her voice caught slightly.

"When I saw it open, I called out for him," Jasmine continued, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "Sometimes he worked late in the isolation barn, especially with new rescues. But he didn't answer."

Hailey watched the young woman's face carefully. "Then what happened?"

"I went inside to check. Thought maybe he was with one of the horses and couldn't hear me." Jasmine's hands twisted the tissue into a tight spiral. "I saw him in the last stall. At first, I thought he was sleeping—he sometimes took naps there when an animal needed monitoring. But then I saw the blood."

Her composure cracked slightly, a shudder running through her slender frame. The female deputy who had been standing quietly in the doorway stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Jasmine's shoulder.

"Did you touch anything in the stall?" Graham asked gently.

Jasmine shook her head. "No. I've watched enough crime shows to know better. I backed out and called 911."

Hailey moved closer, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to bring herself to eye level with Jasmine. "We need to ask you about Mr. Delaney's work with the animal welfare ordinance. Was he receiving any threats because of his support?"

"Not threats exactly," Jasmine said after a moment's hesitation. "But there was tension. Some of the local farmers and ranchers were pretty upset with him. Especially after the Henderson case."

"The Henderson case?" Hailey prompted.

"About three months ago. Marcus reported terrible conditions at the Henderson farm—horses standing in mud up to their fetlocks, no shelter, ribs showing. The county couldn't do anything because the current law is so weak. The horses weren't technically dying yet." Jasmine's voice hardened with remembered frustration. "Marcus documented everything. Took photos. He was planning to use them in his testimony next week."

“Er… What’s a fetlock?” Graham muttered, raising a hand sheepishly.

"A horse's ankle," Jasmine explained, a hint of professional knowledge momentarily breaking through her distress. "Standing in mud that deep can cause all kinds of health problems—thrush, abscesses, even laminitis."

Graham nodded, making a note in his small notebook. "Were there specific individuals who took issue with Mr. Delaney's documentation of the Henderson farm?"

"Tom Henderson himself, obviously." Jasmine's fingers had shredded the tissue to pieces. She gathered the fragments carefully, depositing them in a small wastebasket beside the couch. "He confronted Marcus at the feed store about a month ago. There was shouting. The manager had to ask them both to leave."

Hailey exchanged a quick glance with Graham. "Anyone else?"

Jasmine hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands. "There's a group. They call themselves the Rural Property Rights Coalition. They've been fighting the ordinance changes pretty aggressively. Flyers, social media campaigns, showing up at county meetings."

"Any names stand out in this coalition?" Graham asked.

"Frank Whitley is their spokesperson. He owns one of the largest cattle operations in the county." Jasmine tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture unconsciously revealing a small tattoo of a horseshoe on her wrist. “But… he’s in a wheelchair. So…” She trailed off, wincing. “An accident six years ago.”

“So… he wouldn’t have been able to do something like this?” Hailey said, gesturing towards the barn.

A small shake of the head.

“But Henderson?” Hailey pushed.

“I… I’m not accusing anyone of anything!”

Hailey held up a hand in a calming gesture. "We understand. We're just trying to build a complete picture."

Jasmine nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Tom Henderson is physically capable, yes. He's in his forties, works his land himself. And he was angry—really angry—about Marcus documenting the conditions of his horses."

"Did Dr. Winters have any involvement with the Henderson case?" Graham asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

"She examined the horses after they were eventually surrendered." Jasmine's voice strengthened as she discussed the medical aspects. "They were severely malnourished, parasite-infested. One had to be euthanized—its hooves were so overgrown it couldn't walk properly anymore. Dr. Winters documented everything for the case file."

Hailey processed this information, the connections multiplying. Two key witnesses in an animal welfare case, both murdered before they could testify. Both involved in documenting the Henderson farm conditions.

"One more question," Hailey said. "The staging of Mr. Delaney's body—the halter, the grooming kit, the tag on his wrist. Does that have any significance that you can think of?"

Jasmine's brow furrowed. "A halter? I didn't notice... I was too shocked by the blood." She shook her head slowly. "I don't understand."

"Someone arranged him like an animal," Graham explained gently. "Similar to how Dr. Winters was found this morning."

Jasmine's eyes widened. "Dr. Winters? She's dead too?" Her hand flew to her mouth, fresh horror washing over her features. "I didn't know. No one told me."

Alice stepped forward from where she'd been observing near the doorway. "We're still notifying people. It happened early this morning."

Jasmine stared at them, her shock giving way to a deeper fear. "Two people? Both Marcus and Dr. Winters?" Her voice rose slightly. "What's happening?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Hailey said. She only hoped the professional calm she used to color her words would conceal her own concerns. With little to go on, they needed to find where their killer had made his mistake… or their next clue would come courtesy of a fresh corpse.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The drive to the Henderson farm took them through progressively darker and more isolated country roads. Night had fully claimed the landscape, transforming familiar terrain into shadowy, indistinct shapes. Hailey sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the blackness punctuated only by the SUV's headlights and the occasional reflective eyes of wildlife in the ditches.

"Tom Henderson," Graham said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "Forty-seven years old. Two prior arrests for disorderly conduct, both at local bars. One domestic disturbance call five years ago, no charges filed." He recited the information Alice had provided before they'd left the animal rescue.

Hailey nodded, processing. "And a documented confrontation with Marcus Delaney at the feed store."

"Plus the horses that were eventually surrendered. One euthanized." Graham's hands were steady on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp curve in the road. Gravel popped beneath the tires. "Motive is there."

"Strong motive," Hailey agreed. "Delaney and Winters were about to testify against his interests, with documentation of his neglected animals."

Graham slowed as they approached a rusted mailbox marking a narrow dirt driveway. Henderson Farm was painted on the side in faded white letters. He turned onto the drive, the SUV's headlights illuminating deep ruts and mud puddles from recent rain.

"No lights," Hailey observed as the farmhouse came into view. The structure was a single-story ranch style, its white paint dingy and peeling. The yard was cluttered with rusting farm equipment and discarded household items. No vehicles were visible.

Graham parked near the front porch, killing the engine but leaving the headlights on. The beams cut through the darkness, illuminating the weathered front door and windows with drawn curtains.

"Could be asleep," Graham suggested, though his tone indicated he didn't believe it.

Hailey checked her watch. 8:45 PM. A touch early in the city, but on a farm? It wasn’t that unlikely an explanation. But it also didn’t change what they needed.

They exited the vehicle simultaneously, doors closing with twin thumps that seemed too loud in the rural silence. The air was colder now, the temperature continuing to drop as night deepened. Their breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly in the beam of the flashlights they carried.

The porch steps gave a small squeak of protest on each step. Hailey positioned herself to one side of the door, Graham to the other—standard procedure ingrained through years of training and field experience.

Graham knocked firmly. "Mr. Henderson? FBI. We need to speak with you."

Silence answered them. No movement behind the curtained windows. No shuffling footsteps approaching the door.

Graham knocked again, louder. "Tom Henderson? This is the FBI. Open the door."

When no response came, Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham. She stepped off the porch, moving toward the nearest window. The curtains were thin enough that her flashlight beam penetrated partially, revealing a cluttered living room. Empty beer cans littered a coffee table. A recliner sat positioned before a modest television set. Nothing moved inside.

"I'll check around back," she said, her voice low.

The yard was treacherous in the darkness—uneven ground, abandoned tools, and other debris creating obstacles that her flashlight beam caught just in time to avoid. The smell of livestock grew stronger as she moved toward the rear of the property. A barn loomed in the distance, its weathered boards silvery in the moonlight that had begun to emerge from behind scattered clouds.

The back door of the house was unlocked. It swung open with a protesting creak when Hailey tested the handle. She paused, listening for any sound from within.

"Graham," she called, not too loudly. "Back door's open."

His footsteps approached quickly, his boots grinding the stoney ground under him. He appeared at the corner of the house, flashlight beam sweeping the ground before him.

"Signs of forced entry?" he asked, drawing level with her.

Hailey examined the door frame carefully. "No. Looks like it was just left unlocked."

Standard procedure would be to call for backup, secure the perimeter, wait for additional units. But they were thirty minutes from town on isolated back roads, and the circumstances were suspicious enough to justify entry.

"Federal agents," Graham called out, pushing the door wider. "We're coming in."

The kitchen beyond was dark and smelled of old grease and stale beer. Hailey's flashlight revealed unwashed dishes piled in the sink, a table cluttered with mail and empty fast-food containers. A refrigerator hummed in the corner, its surface covered with magnetized advertisements from local businesses.

They moved through the house methodically, clearing each room with practiced efficiency. The living room matched what Hailey had glimpsed through the window. A bathroom held damp towels thrown haphazardly over a shower curtain rod. The single bedroom contained an unmade bed, clothes strewn across the floor, dresser drawers partially open as if someone had rummaged through them in haste.

"No Henderson," Graham said as they completed their sweep. "But someone left in a hurry."

Hailey nodded, scanning the bedroom again. "Recent, too. These towels in the bathroom are still damp."

Graham moved to the bedside table, shining his flashlight on its surface. A phone charger cord lay unplugged, its end dangling over the edge. A wallet sat beside an alarm clock.

Then, Hailey heard a noise. A shout followed a few seconds later by a splash.

"Did you hear that?" Hailey asked, already moving toward the back door. The sound had been distant but distinct—human, not animal.

Graham nodded, following close behind. "Came from behind the barn."

They moved quickly across the darkened yard, flashlight beams bouncing as they navigated around rusting farm equipment and discarded lumber. The barn loomed ahead, its weathered boards silver in the moonlight. Another sound reached them—another splash followed by muffled cursing.

"There," Graham pointed, veering toward a shadowy area beyond the barn's far corner.

As they rounded the structure, their flashlights illuminated an old stone well. The wooden cover that once sealed it lay splintered on the ground nearby. Water splashed again, the sound echoing up from the depths.

"Henderson?" Hailey called, approaching cautiously.

Their flashlight beams converged on the well's interior. Fifteen feet below, Tom Henderson stood waist-deep in murky water. His weathered face looked up at them, squinting against the light. Mud streaked his ruddy cheeks and matted his graying hair. His flannel shirt clung to his stocky frame, soaked and filthy.

"Help!" he shouted, voice echoing against the stone walls. "I can't climb out!"

Hailey surveyed the scene quickly. The well's stone walls were slick with moss and age, offering few handholds. Henderson's desperate attempts to scale them had left muddy streaks where his fingers had scrabbled for purchase.

"How long have you been down there?" Graham asked, already shrugging off his jacket.

"Er… a couple minutes," Henderson's voice was hoarse. "Fell when I was trying to..." He trailed off, looking away.

"Trying to what?" Hailey pressed, her flashlight beam steady on his face. “Run away? Hide from the feds?”

Henderson didn't answer, his jaw clenching stubbornly.

"We need to get him out first," Graham said, already looking around for something they could use. "There's a length of rope in the SUV emergency kit."

While Graham jogged back toward their vehicle, Hailey kept her light trained on Henderson. The man shifted uncomfortably in the cold water, his breath visible in the beam of her flashlight.

"You picked a strange place to hide, Henderson," she said, her voice carrying easily down the stone shaft.

His head jerked up. "Who says I was hiding?"

"The house shows signs of a hasty departure. Damp towels. Clothes scattered everywhere." Hailey crouched at the well's edge, careful to maintain her balance on the slippery stones. "And yet your wallet's still on the nightstand. Most people take their wallet when they leave normally."

Henderson's shoulders slumped. The water around him rippled with his movement, small waves lapping against the moss-covered stones. “Just get me the hell out of here.”

Graham returned with a coiled rope, the beam of his flashlight bobbing through the darkness. He dropped to one knee beside Hailey, quickly assessing the situation.

"We'll lower this down," he called to Henderson. "Tie it around your chest, under your arms. We'll pull you up."

Henderson nodded, water dripping from his mud-caked hair. Graham carefully lowered the rope, the coils unspooling into the darkness until the end reached the man below. Henderson's hands, red and raw from failed climbing attempts, fumbled with the rope before securing it around his torso.

"Ready," he called up, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

Graham and Hailey positioned themselves on opposite sides of the well, gripping the rope firmly. Henderson was a stocky man, easily two hundred pounds, now made heavier by his water-logged clothing.

"On three," Graham said. "One, two, three—"

They pulled in unison, muscles straining against the dead weight. Henderson scrambled against the stone walls with his feet, trying to help push himself upward. The rope creaked with tension. Inch by inch, they raised him toward the surface.

When Henderson's hands finally gripped the edge of the well, Graham leaned forward, grasping the man's wrist and hauling him the rest of the way out. Henderson collapsed onto the muddy ground, coughing and sputtering, water pooling beneath his soaked form.

"Thank you," he managed between gasps.

Hailey stood over him, flashlight illuminating his mud-streaked face. "Mr. Henderson, we need to ask you some questions about Marcus Delaney and Dr. Sarah Winters."

Henderson's head snapped up, his eyes suddenly wary. “Can’t this wait? I’m soaked.”

“That was your choice.”

He grumbled, his features beginning to turn red. “Don’t get smart. My choice? Fine, then it’s my choice to get dry and changed first before talking about those assholes. Why are you here anyway? Those cretins do something?”

"They're dead," Graham said bluntly. "Murdered."

The color that had appeared quickly drained from Henderson's face, visible even beneath the mud and in the harsh beam of the flashlight. "Dead? Both of them?"

"Yes," Hailey confirmed, watching his reaction carefully. Genuine shock was difficult to fake, and Henderson's expression showed it—eyes widened, jaw slackened, the momentary paralysis of a mind processing unexpected information.

"I didn't—" Henderson began, then stopped himself. He struggled to his feet, water cascading from his clothes. He swayed slightly, steadying himself against the well's edge. "I need to sit down."

"Let's go inside," Graham suggested, though his tone made it clear this wasn't optional.

Henderson nodded mutely, leading the way back toward the farmhouse. His gait was unsteady, partly from the cold water that had numbed his legs, partly from the shock of the news. Mud squelched beneath his boots with each step.

Inside the kitchen, Henderson peeled off his soaked flannel shirt, revealing a stained undershirt stretched tight across his barrel chest. He grabbed a relatively clean dish towel from a drawer and roughly dried his face and hair, leaving muddy streaks on the fabric.

"When?" he asked finally, his voice hoarse. "When did they die?"

"Dr. Winters was found this morning," Hailey said, remaining standing while Henderson lowered himself heavily onto a kitchen chair. "Marcus Delaney was discovered this afternoon."

Henderson's hands trembled slightly as he placed them flat on the table. His wedding ring—a simple gold band worn thin with age—caught the harsh overhead light. "And you think I had something to do with it? That's why you're here?"

"We know about your confrontation with Delaney at the feed store," Graham said, positioning himself near the doorway. "And about your horses that were surrendered—one euthanized due to neglect."

"And we know both Delaney and Winters were scheduled to testify next week about the animal welfare ordinance," Hailey added. "Using documentation from your farm as evidence."

“Not next week,” Henderson snorted. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“They moved the meeting. Just the sort of thing those meddlers liked to do. I was busy tomorrow. Bet they didn’t think I’d show.” The red flush was returning to his face again.

Henderson's face darkened, anger momentarily overriding shock. "Besides, those goddamn horses belonged to my wife. She left two years ago—ran off with some insurance salesman from Springfield. Didn't take the horses, though. Just left them for me to deal with." He slammed his palm on the table, making the scattered mail jump. "I'm a cattle farmer. Don't know the first thing about horses."

"Yet you kept them," Hailey observed.

"They were expensive. Thought I could sell them." Henderson's shoulders slumped. "Then feed prices went up. Drought hit. Had to choose between feeding my cattle—my livelihood—or her damn pleasure horses."

"So you neglected them.”

Henderson's jaw tightened. "I did what I could with what I had. Delaney could have offered to help. Instead, he took pictures. Called the authorities. Made me out to be some kind of monster."

"And Dr. Winters? What was your issue with her?" Hailey asked.

"She sided with him. Wrote up some fancy medical report about their conditions." Henderson's hands clenched into fists on the table. "Cost me thousands in fines. And my reputation."

The pieces aligned too neatly, Hailey thought. The motive was clear. The opportunity existed. Henderson had no alibi. And yet...

"If you didn't know they were dead, why did you hide when we arrived?" Hailey asked, her voice cutting through the kitchen's musty air.

Henderson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Water still dripped from his jeans onto the linoleum floor, forming small puddles that reflected the harsh overhead light. The clock on the microwave blinked 9:17 in neon green digits.

"Feds. No one around here likes feds." His eyes darted between them, then fixed on a point somewhere over Hailey's left shoulder. "You people show up, it's never good news. Figured it was about those damn horses again."

Graham moved from his position by the doorway, pulling out a chair across from Henderson. The wooden legs scraped against the linoleum, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense kitchen. He sat, placing his notebook on the table between them.

"So the meeting was moved to tomorrow?" Graham's voice remained neutral, conversational. "Where is it being held?"

Henderson's mud-streaked face contorted with disgust. "County courthouse. They sent out notices last week about the change." He gestured vaguely toward the pile of mail on the table. "Said it was to 'accommodate scheduling conflicts,' but everyone knows it was just to catch farmers off-guard. Harvest season. We're busy."

Hailey remained standing, circling slowly around the kitchen. Her boots left faint impressions on the grimy floor. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the trash can.

"Where were you last night between midnight and two AM, Mr. Henderson?" she asked, her tone deliberately casual as she examined a collection of hunting knives mounted on a wooden plaque near the refrigerator. Six slots. Five knives. One missing.

Henderson's eyes followed her movement, narrowing when they reached the knife display. "Home. Sleeping.”

"Anyone who can verify that?"

"Live alone, don't I?" Henderson scratched at his stubbled chin, leaving a fresh smear of mud. "Dog might've noticed if I'd left, but I don't think you'll get much out of him."

As if on cue, a scratching sound came from the back door. Graham rose and opened it, revealing a mangy border collie with one torn ear. The dog slipped inside, shaking itself vigorously before settling near Henderson's feet with a weary sigh.

"And today? Between noon and two PM?" Graham asked, returning to his seat.

Henderson's brow furrowed. "Was at the Mercantile in town. Needed feed. Then stopped at Denny's for lunch." He gestured toward an empty takeout container on the counter. "Got the receipt somewhere if you don't believe me."

Hailey moved to the knife display, her finger hovering near the empty slot. She then spotted the missing knife in the sink.

She released a slow breath.

“Anyone would’ve seen you?”

“Bunch of people. Think they probably have security cameras too.”

The farmhouse grew silent, the only sounds the steady drip of water from Henderson's clothes and the dog's occasional whine. Henderson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his shoulders hunched forward. The initial shock of hearing about the murders had faded, replaced by a wary defensiveness.

"One of your knives was missing," Hailey said, gesturing toward the display. "I see it's in the sink now."

Henderson's gaze followed her pointing finger. "Used it to cut open a feed bag this morning. Hadn't cleaned it yet."

Hailey crossed to the sink, peering at the knife without touching it. The blade was caked with a brownish substance. "What kind of feed leaves this residue?"

Henderson leaned forward, squinting. "Molasses in the cattle feed. Gets sticky. Was gonna soak it."

Graham made a note in his book. "We'll need to confirm your whereabouts, Mr. Henderson. The Mercantile and Denny's."

Henderson nodded, resignation settling across his features. "Do what you gotta do." He stood, water still dripping from his jeans. "Mind if I change while you're at it? Gonna catch pneumonia sitting here soaked."

Graham nodded. "Keep the door open."

As Henderson shuffled toward the bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the linoleum, Hailey turned to Graham, keeping her voice low.

"What's your read?"

Graham's expression remained neutral, but his eyes conveyed his thoughts. "The anger's genuine. The motive's strong. But this staging—the clinical precision, the tags, the arrangement of the bodies—that takes a different kind of mind than what I'm seeing here."

Hailey nodded her agreement. "Henderson's more likely to throw a punch in a feed store than carefully position a body with symbolic elements."

"We should still check his alibi," Graham said, just as Henderson reappeared in dry clothes—worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt that had seen better days.

Henderson's eyebrows rose. "You two done whispering about me?"

"Mr. Henderson," Hailey said, ignoring his comment, "we'll need to confirm your whereabouts. In the meantime, please don't leave the area."

Henderson snorted. "Where would I go? This farm's all I got left."

As they prepared to leave, Henderson surprised them by asking, "How'd they die? Delaney and the vet?"

Hailey hesitated, then decided a partial truth might yield useful information. "They were staged. Positioned like animals. Tags attached to their wrists like patients."

Henderson's face paled beneath the streaks of mud. "That's... that's sick."

"Does that mean anything to you?" Graham asked, watching closely. "The staging?"

Henderson shook his head slowly. "No. Nothing. Now… if you don’t mind?”

Hailey was already moving towards the door. “What time is that meeting tomorrow?” she said.

Henderson ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "Nine o'clock. County courthouse, main chamber." He hesitated, then added, "Look, I didn't like those two. They were meddlers. Self-righteous do-gooders who didn't understand what it's like trying to keep a farm running these days, not really. This isn’t a charity. I actually need to make money if I’m going to stay afloat. We never saw eye-to-eye on that. But I didn't kill them."

His voice carried a rough sincerity that made Hailey pause at the doorway. The border collie whined softly, pressing against Henderson's leg.

Outside, the night had grown colder, a crystalline quality to the air suggesting frost by morning. Their breath formed clouds that dissipated quickly in the darkness. The SUV's headlights cut twin beams through the rural blackness, illuminating the rutted driveway ahead.

"His alibi for the Delaney murder should be easy to verify," Hailey said as Graham steered them back toward the main road. "The Mercantile should have security footage, witnesses."

Graham nodded, his profile outlined by the dashboard lights. "The timing works, though. If the county meeting was moved to tomorrow, that increases the urgency. Kill the witnesses, stop the testimony."

"But the staging," Hailey countered. "That's what doesn't fit Henderson's profile. The patient tags, the clinical arrangement. That suggests someone with knowledge of veterinary procedures, someone methodical."

"Someone making a statement," Graham agreed.

They drove in silence for several minutes, the SUV's tires humming against the asphalt. Fields and forests passed in darkness, occasional farmhouse lights glimmering in the distance like earth-bound stars.

"This meeting tomorrow," Hailey said suddenly. "If it's about the animal welfare ordinance, and two key witnesses have been murdered..."

"There might be others at risk," Graham finished her thought. "We should get a list of everyone scheduled to testify."

Hailey nodded, reaching for her phone. "I'll call Alice."

As Graham navigated the dark country roads back toward town, Hailey felt the familiar tension building at the base of her skull—the pressure of a case accelerating, of lives potentially hanging in the balance.

Tomorrow morning, more potential victims would gather in one place. The sheep would gather, and Hailey could only hope they would find the wolf among them.

CHAPTER NINE

Morning arrived with the crystalline clarity that follows a hard frost. The courthouse square was still in shadow, the sun not yet high enough to reach over the surrounding buildings. Hailey's breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly in the cold air as she and Graham approached the century-old structure. Its limestone facade glowed amber in the early light, the four massive columns supporting a triangular pediment inscribed with Justice For All in weathered letters.

"Quite the turnout," Graham observed, nodding toward the people filing up the wide stone steps.

Farmers in worn work clothes stood in small clusters, their faces weathered and expressions guarded. They spoke in low voices, occasionally casting wary glances toward another group—mostly women and younger men wearing buttons with animal silhouettes and slogans about welfare reform. The two factions maintained an invisible boundary between them, the tension palpable even from a distance.

Hailey scanned the crowd, cataloging faces, postures, potential threats. After Henderson's revelation about the rescheduled meeting, they'd worked late into the night with Alice's team, compiling a list of everyone scheduled to testify. Three more witnesses remained alive—a county extension agent, the director of the local humane society, and Dr. Phillips—a large animal vet from the neighboring county who'd been called in to consult on several neglect cases.

"I see Dr. Phillips," Hailey said, nodding toward a tall woman in a professional pantsuit standing near the courthouse doors.

Graham followed her gaze. "Looks nervous. Can't blame her."

They'd placed calls to all three remaining witnesses last night, warning them of the potential danger without causing unnecessary panic. All had agreed to additional security measures, including police escorts to the meeting.

The courthouse doors stood open, releasing a wedge of warmth and light into the chilly morning. People continued to arrive—county commissioners in suits and ties, local media with cameras and notepads, curious citizens drawn by the controversy or the news of the recent murders.

Hailey's phone buzzed in her pocket. Alice's name appeared on the screen.

"We're in position," Alice said without preamble. "Four deputies inside, two at each entrance. Dr. Phillips has an officer with her. Martin from the Humane Society just arrived with his escort."

"We're heading in now," Hailey replied, ending the call with a tap.

The interior of the courthouse smelled of old wood, floor polish, and paper. The main corridor stretched before them, its marble floor worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Portraits of stern-faced judges lined the walls, observing the proceedings with painted eyes that seemed to follow their movement.

The commission chamber occupied most of the building's east wing. Its double doors stood open, revealing rows of wooden benches already half-filled with attendees. At the front, a raised dais held a curved table where the five county commissioners would sit. American and Missouri state flags flanked a large county seal mounted on the wall behind the dais.

Hailey and Graham slipped into the chamber, positioning themselves against the back wall where they could observe the entire room. One of Alice's deputies nodded in acknowledgment from his post near the side entrance. The room continued to fill, the murmur of voices rising as more people arrived. The wooden benches creaked under the weight of bodies, the sound mingling with the rustle of papers and occasional cough.

At precisely nine o'clock, the side door behind the dais opened. The five county commissioners filed in—three men and two women, all in business attire that ranged from expensive suits to department store blazers. Commissioner Harlow, a silver-haired man with the weathered face of a former farmer, took the center seat. He rapped a wooden gavel three times, the sharp crack silencing the room.

"This special session of the Taney County Commission will now come to order," Harlow announced, his voice carrying easily through the high-ceilinged chamber. "We're here to discuss and vote on Ordinance 23-17, regarding revisions to the county animal welfare standards."

The proceedings began with a reading of the proposed ordinance changes by the county clerk—a thin woman whose monotone voice seemed designed to drain all emotion from the controversial text. Hailey forced herself to focus on the words, noting the specific provisions that would have most angered farmers like Henderson.

"...authorize county animal control officers to investigate reports of neglect without visible signs of imminent death or severe injury..."

"...require adequate shelter for all livestock, defined as protection from extreme weather conditions..."

As the clerk droned on, Hailey's gaze swept continuously over the audience. The division remained clear—farmers and ranchers on the left side of the aisle, animal welfare advocates on the right. Faces registered reactions to specific provisions—tightened jaws, narrowed eyes, approving nods.

Commissioner Harlow called for public comments next. A line formed at the microphone positioned in the center aisle. One by one, citizens approached, stated their names for the record, and delivered passionate arguments for or against the ordinance.

"This is government overreach, plain and simple," declared a weathered man in a feed-store cap. "Been raising cattle for forty years without someone who’s never even stepped on a ranch telling me how to do it."

"These are basic minimum standards of decency," countered a middle-aged woman in a sweater emblazoned with paw prints. "No animal should suffer from lack of shelter or medical care."

The pattern continued, the arguments growing increasingly repetitive. Hailey felt her attention drifting despite her professional discipline. The chamber had grown warm with so many bodies packed into the space. The air smelled of coffee, wool coats, and the particular mustiness of a seldom-used public building. The wooden bench beneath her had grown uncomfortable, its hard surface unforgiving against her tailbone.

A farmer in overalls approached the microphone, his weathered hands gripping a prepared statement that trembled slightly. His voice quavered as he read, the same points about property rights and government interference that had been made by three speakers before him. Behind him, a woman in a floral dress shifted impatiently from foot to foot, clutching her own notes.

Hailey suppressed a yawn. The clock on the wall seemed to have slowed, its minute hand barely moving. Sunlight now streamed through the high windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. The pattern they made against the polished wooden floor reminded her of crime scene photographs—splatter patterns, evidence markers.

She straightened, shaking off the momentary lapse in focus. Graham caught her eye, a subtle questioning lift of his eyebrows. She nodded almost imperceptibly. Still alert. Still watching.

She leaned toward Graham. "I'm going to check the back," she whispered.

He nodded, shifting slightly to better cover her absence.

Hailey slipped along the wall toward the rear of the chamber, her movements deliberately casual. The back row of benches ended near a small enclosed booth where two elderly volunteers sat behind a counter distributing agendas and signing in late arrivals. The booth was a relic from another era—dark wood with ornate carvings along its edges, a small brass lamp casting a warm circle of light onto the attendance ledger. The woman manning it wore a volunteer badge pinned to her cardigan, her silver hair arranged in a careful permanent wave. The man beside her had the stooped posture of someone who had spent decades bending over farm equipment, his gnarled hands resting on a worn clipboard.

Hailey approached the booth, badge already in hand. The elderly woman looked up, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the FBI credentials.

"Good morning," Hailey kept her voice low, mindful of the ongoing testimony behind her. "I need to check who's signed in today."

The woman—her nametag identified her as Dorothy—hesitated. "Well, I suppose that would be all right, given the circumstances." She pushed the leather-bound ledger toward Hailey. Another glance at her badge, clearly interpreting the reason for Hailey’s attendance. "Terrible business, those murders. Never thought I'd see such a thing in Pleasant."

Hailey nodded, already scanning the names in the ledger. Most were familiar from their investigation—the remaining expert witnesses, county officials, regular attendees of commission meetings.

"Has everyone who entered signed in?" Hailey asked, her finger hovering over the name.

The elderly man leaned forward. "County policy requires it, but we can't exactly chase folks down." His voice had the gravelly quality of a lifelong smoker. "Some come in the side doors to avoid the line."

Dorothy adjusted her glasses. "We try to catch everyone, but with all the commotion this morning..." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the crowded chamber.

Hailey looked up from the list. No names stood out.

She said, “You know about the murders, though?”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone knows about them,” The man muttered, shaking his head sadly.

“Did you know the victims personally?”

The man shook his head, but the woman said, "Oh yes, I knew Sarah—Dr. Winters—quite well," Dorothy said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "She treated my Pomeranian for years. Such a gentle touch with animals. And always took time to explain everything thoroughly." Dorothy's eyes misted slightly. "Marcus Delaney too. He spoke at our garden club last spring about sustainable farming practices. Such a kind man."

Hailey nodded, studying Dorothy more carefully. "Did either of them mention feeling threatened recently? Any concerns about the testimony they were planning to give today?"

Dorothy hesitated, glancing at her elderly companion. "Well, Sarah did mention some... tension. Last time I brought Mitzi in for her shots." She adjusted her glasses nervously. "Said she'd received some anonymous notes. Nothing specific, just warning her to 'mind her own business' regarding the ordinance."

"Did she report these notes to the sheriff?"

"I urged her to, but she dismissed them. Said it was just someone blowing off steam. I should have insisted. Maybe if she'd taken it more seriously..."

"You couldn't have known," Hailey assured her gently. "Did she say anything about what these notes looked like? Handwritten, typed?"

"Typed, I believe. Left on her windshield at the clinic. She mentioned there would be no point trying to get the police to dust for prints or anything, since everyone knew to use gloves or something nowadays."

Hailey made a mental note to check if any such notes had been found in Dr. Winters' belongings. The testimony at the microphone had continued behind them, a farmer now arguing passionately about the economic impact of the proposed regulations.

"Thank you, Dorothy. This is helpful."

Hailey was about to return to her position when Dorothy leaned forward, her age-spotted hand reaching out to touch Hailey's wrist. The contact was light, almost hesitant, but it stopped Hailey mid-turn.

"There's something else," Dorothy said, her voice dropping even lower.

Hailey leaned closer, the wooden booth creating a small pocket of privacy amid the crowded chamber. Dorothy's perfume—something floral and old-fashioned—mingled with the scent of dust and paper that clung to the ancient ledger.

"What is it?" Hailey prompted when Dorothy hesitated.

The elderly woman glanced around nervously, then reached beneath the counter. Her arthritic fingers extracted a manila folder, its edges worn and slightly discolored with age. She placed it on the counter between them, her hand remaining protectively over it.

"I volunteer at the county records office on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Dorothy explained, her voice barely audible over the ongoing testimony. "Have done for fifteen years since my Harold passed. Mostly filing, some basic digitization work."

Hailey nodded, her attention fixed on the folder. The tab was labeled simply ‘Lambert’ in faded ink.

"When I heard about Sarah and Marcus, something clicked." Dorothy tapped her temple with one gnarled finger. "Old minds wander, but sometimes they wander to important places. I pulled this yesterday afternoon."

She slid the folder toward Hailey, who opened it carefully. Inside were court documents, veterinary reports, and photographs—dozens of photographs. They showed emaciated cattle standing in snow-covered fields, ribs and hipbones protruding beneath dull, matted coats. No shelter visible. Water troughs frozen solid. Some animals lay motionless in the snow, already dead or close to it.

"Lambert Farm," Dorothy said. "Three years ago. Worst animal neglect case in county history."

Hailey flipped through the photographs. Each bore a small stamp: "Documentation by M. Delaney" and a date. The veterinary reports carried Dr. Winters' signature, her neat handwriting detailing malnutrition, frostbite, untreated infections.

"I remember this," Hailey said, the details surfacing from the background noise of local events she'd absorbed since returning to Taney County. "The seizure of over forty head of cattle during that record-breaking cold snap."

Dorothy nodded, the overhead light glinting off her glasses. "Seventy-three animals in all. Forty-six survived. County had to euthanize the rest—too far gone." Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "It divided the community. Some said old man Lambert had dementia, shouldn't be held responsible. Others pointed out his son was living on the property too, perfectly capable of seeking help."

Hailey continued examining the documents. Court orders. Seizure warrants. Testimony transcripts. "Lambert fought the seizure?"

“I brought it because I’m planning on showing it to the board,” she said, waving towards the front of the room. “It’s important to see what can happen if caretaking efforts are neglected.” She nodded sagely.

“And… why are you showing this to me?”

The woman blinked. “Oh? Didn't I say? Delaney and Dr. Winters were the key witnesses in that case too. They documented everything, testified in court." Dorothy tapped a weathered finger on one of the photographs. "The Lamberts lost everything. Farm was auctioned to cover fines and court costs."

Hailey felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. "What happened to them? The Lamberts?"

"Old man died about a year later. Nursing home in Springfield." Dorothy's voice dropped further. "The son, Walter—he disappeared right after the auction. Some said he moved to Arkansas to work on his cousin's farm. Others..." She hesitated, glancing around before continuing. "Well, there were rumors he'd made threats. Against the county, against those who testified."

"Threats?" Hailey pressed, keeping her voice low. "What kind of threats?"

"Just talk, most likely. Walter had a temper, but he kept to himself mostly. Odd duck, always had been. Good with animals, though—that's what made the neglect case so strange. He'd studied veterinary science at the community college years back, never finished the program."

Hailey's pulse quickened. "Veterinary science?"

Dorothy nodded. "Two years of it, I believe. Dropped out when his mother got sick. Had to help on the farm."

The pieces began shifting in Hailey's mind, forming a new pattern. Walter Lambert. Veterinary training. A grudge against Delaney and Winters for their testimony. The clinical staging of the bodies. The patient tags.

"Dorothy, is there a photograph of Walter Lambert in this file?"

The elderly woman frowned, flipping through the documents with arthritic fingers. "Should be. He was named in the court proceedings."

As Dorothy searched, Hailey glanced back toward the front of the chamber. The testimony continued, a woman now speaking passionately about the importance of proper shelter for livestock. Graham remained at his post against the wall, his gaze methodically scanning the room. The morning sun had risen higher, its light now streaming directly through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden beams.

"Here," Dorothy said, extracting a page from the middle of the file. "Court appearance, January 2020."

The photograph showed a thin man in his early forties, standing on the courthouse steps. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared despite the evident defeat in his expression. Dark hair cut short, almost military in its precision. A neatly trimmed beard. His eyes—cold, blue, focused—stared directly into the camera with an intensity that seemed to transcend the photograph.

"Walter Lambert," Dorothy confirmed.

Hailey studied the image, committing the face to memory. Something about his expression nagged at her—a controlled anger, a calculating assessment behind those blue eyes.

"Is he here today?" she asked, scanning the chamber with renewed purpose.

Dorothy shrugged, her thin shoulders rising and falling beneath her cardigan. "I haven't seen him. But then, it's been three years. People change."

Hailey nodded, closing the folder. "May I keep this for now?"

"Of course, dear. I made a copy for the commissioners anyway."

"Thank you, Dorothy. This could be very important." Hailey tucked the folder under her arm, already turning toward Graham. She needed to share this information immediately.

The testimony at the microphone had shifted to technical questions about enforcement mechanisms. Commissioner Harlow looked increasingly weary, checking his watch as a speaker exceeded his allotted three minutes. The chamber had grown warmer, the combined body heat of so many people combining with the building's ancient heating system imitated a sauna against the chill outside.

Hailey moved along the back wall, her eyes continuously scanning the crowd. Walter Lambert. Veterinary training. A grudge. The pieces aligned with disturbing clarity.

She reached Graham's position, leaning close to whisper in his ear. "I may have something. Walter Lambert. Lost his farm after Delaney and Winters testified against him in an animal neglect case. He has partial veterinary training."

Graham's expression remained neutral, but his eyes sharpened with interest. "The clinical staging."

"Exactly." Hailey opened the folder slightly, giving him a glimpse of Lambert's photograph. "Keep an eye out for this man."

Graham studied the image for several seconds, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'll alert the deputies."

As Graham moved toward the nearest uniformed officer, Hailey continued scanning the chamber. The audience had shifted during the testimony, people standing or changing seats as the meeting progressed. Some had left entirely, the controversial subject matter apparently less compelling than their daily responsibilities.

The side door opened, admitting a late arrival—a man in his forties, wearing jeans and a plain button-down shirt. He slipped into the back row, his movements careful and deliberate. His dark hair was cut short, his beard neatly trimmed. Even from this distance, Hailey could see the intensity in his blue eyes as they surveyed the room.

Walter Lambert.

He was carrying a black backpack at his side.

Hailey's hand moved instinctively toward her service weapon, concealed beneath her jacket. She caught Graham's eye across the room, a subtle nod indicating the target. Graham changed direction immediately, moving along the opposite wall to approach from the other side.

Lambert sat absolutely still, his posture unnaturally rigid. His gaze was fixed on the front of the chamber, where Dr. Phillips—the consulting veterinarian—had just been called to testify. His hands rested on his knees, the knuckles white with tension. The black backpack rested next to his leg.

Hailey moved closer, maintaining a casual pace to avoid drawing attention. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. She could see Lambert's profile now—the tight jaw, the controlled breathing, the absolute focus with which he watched Dr. Phillips approach the microphone.

Then, all of a sudden, Lambert surged to his feet, yanking something from his backpack with a shout.

CHAPTER TEN

"Drop it!" Hailey shouted, drawing her weapon in one fluid motion.

The chamber erupted in chaos—people screaming, diving for cover, scrambling toward the exits. The commissioners behind the dais ducked below their table. Security officers rushed forward, hands on their holstered weapons.

But Lambert wasn't holding a gun or a knife. In his hand was a metal bucket, its contents already arcing through the air in a crimson cascade. The thick red liquid splashed across his chest and face, dripping down his clean shirt and jeans in viscous rivulets. The metallic smell hit Hailey's nostrils—not blood, but paint. Bright red paint, deliberately chosen to mimic the blood of slaughtered animals.

"You have my father's blood on your hands!" Lambert screamed, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. "All of you! You killed him as surely as if you'd put a gun to his head!"

Hailey kept her weapon trained on him, advancing cautiously. "Walter Lambert! FBI! Put the bucket down and place your hands behind your head!"

Paint dripped from Lambert's beard, staining the wooden floor beneath him. His blue eyes blazed with an intensity that bordered on madness, yet remained eerily focused. The chamber had partially emptied, those closest to the exits fleeing at the first sign of disturbance. Those who remained were frozen in place, transfixed by the macabre spectacle.

"They took everything," Lambert continued, his voice dropping to a controlled intensity that carried through the stunned silence. "Our land. Our animals. Our dignity. Five generations of Lamberts worked that soil, and they destroyed it all with their self-righteous judgment."

Graham had positioned himself on Lambert's opposite side, effectively cutting off any escape route. The remaining deputies formed a loose perimeter, their hands on their weapons but holding position at Graham's subtle signal.

"The farm was seized because animals were suffering," Hailey said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. "Dozens died from neglect."

Lambert's paint-covered face contorted with rage. "My father was sick! I was working three jobs to keep us afloat during the worst winter in fifty years! I asked for help—called the extension office, applied for emergency assistance. They gave us forms to fill out. Paperwork!" He spat the word like poison. "While I was desperately trying to save what we had, your precious witnesses were sneaking around our property, taking pictures, building their case."

The bucket clattered to the floor, paint spattering in a crimson constellation across the polished wood. Lambert's hands remained visible, paint dripping from his fingertips in steady drops that echoed in the tense silence.

"Where were they when we needed help?" Lambert's voice cracked slightly, the first sign that the controlled facade was beginning to splinter. "Delaney with his rescue, Winters with her clinic—they could have offered assistance. Instead, they documented our failure and used it to destroy us."

Hailey maintained her stance, weapon still trained on Lambert. The red paint dripping from his hands created an expanding puddle on the floor, its viscous consistency unnervingly similar to blood. The chamber had grown silent except for the soft pattering of paint droplets and the distant sound of sirens approaching the courthouse.

"Walter," she said, deliberately using his first name, establishing a connection. "I understand you feel wronged. But this isn't the way to address it."

Lambert's eyes fixed on her, their blue intensity undiminished by the paint streaking his face. His voice had regained its eerie calm. "My father died believing he was a failure. That he'd lost everything our family built over five generations."

Graham had inched closer during this exchange, now positioned just ten feet from Lambert's left side. The remaining audience members had pressed themselves against the walls or huddled beneath the wooden benches. The county commissioners peered cautiously over the edge of their raised dais.

"Did you kill them, Walter?" Hailey asked directly, her voice carrying through the tense silence. "Did you kill Delaney and Winters?"

A strange expression crossed Lambert's paint-streaked face—something between satisfaction and regret. “They deserved to die. For killing my father. Justice. That’s what that was. Justice!”

Suddenly, Lambert reached for his belt. A holster. Hailey spotted it as his shirt lifted, but she’d moved close enough that she had a split second to react. She holstered her own weapon even as she flung herself forward, launching over the seats, hands extended.

Her fingers slipped along his paint-slick shirt as she tackled him. Lambert's hand closed around his weapon, but Hailey's momentum carried them both to the floor. They crashed into the wooden bench, toppling it with a splintering crack that echoed through the chamber.

Paint smeared across Hailey's hands and face as they grappled on the floor. Lambert was surprisingly strong, his wiry frame concealing well-developed muscles. His teeth were bared in a grimace of determination, eyes focused with cold intensity despite the chaos.

"I got the gun!" Graham shouted, his voice cutting through the struggle. He had managed to wrench the weapon from Lambert's grip during the tumble.

Hailey pressed her advantage, using her training to flip Lambert onto his stomach. Her knee pressed into the small of his back as she secured his wrists with handcuffs. The metallic click of the closing mechanism seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

"Walter Lambert," she said, her breathing controlled despite the exertion, "you're under arrest.”

Lambert didn't struggle against the restraints. Instead, he turned his head slightly, one blue eye visible through the streaks of red paint. His voice was eerily calm.

“You’re part of it… You’re all part of it.”

Deputies moved in to secure the scene, helping Hailey bring Lambert to his feet. Paint dripped from both of them, creating a macabre trail across the polished floor. The remaining audience members watched in stunned silence, the shocking confrontation having rendered them momentarily speechless.

"Get him out of here," Hailey instructed the deputies. "Full suicide watch. No contact with anyone until we've processed him."

As the officers led Lambert away, his posture remained unnaturally rigid, his gaze fixed forward with unsettling determination. No remorse showed in his face, only a cold satisfaction that sent a chill down Hailey's spine despite the warmth of the crowded chamber.

Graham approached, handing her a handkerchief. "You've got paint..." He gestured vaguely at her face.

Hailey dabbed at her cheek, the white cloth coming away streaked with red. "Thanks."

"His weapon was a .38 revolver," Graham said quietly. "Loaded."

Hailey nodded, the implications clear.

Commissioner Harlow approached cautiously, his face pale beneath his silver hair. "Is it... is it over?"

"For now," Hailey confirmed. "But we'll need statements from everyone who witnessed this. And access to all county records regarding the Lambert farm seizure."

Harlow nodded, visibly shaken. "Whatever you need. I never thought... Walter was always quiet…”

Hailey just gave a small, grim shake of her head, turning on her heel to hasten after their new suspect.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Down at the station, Hailey marched Lambert through the hallway, her boots leaving faint red footprints on the linoleum floor. The paint had begun to dry on her hands, stiffening her fingers and flaking off in rust-colored particles. Her FBI windbreaker was spattered with red, the navy fabric stained where Lambert had struggled against her.

Lambert walked in silence, his posture unnaturally erect despite the handcuffs. Paint covered his face and chest, drying in tacky patches that pulled at his skin when he moved. His eyes remained fixed ahead, focused on something beyond the physical confines of the station.

The holding area smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete walls. A deputy looked up from his desk as they entered, his eyebrows rising at the sight of their paint-covered forms.

"Cell three is open," he said, reaching for the logbook. "Need any assistance?"

"I've got him," Hailey replied, her voice clipped.

She led Lambert to the third cell, a small concrete box with a metal bench bolted to the wall and a stainless steel toilet in the corner. The door was solid metal with a small observation window at eye level. The standard procedure would have been to transfer him to an interview room and begin questioning immediately while the events were fresh in his mind.

Instead, Hailey unlocked the cell door and directed Lambert inside with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You'll be processed shortly," she said, her tone professional but cold. "Someone will bring you a change of clothes."

Lambert turned to face her as the door began to close. His blue eyes were startlingly clear against his paint-streaked face. "They got what they deserved," he said, his voice eerily calm. "But I didn’t hurt them. I couldn’t have.”

The cell door clanged shut with finality. Hailey turned the key, and the lock engaged with a heavy mechanical thunk. Through the observation window, she could see Lambert sitting on the metal bench, his posture still rigid, hands resting palm-up on his knees. The red paint made him look as if he'd been dipped in blood.

Graham stood in the doorway of the holding area, watching the exchange with a slight furrow between his brows. He waited until Hailey had logged Lambert into the system before approaching.

"Interview room is prepped," he said quietly. "Tech team is ready to record his statement."

Hailey nodded, not meeting his eyes. "He can wait. Let him sit with it for a while."

Graham's eyebrows rose slightly. "Sit with it? Hailey, we've got him on attempted assault with a deadly weapon at a minimum. Two homicides at most. Standard procedure is to question him immediately."

"I know the procedure." Hailey's voice had an edge that Graham rarely heard directed at him. She glanced down at her paint-stained hands, the tacky red substance cracking with every movement of her fingers. "I need to clean up first. And I want to review the Lambert farm case files before we question him."

She could still feel him watching her.

She heaved a sigh. “What?” But her partner didn’t say anything. He simply shrugged. “What?” she insisted more pointedly.

He released a long, pent-up breath. “Just… are you okay?”

She frowned. “I’m fine.”

“You look tense.”

“I’m covered in paint.”

“You look really tense.”

“He had a gun,” she pointed out.

“Is that it? I’ve been with you plenty of other times you’ve had guns drawn on you. That’s really all?”

Hailey grimaced. Sometimes she missed the privacy of not having a partner who knew her so intimately. She tried not to think of Victor Drake. Tried not to think of the threat that he was not only to her but to everyone she loved.

She knew Lambert wasn’t Drake. But somehow, in that moment, when faced with an immediate threat…

Hailey felt a cold chill go down her spine. Why did it always come back to him?

“I’m fine,” she muttered as the two of them moved down the hall. “Really. I’ve got clean clothes in the car. I just need to let the adrenaline get out of my system.”

Graham's eyes lingered on her face a moment longer, searching for something. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating the concern etched into his features. He fell into step beside her as they moved down the hallway, the squeak of their shoes against the linoleum floor echoing in the narrow space.

"There's a shower in the locker room," he said, his voice deliberately casual. "Might be easier than trying to scrub that paint off in the sink."

Hailey nodded without looking at him. The paint had begun to dry in her hair, individual strands sticking together in stiff clumps. She could feel it cracking along her jawline every time she spoke, tiny flakes breaking free to drift downward like macabre confetti.

They passed the break room where two deputies looked up from their coffee, eyes widening at Hailey's appearance. She ignored them, keeping her pace steady, her gaze fixed on the exit sign at the far end of the corridor. The building's ancient heating system clanked and groaned within the walls, pushing stale air through vents that hadn't been cleaned in years.

"We should have the ballistics report on Lambert's revolver within the hour," Graham continued, filling the silence between them. "The preliminary check shows it's registered with him. Purchased legally three years ago. Seeing as neither victim was shot, though… the only hope is that it was used in some other crime. We can hold him on suspicion, at least.”

"He bought it three years ago?" Right after they lost the farm," Hailey noted. Her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.

"Right." Graham paused at the junction where the hallway split. The left led to the parking lot, and the right went to the locker rooms. "Want me to grab your go-bag from the car while you clean up?"

Hailey hesitated, then nodded, fishing her keys from her pocket. The paint had seeped into the leather key fob, staining it a dull reddish-brown. She handed the keys to Graham, careful not to let their fingers touch. "Thanks. It's in the trunk."

He took the keys, his movements deliberately slow, as if dealing with a skittish animal. "Hailey..."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended. She took a breath, modulating her tone. "I'm fine. Just need to get this paint off."

Graham's jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "I'll meet you back here in fifteen."

Hailey was grateful that the women's locker room was empty. The institutional space smelled of generic soap and damp towels. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, one flickering intermittently at the far end of the row of metal lockers. The beige tile floor was worn smooth in paths between the lockers, showers, and sinks, marking decades of female officers following the same routines.

Hailey caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink and stopped short. The red paint covered more of her than she'd realized—streaks across her face like war paint.

Half her face was covered in the drying paint, a stark crimson mask against her pale skin. Flakes had begun to fall like rust-colored snow onto her shoulders. Her hair was matted with it on one side, strands clumping together in stiff peaks.

She looked away from her reflection and began methodically removing her ruined clothes. The FBI windbreaker came off first, the navy fabric stiff with drying paint. Her shirt followed, then her jeans, each item folded neatly despite their contaminated state. Evidence, potentially. She placed them in a plastic bag from the dispenser near the shower stalls.

The shower water ran red at first, swirling around the drain in pink spirals as the paint loosened from her skin and hair. The industrial soap from the wall dispenser was harsh, leaving her skin feeling tight and raw, but it cut through the paint effectively. She scrubbed until her fingertips were pruned and her scalp tingled, the water finally running clear.

When Graham returned with her go-bag, Hailey was wrapped in a towel. Her damp hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, the wet strands darkening the fabric at her shoulders. The harsh soap had left her skin slightly reddened, but all traces of paint were gone.

"Better?" Graham asked, placing her bag beside the bench.

Hailey nodded, her hands still slightly pink from scrubbing. "Much." She reached for the bag, unzipping it to reveal neatly packed clothes—a change of professional attire she kept for emergencies. "Any updates while I was in there?"

"Alice called. They've secured Lambert's residence—a rental cabin about twenty miles outside town. The search team is waiting for our go-ahead." Graham leaned against the wall, giving her space.

"Let's process him first," Hailey said, extracting a clean blouse from her bag. "I want to hear what he has to say before we see what's in that cabin."

Graham nodded, his gaze fixed deliberately on the exit sign above the door rather than on Hailey. "I pulled the file on the Lambert farm seizure. It's waiting in the interview room."

"Good." Hailey's voice was steadier now, her professional demeanor reasserting itself with each layer of clean clothing. "I want to know exactly what happened three years ago. Every detail."

"Hailey," Graham's voice softened slightly. "Whatever's going on with you—"

"Nothing's going on with me." She zipped her bag with more force than necessary. "I just want to be thorough."

Graham studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, accepting her deflection for now. "Interview room two. When you're ready."

The corridor felt colder after her hot shower, the station's aging heating system struggling against the winter chill. Hailey's damp hair sent occasional shivers down her spine as she made her way to the interview rooms. The hallway smelled of coffee and cleaning solution, the fluorescent lights casting everything in a slightly sickly hue.

Interview room two was standard-issue—beige walls, scarred table bolted to the floor, three chairs. A one-way mirror reflected her image as she entered, her face composed but pale beneath the harsh lighting. The Lambert farm file sat in the center of the table, a thick manila folder with color-coded tabs protruding from its edges.

Graham was already seated, a legal pad in front of him covered with his neat handwriting. A recording device sat ready in the center of the table, its small red light currently dark. Two paper cups of coffee steamed beside it, the station's notoriously bitter brew filling the small room with its acrid scent.

Hailey took the seat across from Graham, pulling the folder toward her. "How long until they bring him in?"

"Whenever we're ready. He's been processed—fingerprints, photographs, DNA swab." Graham pushed one of the coffee cups toward her. "No priors in the system. Clean record until today."

Hailey nodded, opening the folder. The first page was a court order authorizing the seizure of livestock from Lambert Farm, dated January 15, 2020. Attached were the affidavits that had led to the order—statements from Marcus Delaney and Dr. Sarah Winters, complete with date-stamped photographs documenting the conditions.

The images were stark—she could count the ribs on the skeletal cattle beneath their ill-looking coats. Huddled for warmth around those who had collapsed, some of the animals lay partially covered by the falling snow while others lay frozen in death.

Hailey flipped through the pages, absorbing the details quickly.

The veterinary reports carried Dr. Winters' signature, her neat handwriting detailing malnutrition, frostbite, and untreated infections. The county extension agent's assessment noted the complete absence of adequate shelter, insufficient feed supplies, and contaminated water sources. Marcus Delaney's statement described his initial observations, the attempts to contact the Lamberts directly, and the eventual decision to report the conditions to authorities.

"Father and son operation," Hailey murmured, scanning the family information. "Howard Lambert, 68, owner. Walter Lambert, 37, co-manager." She flipped to the next section. "Howard was diagnosed with early-stage dementia six months before the seizure."

Graham nodded, consulting his notes. "Walter was working multiple jobs—night shift at the processing plant in Joplin, weekend maintenance at the community college, plus trying to run the farm."

"Financial records show they were underwater," Hailey continued, flipping through bank statements included in the file. "Second mortgage taken out two years before the seizure. Medical bills piling up. Feed suppliers had cut them off for non-payment."

She paused at a page of handwritten notes—the county social worker's assessment after interviewing Walter Lambert. The writing described him as "defensive, hostile to intervention" and "exhibiting signs of severe stress and sleep deprivation." The social worker had recommended mental health services and emergency financial assistance.

"He applied for aid," Hailey noted, tapping the form with her finger. County emergency farm relief. Application denied—submitted incomplete."

Graham leaned forward to see the document. "Looks like he didn't include the required financial disclosures. Note here says he was given the opportunity to complete the application, but never returned the additional paperwork."

Hailey continued through the file, piecing together the timeline. The winter of 2019-2020 had brought record-breaking cold to Missouri, with temperatures remaining below freezing for weeks at a stretch. Multiple blizzards had isolated rural properties, making road access difficult. The Lamberts' farm, situated at the end of a mile-long private drive, had been particularly hard to reach.

"First complaint came from a delivery driver," she noted. "Attempted to deliver medical supplies for Howard Lambert, but couldn't get down the driveway. Reported seeing dead cattle in the fields visible from the main road."

The subsequent investigation had moved quickly—Marcus Delaney conducting the initial welfare check as a certified humane investigator, documenting conditions, attempting to contact the Lamberts. Dr. Winters performed medical assessments of the animals that could be approached. The county attorney secured the seizure order within forty-eight hours based on their evidence.

"Court proceedings lasted three months," Graham observed, pointing to the hearing dates. "Lambert contested the seizure, claiming they were doing the best they could under extreme circumstances."

The judgment had been devastating—$78,000 in fines and restitution, plus court costs. The farm itself ordered sold to satisfy the debt. Five generations of Lambert history were liquidated in a single afternoon.

"Howard Lambert died six months after the auction," Graham said quietly, pointing to a newspaper obituary clipped to the back of the file. "Nursing home in Springfield."

The obituary was brief, just three short paragraphs. No mention of the farm or the court case. Only that Howard was "preceded in death by his beloved wife, Margaret" and "survived by his son, Walter." The funeral had been private. In lieu of flowers, donations to the Alzheimer's Association were suggested.

Hailey closed the file, her mind assembling the pieces. Walter Lambert was watching his family legacy crumble. His father is declining, then dying. The farm sold. The animals, which represented both livelihood and heritage, were seized and redistributed. All were documented and testified to by Marcus Delaney and Dr. Sarah Winters.

"Motive," she said simply.

Graham nodded. "Strong motive."

"He had the means too,” Hailey added. “The staging of the bodies suggests someone with veterinary knowledge." Hailey tapped her fingers on the closed file. "Dorothy, the woman in the records I told you about, mentioned two years of veterinary training at the community college, although he never finished."

Grant nodded with a gruff grunt of affirmation. “That just leaves opportunity. If he doesn’t have an alibi, it looks like we may be able to put this case to bed tonight.”

Hailey reached for the recording device, pressing the power button. The small red light illuminated, indicating it was ready. "Let's hear what he has to say."

Graham stood, moving to the door. He spoke briefly with the deputy waiting outside, then returned to his seat. "They're bringing him now."

Hailey composed herself, straightening her posture, arranging her expression into the neutral mask she wore during interrogations. The air in the small room felt suddenly thicker, the fluorescent lights overhead humming with increased intensity. She could feel a drop of water from her damp hair slide down her neck, tracing a cold path along her spine.

The door opened. Walter Lambert entered, flanked by two deputies. He had been given a gray jumpsuit to replace his paint-covered clothing. His face had been cleaned, though faint reddish stains remained along his hairline and in the creases around his eyes. His beard had been neatly combed, the gesture somehow more unsettling than reassuring.

The deputies guided him to the empty chair, removed his handcuffs, then retreated to positions just outside the door. Lambert sat perfectly straight, his posture unnaturally rigid. His hands rested on the table before him, palms down, fingers slightly spread. His blue eyes moved between Hailey and Graham, assessing them with clinical detachment.

Then, his lips twisted back into a shark-like smirk.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hailey frowned at Lambert's unsettling smile, the expression so at odds with the gravity of his situation. His hands remained perfectly still on the table, not a finger twitching. Even his breathing seemed controlled, measured inhalations and exhalations, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"Mr. Lambert," she began, activating the recording device with a firm press of her finger. "I'm Special Agent Hailey Rock, FBI. This is Special Agent Graham Vance. This interview is being recorded."

Lambert nodded once, a precise movement. "I understand."

His voice was surprisingly soft, almost gentle, yet it carried an underlying tension, like a wire pulled taut, vibrating just below the threshold of sound.

"You're being held on charges of attempted assault with a deadly weapon," Hailey continued, her tone deliberately neutral. "Additional charges may follow, pending investigation. Do you understand these charges?"

"I understand why you believe those charges are appropriate." Lambert's response was carefully worded, his diction precise. "Though I dispute their accuracy."

Graham leaned forward slightly. "You were carrying a loaded .38 revolver at a public meeting. You reached for it when confronted by federal agents."

Lambert's eyes shifted to Graham, the blue irises seeming to sharpen in focus. "I have a concealed carry permit. The weapon was legally purchased and registered. I didn't point it at anyone."

"Intent matters in a court of law," Hailey said.

"Indeed, it does." Lambert's unnerving smile returned briefly. "My intent was self-defense in a chaotic situation. Nothing more."

Hailey didn't respond immediately, letting silence fill the small room. The recording device hummed softly on the table between them. A fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting momentary shadows across Lambert's face. His expression remained unchanged, the calm mask never slipping.

"Tell us about Marcus Delaney and Dr. Sarah Winters," Hailey said finally, watching Lambert's eyes carefully.

The change was subtle—a slight tightening around his mouth, a barely perceptible tension in his shoulders. "They're dead. Murdered." His voice remained controlled, but a new edge had entered it. "You believe I'm responsible."

"Are you?" Graham asked directly.

Lambert's gaze shifted between them, assessing. "No."

"You had motive," Hailey said, tapping the closed file with her finger. "They testified against you in the seizure case. Their evidence cost you your family farm. Your father died soon after."

"They destroyed my family's legacy," Lambert agreed, his voice still eerily calm despite the weight of his words. "Five generations of Lamberts worked that land. My great-great-grandfather built the original homestead with his bare hands in 1887. My father was born in the same bedroom where his father was born." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Now it's a vacation rental.”

“Motive,” Graham said simply. “Exactly.”

“Free speech,” he countered. “That’s all I did. The paint was a gimmick. Nothing else. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Where were you the nights of—”

"My lawyers are going to eat you alive.”

Hailey frowned. “Are they en route?”

“Yup.” He smirked again. “I don’t mind talking… Let’s talk. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m just warning you… You’re dead.”

Hailey studied Lambert's expression, the confidence in his demeanor setting off warning bells. Most suspects in his position—covered in paint, caught with a weapon, facing serious charges—displayed some level of anxiety. Lambert showed none.

"Lawyers," Hailey repeated, letting the word hang in the air between them. "Multiple attorneys." Her gaze swept over his prison-issued jumpsuit, the institutional gray fabric hanging loosely on his thin frame. "How does someone who lost everything afford a legal team?"

Lambert's smile widened slightly, revealing teeth that were surprisingly well-maintained. A small gap between the front two added characters to what might otherwise have been a perfect smile. His fingertips drummed once against the table's scarred surface—the first spontaneous movement he'd made since entering the room.

"Old buddy from college," he said, his voice casual, as if discussing weekend plans rather than murder charges. "He went on to law school while I was taking care of the farm. Made partner at Daniels and Whitcomb in Kansas City last year." He leaned back slightly, the metal chair creaking beneath his weight. "And he owes me a favor."

"Must be quite a favor," Graham observed, his pen poised above his notepad. "Partner-track attorneys don't typically handle criminal cases pro bono."

Lambert's gaze shifted to the ceiling, where water stains created a yellowish archipelago across the acoustic tiles. His eyes traced the pattern as if reading a map only he could decipher. "I helped him through a rough patch. His wife left him during the second-year finals. Found him with a bottle of pills, contemplating the permanent solution." Lambert's voice remained eerily detached, recounting the near-tragedy as if discussing the weather. "Stayed with him for three weeks. Made sure he ate. Got him to class. Flushed the pills."

"That's some favor.”

Lambert shrugged, a single fluid movement of his shoulders. "He says I saved his life. Now he's returning the favor."

"And he's willing to represent you on murder charges?" Graham pressed.

"I didn't say that." Lambert's blue eyes locked onto Graham's with unsettling intensity. "I said he owes me a favor. The favor is connecting me with the right criminal defense attorney." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "But as I said, there won't be murder charges. Because I didn't kill anyone."

The room fell silent except for the soft hum of the recording device and the distant sound of phones ringing somewhere in the station. Lambert's posture remained rigid, his breathing controlled. The fluorescent light continued to flicker overhead, casting intermittent shadows across his features.

"Let's talk about your whereabouts," Hailey said, opening a fresh page in her notebook. "Where were you yesterday between noon and 2 PM?"

Lambert's expression remained unchanged. "County jail," Lambert replied, the words landing like stones in still water.

Hailey's pen froze above her notebook. "Excuse me?"

"County jail," Lambert repeated, his smirk widening. "Taney County Detention Center. I was serving the last day of a seventy-two-hour hold for an unpaid traffic ticket." His eyes gleamed with undisguised satisfaction. "You can check the records. I was in a cell from 8 AM Monday until 8 AM this morning."

Graham and Hailey exchanged a quick glance, the implication immediately clear. If Lambert had been in custody during Delaney's murder, he couldn't have committed the crime.

"And the previous night?" Hailey asked, her voice carefully controlled. "Between midnight and two AM?" It was perhaps too optimistic to hope Lambert would immediately contradict himself, but she didn’t see the harm in trying anyway.

Lambert leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The jumpsuit fabric pulled tight across his shoulders, revealing a wiry strength beneath the thin material. "Same answer. County jail. Second night of a three-day hold."

Hailey's mind raced through the timeline. Dr. Winters had been killed during the early morning hours, while Delaney had been murdered the following afternoon. If Lambert had been in custody during both periods...

"The traffic ticket," Graham said, his pen now moving rapidly across his notepad. "When was it issued?"

"Six months ago. Expired registration." Lambert's expression remained smug, clearly enjoying their discomfort. "I couldn't afford to pay it. The court date kept getting pushed back. The judge finally lost patience on Sunday and ordered me to either pay the $430 fine or serve seventy-two hours." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness that didn't match his satisfied expression. "Being broke, I chose the time."

"This can be verified," Hailey stated rather than asked.

"Oh yes," Lambert nodded, his movements precise and controlled. "Check with Sergeant Mills. He processed me in on Monday morning. Officer Dawkins delivered my meals. I played cards with a drunk driver named Hernandez on Tuesday afternoon." His smile grew sharper. "I can provide a minute-by-minute accounting of my time if you'd like. Jail schedules are quite regimented."

The interrogation room seemed to shrink around them. The fluorescent light's intermittent flicker had taken on an almost mocking rhythm, punctuating Lambert's revelations with strobing emphasis. The air felt suddenly thick, difficult to breathe.

"So you see," Lambert continued, clearly relishing the moment, "I couldn't possibly have killed Delaney or Winters. Physically impossible. I was locked in a cell when they died." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That's why I'm not worried about murder charges."

Hailey maintained her professional composure despite the unexpected turn. "Your presence at the county meeting today—the paint, the gun—what was that about?"

Lambert's expression shifted, the clinical detachment giving way to something more primal—a flash of raw satisfaction in his blue eyes. He leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath his weight. The fluorescent light caught the angles of his face, highlighting the sharp cheekbones and the tight set of his jaw.

"What was it about?" he repeated, savoring the question. "Justice. Visibility. Making sure people remember what they did." His voice remained controlled, but beneath the surface calm, a current of emotion began to stir. "They took everything from me, and no one cared. No one remembered. I wanted them to see me."

Hailey noted the subtle changes in his demeanor—how his fingers now tapped a rhythm against the table's surface, how his breathing had quickened slightly. The perfect control was slipping, revealing glimpses of the rage beneath.

"The paint," Lambert continued, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the interview room walls. "Red like blood. Like the blood of my cattle they claimed I neglected. Like my father's blood on their hands." A small, bitter laugh escaped him. "Symbolic. Dramatic. Guaranteed to make the evening news."

"And the gun?" Graham pressed.

Lambert's gaze snapped back to them, suddenly sharp and present. "Insurance. This county isn't known for its tolerance of dissenting opinions. Especially from someone they've already decided is worthless."

"You could have made your statement without a weapon," Hailey pointed out.

"Could I?" Lambert leaned forward, his forearms flat on the table. "The last time I tried to speak at a county meeting—to explain why the seizure was unjust, to tell my side—they cut my microphone after thirty seconds. Had security escort me out." His knuckles whitened as his hands formed fists. "Nobody was going to silence me this time."

The satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable now—the pleasure of someone who'd finally forced the world to acknowledge him. His eyes gleamed with an almost feverish light as he continued.

"You should have seen their faces when the paint hit. Genuine shock. Horror. For once, they couldn't look away—couldn't pretend I didn't exist." Lambert's lips curved into that unsettling smile again. "Worth every second I'll spend in this place for disturbing the peace or whatever trivial charge sticks."

Hailey studied him carefully, noting how he seemed to expand in his seat as he spoke, his initial rigid posture giving way to more animated movements. He was enjoying this—the attention, the disruption he'd caused, the knowledge that he'd forced his way back into the community's consciousness.

"So you deny any involvement in the murders of Delaney and Winters?" Graham asked, redirecting the conversation.

Lambert just beamed. “I think my lawyer is here…” He nodded to the door which had inched open.

A wincing sergeant was waving towards them.

“Go on,” Lambert insisted with a fake yawn. “I’ve got nowhere else to be. I’ll wait.”

Hailey nodded curtly to Lambert, ending the interview with a professional, "We'll continue this discussion later." She gathered her notes while Graham switched off the recording device, its red light blinking out like a dying ember.

They stepped into the hallway, past the apologetic sergeant, the fluorescent lights somehow harsher in the narrow corridor than in the interview room. The station's ancient heating system groaned within the walls, pushing tepid air through vents caked with decades of dust. A water cooler gurgled in the distance, the sound echoing off the institutional green walls that hadn't seen fresh paint since the early 2000s.

As they exited, a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit approached from the opposite direction. His Italian leather shoes clicked against the linoleum floor with precise, measured steps. A leather briefcase—not the mass-produced kind, but the hand-stitched variety that cost more than a month of Hailey's salary—swung from his manicured hand. His silver tie clip caught the overhead light, momentarily flashing like a camera bulb.

The attorney's expression was a masterclass in controlled irritation—lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils slightly flared, eyes narrowed beneath professionally shaped eyebrows. The scent of expensive cologne trailed in his wake, incongruous against the station's background smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaner.

"Agents," he acknowledged with a curt nod, not bothering to introduce himself. His voice carried the polished cadence of someone accustomed to courtrooms and corner offices. "I trust my client has been treated appropriately."

Graham offered a professional smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Lambert has been processed according to standard procedure, Counselor."

The attorney's gaze flicked between them, assessing, calculating. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepened momentarily—the only indication that he was working through complex legal strategies behind his composed facade.

"I'll be reviewing the recording of any questioning that occurred before my arrival," he said, his tone making it clear this was not a request but a statement of fact. "And I'll need a complete list of the charges my client is currently facing."

Hailey met his gaze evenly. "The charging documents are being prepared. Your client was caught with a loaded weapon at a public meeting after creating a disturbance."

The attorney's eyebrow arched a fraction of an inch—a microexpression of professional skepticism. "We'll discuss the particulars inside." He stepped around them, his shoulder nearly brushing Hailey's in the narrow hallway.

The interview room door opened, revealing Lambert's satisfied smirk before the attorney entered, and swung shut behind them with a dull thud that reverberated through the corridor like a judge's gavel.

Hailey released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. Tension had been building at the base of her skull that was dropped the moment the doorway closed between them and their smug suspect.

"Well... that's as ironclad as alibis get," Hailey said quietly.

"I'll make the call," Graham muttered, already pulling out his phone to verify the claim Lambert had made about his jail-time.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with renewed intensity, as if sensing their frustration. Hailey leaned against the wall, the cool surface seeping through her blouse. The paint had been scrubbed from her skin, but she could still feel it somehow—a phantom sensation, sticky and persistent. Her damp hair had begun to dry in uneven waves, a few strands clinging to her neck like unwanted thoughts.

"Sheriff's office," Graham said into his phone, his voice professionally neutral despite the circumstances. "This is Agent Vance, FBI. I need to verify a recent inmate's custody status." He paused, listening. "Walter Lambert. Should have been held from Monday morning through this morning on a seventy-two-hour commitment for an unpaid traffic citation."

Hailey watched Graham's face, reading the confirmation in his expression before he even spoke again. The hallway seemed to narrow around them, the institutional green walls pressing inward with each passing second. A deputy walked past, nodding respectfully, the keys on his belt jingling with each step. The sound echoed down the corridor, fading into the background hum of the station.

"Thank you," Graham said finally. "We'll need the complete log, entry and exit times, cell assignment, officer reports. Yes, as soon as possible." He ended the call, sliding the phone back into his pocket with controlled precision.

"He was telling the truth," Hailey stated rather than asked.

Graham nodded, his jaw tight. "Booked at 8:17 AM Monday morning. Released at 8:22 AM today. Sergeant Mills confirmed he never left his cell except for scheduled meal times and one hour of recreation yesterday afternoon—always under direct supervision."

Hailey closed her eyes briefly, recalibrating. The timeline they'd constructed, the motive they'd established, the suspect they'd pursued—all of it suddenly rendered irrelevant by seventy-two hours in a county jail cell. The weight of it settled in her stomach like cold lead.

“So… whoever did this. They’re still hunting.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The station had emptied of its daytime bustle, leaving behind the hollow echoes that only emerge in public buildings after hours. Hailey sat at a desk in the corner of the squad room, surrounded by case files and empty coffee cups. The overhead fluorescents had been dimmed to half-strength, casting long shadows across the institutional beige walls. A wall clock ticked loudly in the silence, its hands showing 11:42 PM.

Graham returned from the break room with two fresh cups of coffee, the bitter smell cutting through the stale air. He placed one cup beside Hailey's elbow, careful not to disturb the precise arrangement of documents she'd spread across the desk. The ceramic clinked against the laminate surface, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

"Anything?" he asked, lowering himself into a chair opposite her.

Hailey shook her head, reaching for the coffee without looking up from the report she was reading. Her eyes burned from hours of scanning documents, searching for connections they might have missed. Her phone buzzed on the desk, the screen illuminating with Alice's name.

"Alice," she answered, pressing the phone to her ear. "Please tell me you have something." A pause. A sinking feeling. Though not unexpected. “Are you absolutely certain? No, I understand. Thank you for calling so late." She ended the call, placing the phone face-down on the desk with deliberate care.

"What?" Graham prompted when she didn't immediately speak.

Hailey lifted her gaze to meet his, exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes. "Lambert's cabin? The CSI team found nothing. No blood evidence. No trophies. No planning materials." She tapped her pen against the notepad. "Clean. Completely clean."

"Too clean?"

"No. Just... ordinary clean. Lived-in but organized. Nothing hidden, nothing suspicious." Hailey rubbed her temples, where a headache had been building for hours. "They found his collection of newspaper clippings about the farm seizure. Articles about Delaney and Winters. All in a folder on his bookshelf, not hidden."

"Research materials," Graham suggested. "For his protest."

Hailey nodded. “His alibi is dead solid.”

“Shit. So not our guy?”

“Nope.”

“What are you looking at then?”

“Just… a thought. We’ve been looking at famers, right? People who have been hard done by… who might hold a grudge for having animals taken away.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, there were two angry groups at that meeting.”

“You mean the animal rights activists?”

“They might have just as much of a grudge as the farmers…” Hailey shrugged. “Look at this group—found them online. They’re active in Pleasant.”

Graham's eyebrows rose as he studied the printout Hailey slid across the desk. The webpage showed a stark black-and-white logo—a stylized chain breaking around the silhouette of a cow. Bold text proclaimed: "Freedom for Farm Animals: Because Their Liberation Cannot Wait."

"I've heard of them," he said, scanning the mission statement. "Militant animal rights group. They've staged protests at factory farms, disrupted livestock auctions."

Hailey nodded, pulling up another document on her laptop. The screen's blue glow illuminated her face in the dimly lit room, casting sharp shadows beneath her cheekbones. "They're not just sign-wavers and petition-gatherers. The FBI has a file on them. Three members were arrested last year for releasing mink from a fur farm in Oregon. Two more for vandalizing slaughterhouse equipment in Idaho."

"And they're active here?" Graham's voice registered surprise. The county's rural conservatism seemed an unlikely home for radical activism.

"Smaller chapter, but yes." Hailey turned the laptop so Graham could see the screen. A news article showed protesters outside a local dairy operation, their faces partially obscured by bandanas, holding signs with graphic images of confined animals. "They've been gaining traction over the past two years. Started after that Lambert case, actually."

Graham leaned closer, studying the protestors' faces. "Any particular reason you're interested in them?"

Hailey clicked to another tab, bringing up a video. The footage showed a community forum from six months earlier—rows of folding chairs in the high school gymnasium, a makeshift podium at the front. Dr. Sarah Winters stood at the microphone, her professional demeanor evident even in the slightly grainy recording.

"This is from a public forum on the proposed animal welfare ordinance," Hailey explained, adjusting the volume. "Watch what happens around the three-minute mark."

On screen, Dr. Winters was speaking in measured tones. "While I support strengthening our county's animal welfare standards, we must balance these protections with the economic realities facing our agricultural community. Incremental changes—"

A woman's voice cut through the audience, sharp and accusatory. "Incremental changes mean incremental suffering! You've seen the abuse firsthand and you still advocate for half-measures?"

The camera panned to the speaker who had risen from her seat—a tall, lean woman in her mid-forties with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a charcoal pantsuit that seemed more appropriate for a corporate boardroom than a rural town meeting. Her angular face was flushed with conviction, one hand clutching a leather portfolio while the other jabbed accusingly toward the podium.

"That's Veronica Holloway," Hailey said, pausing the video on a frame that captured the woman's intense expression. "Head of the local Freedom for Farm Animals chapter."

On screen, Holloway continued her tirade, her voice rising with each accusation. "You stand there in your white coat, Dr. Winters, preaching moderation while animals suffer! You document their misery, treat their wounds, then send them right back to the same conditions with a few meaningless recommendations."

The camera captured Dr. Winters' face—her professional composure slipping momentarily, revealing a flash of genuine hurt before she regained control. "Ms. Holloway, I understand your passion, but—"

"Passion?" Holloway's laugh was sharp, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "This isn't about passion. It's about complicity. You've seen the worst abuses first-hand. You have the evidence. The photographs. The medical reports. And yet you recommend 'incremental changes' that will take years to implement." Her voice dropped, becoming more menacing. "Every day of delay is another day of suffering you could prevent."

The moderator tried to intervene, but Holloway wasn't finished. The camera zoomed in as she turned to address the audience directly.

"Dr. Winters and Mr. Delaney want to be seen as heroes, as champions for animal welfare, but they're just maintaining the status quo. They document abuse, file reports, then pat themselves on the back while nothing fundamentally changes." Her eyes blazed with conviction. "Enablers are as guilty as abusers. Remember that."

Security approached, but Holloway gathered her portfolio and strode out voluntarily, her back rigid with indignation. Several audience members—younger, dressed in earth tones and wearing small pins with the broken chain logo—followed her out.

Hailey paused the video, the frozen image of Holloway's retreating form filling the screen. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed.

"That was six months ago," Graham said, leaning back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight.

Hailey nodded, opening another file on her laptop. "And this is from three weeks ago. Local newspaper."

A small article appeared on screen, its headline reading: "Animal Rights Group Announces Escalation of Tactics." The accompanying photograph showed Holloway at a podium, her expression severe, a banner with the Freedom for Farm Animals logo hanging behind her.

Graham leaned forward to read the text. "'We've tried working within the system, but the system is designed to protect profits, not animals,'" he read aloud. "'The time for polite conversation is over. Freedom for Farm Animals will be implementing more direct strategies to ensure our message is heard.'"

"Direct strategies," Hailey repeated, highlighting the phrase with her cursor. "Vague enough to avoid legal issues, specific enough to sound threatening."

"And both victims were criticized by Holloway for being too moderate," Graham observed, connecting the dots.

Hailey reached for her coffee, the liquid now lukewarm. "There's more. I pulled Holloway's public appearance schedule." She clicked to another document, a calendar with multiple highlighted entries. "She's been conducting a speaking tour across three counties, promoting what she calls 'animal liberation philosophy.'"

Graham leaned closer, his shadow falling across the screen. "And?"

"And she's scheduled to speak tonight. Nine PM at the Taney County Community College." Hailey tapped the entry, the blue light from the screen reflecting in her tired eyes. "A lecture titled 'When Advocacy Fails: The Moral Necessity of Direct Action.'"

Graham checked his watch—11:47 PM. "We've missed it."

"But she's still in town." Hailey opened another tab, showing a local bed and breakfast's reservation system. Her FBI credentials had granted her access to information that would normally require a warrant. "Booked for three nights at the Willow Creek Inn. Checked in Monday morning." She looked up, meeting Graham's gaze. "She's been here throughout both murders."

The implication hung between them in the dimly lit squad room. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windows, the cold pressing against the glass like a physical force. The building's heating system clanked and groaned within the walls, fighting against the winter chill.

"Delaney and Winters were too moderate for her," Graham said, thinking aloud. "Enablers of a system she wanted to destroy."

"And they were scheduled to testify at the county meeting—advocating for changes that Holloway would have seen as insufficient." Hailey closed her laptop, the screen's glow disappearing and leaving them in the softer light of the desk lamp. "The timing fits. The motive fits."

"But the staging? The clinical precision?" Graham's brow furrowed. "That suggests veterinary knowledge."

Hailey pulled out her notebook, flipping to earlier notes. "I checked Holloway's background while you were getting coffee. Bachelor's degree in biology from UC Berkeley. Master's in animal science from Cornell. Worked as a research assistant in a veterinary laboratory for three years before becoming a full-time activist."

Graham's eyebrows rose. "So she would understand animal processing procedures. The tagging systems. The positioning."

"And she'd have the physical capability. Holloway is fit—runs marathons for charity. There are photos online of her participating in a Tough Mudder competition last summer." Hailey stood, energy returning despite the late hour. "We need to talk to her. Tonight."

"It's almost midnight," Graham pointed out, though he was already reaching for his jacket.

"All the better." Hailey gathered her files into a neat stack, sliding them into her briefcase with practiced efficiency. "People are less guarded when they're tired. And if she's our killer, I don't want to wait until morning.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jessica Miller's eyes burned from staring at the computer screen too long. She blinked hard, rubbing at the gritty feeling beneath her lids. The clock on the wall read 9:47 PM—almost three hours past closing time at Garden Veterinary Clinic. The building sat silent around her, the examination rooms dark, the kennels empty except for two overnight patients—a German Shepherd recovering from emergency surgery and a diabetic cat whose owners were out of town.

"Just a few more," she murmured to herself, clicking to the next image in the folder.

The photograph that filled her screen made her stomach clench: a chestnut mare with protruding ribs and dull, matted coat; there were open sores where a too-tight halter had rubbed the skin raw. Overgrown hooves curled upward like medieval shoes. She forced herself to look at each detail, typing clinical descriptions into the documentation form.

Subject shows signs of severe malnutrition. Body condition score 2/9. Visible wounds on face consistent with improperly fitted halter left on for extended periods. Hooves show approximately 8-10 months of neglect.

Jessica had taken these photos herself three weeks ago, when Dr. Winters had been called to the Blackwood property after an anonymous tip. The memory was still vivid—the sickly sweet smell of infection, the mare's dull eyes, the way she'd flinched when Jessica reached toward her. Eight horses in similar condition, standing in mud-filled paddocks without shelter or clean water.

The Blackwood case was scheduled for court next week. Dr. Winters had asked Jessica to organize all the evidence—photographs, medical records, detailed descriptions—into a format that would be clear and compelling for the judge. The work was depressing but necessary. Without proper documentation, cases like this often fell apart in court.

Jessica saved the form and clicked to the next image. The file name read Blackwood_Gelding2_Wound.jpg. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the mouse. She remembered this horse—a once-beautiful bay with a white star between his eyes. The wound had been on his hindquarters, a large, infected gash where he'd scraped against exposed metal in the ramshackle shelter.

The clinic phone rang, startling her so badly she knocked over her half-empty coffee mug. Cold coffee splashed across her desk, narrowly missing the keyboard. The phone continued its shrill demand as she grabbed tissues to mop up the spill.

"Garden Veterinary Clinic," she answered, wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder while dabbing at the coffee puddle. "This is Jessica."

Silence greeted her. Then a soft sound—breathing, perhaps. Or static on the line.

"Hello?" Jessica tried again. "Garden Veterinary Clinic. Can I help you?"

More silence. Then a click as the connection severed.

Jessica frowned, replacing the handset in its cradle. Strange calls happened occasionally—wrong numbers, kids playing pranks, elderly clients who dialed and then forgot why they'd called. Still, something about this one left an uneasy feeling crawling along her spine.

She returned to her computer but found herself unable to focus on the image before her. The gelding's infected wound seemed to blur beneath her gaze. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but the unease persisted, settling into her muscles like a physical weight.

The clinic after hours had never bothered her before. She often stayed late, catching up on paperwork or monitoring overnight patients. The familiar sounds—the hum of the refrigerator storing medications, the occasional whine from the kennels, the cycling of the heating system—had always been comforting, a backdrop to her work.

Tonight, those same sounds seemed amplified, taking on sinister undertones. The refrigerator's hum became a low growl. The heating system's clicks transformed into footsteps.

Jessica pushed back from her desk, the wheels of her chair squeaking against the linoleum. The sound echoed through the empty clinic, bouncing off tiled walls and returning to her ears as something altered, something wrong. She held her breath, listening intently.

Nothing but the usual clinic sounds.

"Get it together," she muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair. "Just tired. That's all."

She stood, stretching muscles stiff from hours of sitting. Her spine cracked in three places, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room. Coffee. She needed more coffee. The break room was just down the hall, its fluorescent lights currently dark, the doorway a rectangle of deeper shadow in the dimly lit corridor.

Jessica hesitated at her office threshold, one hand on the light switch.

Her gaze moved towards the parking lot.

A shadow by her car.

Wait… no. Just a trick of the light.

She rubbed at her eyes. Briefly… she’d almost felt as if she’d spotted someone lingering there.

Jessica moved toward the break room, flipping on lights as she went. The fluorescent tubes flickered to life with an electric hum, banishing shadows from the corridor. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly with each illuminated section of the clinic. She reached the break room and headed straight for the coffee maker, a decade-old model that had survived multiple staff changes and clinic renovations.

The coffee pot was empty, the glass stained with brown rings from years of use. Jessica rinsed it quickly in the small sink, then measured coffee grounds into the filter.

Her cell phone vibrated on the counter where she'd set it down, the screen illuminating with an unfamiliar number. Local area code.

"Hello?" she answered cautiously.

"Is this Garden Vet Clinic?" A man's voice, breathless, urgent. Background noises suggested he was outside—wind, the distant sound of an engine running.

"Yes, this is Jessica Miller, but we're closed. If this is an emergency—"

"Thank God," the man interrupted. "My horse—she's hurt bad. Cut herself on barbed wire. There's blood everywhere." His voice cracked with what sounded like genuine distress. "I didn't know who else to call..."

Jessica hesitated. The clinic was officially closed, and protocol dictated she should direct after-hours emergencies to the 24-hour veterinary hospital in Lakeville, forty minutes away.

But a horse with a severe laceration couldn't wait forty minutes. Blood loss, infection, shock—all immediate concerns.

"Sir, I'm not a veterinarian," she began cautiously. "I can give you the number for the emergency clinic in—"

"Please," the man's voice broke again. "She'll die before I can get her there. I'm at the old Reynolds property—just five minutes from you. I’ve been to you guys before. Jenkins. Robert Jenkins."

Jessica bit her lip, weighing her options. The name sounded vaguely familiar—she might have processed paperwork

Jessica felt a surge of adrenaline. Five minutes away. A bleeding horse. Every second counted with arterial wounds.

She was already moving toward the storage closet where the emergency kits were kept. "I can bring some supplies and help until we can get a vet there, but I'm just a technician."

"Anything. Please." His voice cracked. "She's my daughter's horse."

That decided it. Jessica couldn't bear the thought of a child losing their beloved animal when she might have helped.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Apply direct pressure to the wound if you can safely do so. Use clean towels or blankets."

She ended the call and grabbed the largest emergency kit—a heavy-duty plastic case containing pressure bandages, antiseptic solutions, injectable sedatives, and basic suturing equipment. If the wound was as bad as it sounded, these might buy the horse enough time to transport it to the emergency hospital.

Jessica hesitated at the clinic's back door, her hand hovering over the security panel. The unease that had been crawling along her spine intensified. Something felt wrong.

She shook her head, banishing the doubt. A horse was suffering. That was what mattered.

She punched the security code into the panel and pushed through the door into the parking lot behind the clinic. The night air hit her like a physical wall—colder than she'd expected, carrying the scent of impending snow. Her breath formed clouds in front of her face, illuminated by the single security light mounted above the door.

The parking lot was empty except for her blue Honda Civic, parked in its usual spot near the dumpster enclosure. Shadows pooled between the feeble circles of light cast by the widely-spaced lamp posts. The nearest buildings were dark—the hardware store and tax preparation office that shared the small commercial strip with the clinic had closed hours ago.

Jessica moved quickly toward her car, the emergency kit bumping against her leg with each step. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent parking lot. Her keys jingled in her hand as she approached the driver's side door.

A soft scraping sound came from behind her car.

Jessica froze, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. The emergency kit felt suddenly heavy in her hand, its plastic handle slick beneath her sweating palm. She strained her eyes, peering into the darkness between her car and the dumpster enclosure.

Nothing moved. Just shadows.

"Hello?" she called, her voice sounding thin and frightened even to her own ears.

No response.

Just nerves, she told herself. The stress of the evening or maybe a raccoon scurrying away as she walked closer. She was just on edge because of the strange phone call—the disturbing photographs she'd been cataloging for hours.

Jessica took a deep breath and suddenly yelped.

A figure was materializing, like a wraith, rising from behind her car.

She stared, her eyes bugging.

The figure reached for her, and she released a scream.

But far, far too late.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Willow Creek Inn sat nestled against a backdrop of bare winter trees, its Victorian architecture a stark silhouette against the midnight sky. No stars were visible—heavy clouds had moved in, bringing with them a biting wind that carried the promise of snow. The inn's windows glowed with warm yellow light, incongruously cheerful against the surrounding darkness.

Hailey parked the SUV at the edge of the gravel lot, killing the headlights but leaving the engine running. Heat blasted from the vents, fighting against the cold that seeped through the vehicle's frame. The dashboard clock showed 12:17 AM.

"This is the place," she said, checking her phone one last time. "Her online itinerary for speaking engagements means she should still be here another night at least."

Graham nodded, unsnapping his holster cover—not drawing his weapon, but ensuring it would be readily accessible if needed. The gesture wasn't lost on Hailey, who did the same, the leather strap making a soft sound as it released.

"Just questioning at this point," she reminded him, though the precaution was warranted. If Holloway was their killer, she'd already demonstrated a clinical brutality that suggested she wouldn't hesitate to use violence when cornered.

They exited the vehicle, the cold immediately biting through Hailey's jacket. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, each step sounding unnaturally loud in the midnight stillness. A security light mounted above the inn's entrance cast elongated shadows across the parking lot, transforming ordinary objects—a decorative wagon wheel, a wrought-iron bench, a row of dormant rosebushes—into twisted, reaching shapes.

The night clerk looked up from his crossword puzzle as they entered, his expression shifting from boredom to wariness at the sight of their badges. He was young—early twenties at most—with the disheveled appearance of a college student working nights to pay tuition. The lobby smelled of cinnamon and furniture polish, the scents mingling with the mustiness of the aging building.

"Federal agents," Hailey said, keeping her voice low. "We need to speak with one of your guests, Veronica Holloway."

The clerk's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Um, I'm not supposed to confirm guest information without—"

"This is a federal investigation," Graham interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "We understand your position, but this is urgent."

The clerk hesitated, then nodded, turning to his computer. The ancient monitor cast a blue glow across his face as he tapped at the keyboard. "Holloway... 204... yes, she's checked in through tomorrow." He glanced up. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"We just need to ask her some questions," Hailey said, deliberately vague. "Is there a house phone we can use to call her room?"

The clerk pointed to an antique telephone on the reception desk, its brass fittings polished to a warm glow beneath the lobby's chandelier. "Line two rings directly to the room phones."

Hailey lifted the heavy handset, pressing the button marked ‘2’ as indicated. The line clicked, then began to ring. One... two... three... four rings. No answer. She replaced the handset with deliberate care, exchanging a glance with Graham.

"No answer at this hour," Graham murmured, his voice low enough that only Hailey could hear.

"Could be asleep.”

She turned back to the clerk. "When was the last time you saw Ms. Holloway?"

The young man frowned, tapping his pen against the half-completed crossword. "I came on shift at ten. Haven't seen her since then." He hesitated, then added, "But Maggie—she works the afternoon desk—mentioned that Ms. Holloway went out around eight. Said she was heading to give a talk at the community college."

"Has she returned?"

The clerk shrugged. "I've been here since ten, and I haven't seen her come in. But there's a side entrance with a keycard lock. Guests often use that when they return late. Doesn't pass by the desk."

Hailey nodded, a cold weight settling in her stomach. "We need to check her room."

The clerk's eyes widened. "I can't—I mean, without a warrant or something—"

"We have reason to believe Ms. Holloway may be in danger," Graham interjected smoothly, the practiced lie rolling off his tongue with professional ease. "Or may pose a danger to others. Exigent circumstances."

The clerk hesitated, clearly torn between hotel policy and the authority radiating from the two agents. Finally, he reached beneath the counter and produced a master keycard. "Second floor, west wing. End of the hall."

Hailey took the card, nodding her thanks. "If Ms. Holloway returns while we're upstairs, please don't mention we're here. For her safety."

They climbed the creaking staircase, the aged wood groaning beneath their weight. The inn's interior maintained its Victorian charm—floral wallpaper, ornate wainscoting, brass light fixtures that had been converted from gas to electric sometime in the previous century. The narrow hallway stretched before them, the pattern in the carpet worn thin down the center from countless footsteps.

Room 204 was at the far end, its brass numbers gleaming dully in the subdued hallway lighting. Hailey positioned herself to one side of the door, Graham to the other—standard procedure when approaching an unknown situation. She rapped sharply on the wooden panel.

"Ms. Holloway? FBI. We need to speak with you."

Silence from within.

Hailey knocked again, harder this time. "Veronica Holloway? Federal agents. Open the door."

Nothing but silence answered them. Hailey met Graham's eyes, a wordless communication passing between them. She slid the master keycard into the electronic lock. The small light flashed green, and the mechanism clicked open.

"Federal agents," Hailey announced again as she pushed the door inward, her right hand hovering near her holstered weapon.

The room beyond was dark except for the faint glow of a digital alarm clock on the nightstand, its red numbers casting a bloody hue across the antique furniture. 4:32 AM, the clock incorrectly proclaimed; it was still only just past midnight. The air smelled of sandalwood perfume and the particular mustiness of old buildings.

Graham found the light switch, flooding the room with sudden brightness from an overhead fixture.

The room was empty. Not just of people—the bed was made, its floral quilt smooth and undisturbed. The bathroom door stood open, revealing gleaming fixtures and folded towels. A leather suitcase sat open on the luggage rack, clothes neatly arranged inside. A laptop rested on the desk beside a stack of papers and a silver travel mug.

"She hasn't been to bed," Hailey observed, moving deeper into the room. "Not tonight, anyway."

Graham nodded, already pulling on latex gloves from his pocket. Hailey did the same, the thin material snapping against her wrists. They hadn't obtained a search warrant, but if Holloway was actively killing someone—or about to—the exigent circumstances doctrine would cover them.

Hailey moved to the desk while Graham checked the bathroom more thoroughly. The papers beside the laptop were lecture notes, the top page headed "When Advocacy Fails: The Moral Necessity of Direct Action." Bullet points outlined arguments about the inefficacy of traditional advocacy methods, the complicity of moderates in systems of abuse, and the ethical justification for more extreme measures.

She lifted the page, scanning the notes beneath. The handwriting was precise, architectural—each letter formed with careful attention, the lines perfectly straight despite the unlined paper. The content grew increasingly radical with each page, culminating in a section titled ‘Beyond Symbolic Protests.’

When words fail, actions must speak, Holloway had written. The comfortable must be made uncomfortable. The complicit must be confronted. Those who enable suffering while presenting themselves as its opponents must be exposed.

A chill ran down Hailey's spine at the words. She turned to the laptop, but it was password-protected, the screen showing only a login prompt and a background image of a cow standing in a sunlit meadow.

"Bathroom's clear," Graham reported, emerging from the tiled space. "Toiletries all arranged. Towels dry. She showered earlier today but not recently."

Hailey nodded, still examining the desk.

A small faux-leather-bound notebook caught Hailey's attention, partially concealed beneath the lecture notes. She carefully slid it out, mindful not to disturb the arrangement of the other papers. The cover was worn at the corners, suggesting frequent use.

Inside, the same precise handwriting filled page after page. Dates, locations, observations. Holloway had been methodically documenting her surveillance of local farms and animal facilities. Each entry included operational details—feeding schedules, staff rotations, security measures. The clinical detachment of the notes was more disturbing than any emotional ranting might have been.

Hailey flipped to the most recent entries. Three farms had been under observation in the past week—Clearwater Dairy, Ridgeline Beef, and Twin Silos. The last entry, dated yesterday, contained a detailed description of security camera positions at Twin Silos, along with staff departure times.

She turned another page and froze. There, meticulously taped to the paper, was a blueprint. Not a photocopy or a printout, but an actual architectural drawing on blue paper, its white lines forming a detailed layout of farm buildings, fencing, and access roads. Someone had marked the document with red ink, circling specific areas and drawing arrows to entry points.

"Graham," she called, her voice tight. "Look at this."

He moved to her side, leaning over her shoulder to examine the blueprint. The farm layout was distinctive—two massive silos dominated the center of the property, flanked by long, low buildings and a network of fenced enclosures.

"Twin Silos Farm," Hailey said, recognizing the distinctive layout. The property was well-known locally—a large cattle operation that had been featured in regional agricultural magazines for its innovative practices. "This is a professional blueprint."

Graham studied the marked entry points, his expression grim. "These are tactical annotations. Point of entry, security bypass, exit route." His finger traced the red ink path that wound through the buildings. "This isn't casual observation. This is operational planning."

Hailey pulled out her phone, dialing the station. "Call Twin Silos. See if there have been any incident reports tonight. Any disturbances, security alarms, anything unusual."

While Graham made the call, Hailey continued examining the notebook. The final page contained a list, each item meticulously checked off:

✓ Blueprints

✓ Security schedule

✓ Transportation

✓ Equipment

✓ Documentation supplies

✓ Sedatives (4 doses)

The last item sent another chill down her spine. Sedatives. Four doses. The clinical precision of the murders suddenly aligned with this methodical planning.

"No answer at the main office," Graham reported, ending his call. He paused, frowning.

“What?”

“Dispatch,” Graham said. “Texted notifications. There’s a hit.”

“Where?”

“Twin Silos,” he said. “Ten minutes ago. A disturbance reported in one of the large barn…”

He trailed off as Hailey was already jogging towards the door.

“Come on!” she called over her shoulder. “We have to hurry!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Twin Silos Farm materialized out of the darkness like a fortress, its massive grain storage towers rising against the clouded midnight sky. No moon penetrated the dense winter cloud cover, leaving only the distant yard light to cast any illumination across the sprawling property. The SUV's headlights remained dark as Hailey guided it slowly along the access road, dirt crunching softly beneath the tires. Behind them, a county sheriff's vehicle followed at a careful distance, its lights and sirens likewise silenced.

Hailey killed the engine a hundred yards from the main barn complex. The sudden absence of the motor's hum made the night sounds more acute—the whisper of wind through bare tree branches, the distant lowing of cattle, the soft ping of the cooling engine. She checked her weapon, the familiar weight providing cold comfort against the uncertainty ahead.

"Two deputies," Graham murmured, nodding toward the Sheriff's vehicle as it pulled alongside them. "Sheriff's ten minutes out with another unit."

Hailey nodded, her breath visible in the frigid air as she spoke. "We don't wait. If Holloway's inside, every minute counts."

The property spread before them in a complex arrangement of buildings and fenced enclosures. The two massive silos dominated the center, their cylindrical forms slightly offset like misaligned chess pieces. To the left stretched a long, low cattle barn, its metal roof reflecting the distant yard light in dull patches. To the right stood several smaller outbuildings—equipment sheds, feed storage, a modest office structure with darkened windows.

A flicker of light caught Hailey's attention—brief, yellow, moving. It came from the main barn, visible for just a moment through the narrow gaps between wooden slats. Then darkness again.

"There," she whispered, pointing. "Someone's inside with a flashlight."

The deputies joined them, moving with the careful precision of men accustomed to midnight calls in isolated locations. According to his nameplate, the older one, Peterson, carried a shotgun and his service weapon. The younger deputy, Barnes, clutched a heavy-duty flashlight, its beam currently dark.

"Owner's not answering his cell," Peterson reported, his voice a low rumble that matched his bearlike frame. "Night manager says no scheduled staff on-site after nine PM. Security system should be active."

"But no alarm," Graham noted.

Peterson nodded grimly. "System's been compromised."

Another flash of light from the barn—longer this time, sweeping across the interior before disappearing. Whoever was inside was moving with purpose, searching.

Hailey unfolded the printed blueprint from her pocket, the paper crinkling softly as she spread it on the SUV's hood. The deputies leaned in, their breath creating small clouds that dissipated in the cold air.

"Main barn has three access points," she said, indicating each on the blueprint. "Front entrance here, side door here, loading bay at the rear. From the light pattern, they're moving from east to west." Her finger traced the likely path across the architectural drawing. "We need to cover all exits."

"I'll take the loading bay," Graham offered, already checking his radio.

Peterson nodded. "Barnes and I can cover the side entrance."

"That leaves the front for me," Hailey concluded, folding the blueprint and returning it to her pocket. "Radio check every two minutes. We move in simultaneously on my mark."

They separated, each taking their designated approach. Hailey moved toward the front entrance, her footsteps silent against the frozen ground. The barn loomed larger as she approached, its weathered wooden exterior a patchwork of grays in the near-total darkness. Cattle and hay grew stronger—a rich, earthy scent.

She pressed her back against the barn's exterior wall, inching toward the main entrance. The door stood slightly ajar—just a few inches, but enough to confirm someone had breached the building.

Another flash of light leaked through the gap, accompanied by a soft murmur of voices. Not one person, but multiple speakers, their words indistinct but their tone urgent.

Hailey's radio vibrated softly against her hip, Graham signaling he was in position. Seconds later, a second vibration indicated the deputies were ready as well. She drew her weapon, the weight familiar in her gloved hand, and eased closer to the partially open door.

"—running out of time," a woman's voice drifted through the gap, the words now clear enough to distinguish. "The sedatives won't last much longer."

"I've almost got it," replied a second voice, younger, male. "These locks are more complicated than the ones at Clearwater."

"Hurry," urged a third voice, also female but less authoritative than the first. "We need to be gone before the shift change."

Hailey's pulse quickened. Three intruders, not one. Sedatives mentioned. Locks are being manipulated. This wasn't mere trespassing or vandalism—this was a coordinated operation.

She pressed her radio twice in rapid succession—the signal to move in. Then, with practiced efficiency, she swung around the doorframe, weapon raised, voice commanding:

"FBI! Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"

The barn's interior exploded with sudden illumination as Hailey's tactical flashlight cut through the darkness. The beam caught three figures in its harsh glare—frozen in place like actors when the director calls cut.

At the center stood Veronica Holloway, her tall, lean frame unmistakable even in the shadowy barn. She wore dark clothing—practical rather than tactical—and held some kind of electronic device in her gloved hands. Her severe bun had come partially undone, dark strands of hair falling across her angular face, which was flushed with a combination of cold and intensity.

Beside Holloway stood two younger figures—a man and a woman, both likely in their late twenties or early thirties. The man knelt before a large metal gate, some kind of electronic tool in his hands, wires extending from the device to the electronic lock mechanism. The woman clutched a backpack to her chest, her eyes wide with alarm as they reflected the beam of Hailey's flashlight.

From the other entrances came the sounds of doors bursting open. Graham's voice rang out from the loading bay, echoed seconds later by Peterson's gruff command from the side entrance. The barn erupted in controlled chaos—deputies securing the perimeter, flashlight beams crisscrossing the cavernous space, the startled lowing of cattle from the stalls lining both sides.

"Don't move!" Hailey ordered, her weapon trained on Holloway.

Behind the three activists, Hailey could now see what they had been working on—a row of cattle stalls with electronic locks, a security measure unusual for a standard agricultural operation. Inside each stall stood a sedated animal, swaying slightly on unsteady legs, eyes glazed and unfocused.

"Put the device down," Hailey commanded, taking a cautious step forward. "All of you, hands on your heads. Now."

The younger woman complied immediately, dropping the backpack and raising trembling hands. The man hesitated, looking to Holloway for direction.

"Do as she says, Ryan," Holloway said, her voice unnervingly calm despite being caught in the act. She carefully placed her electronic device on the ground before raising her own hands. “Agent Rock, I presume?”

Graham approached from the rear of the barn, his weapon similarly drawn. "You know who we are?"

"I make it my business to know who's who in the county," Holloway replied, her tone conversational, as if they'd met at a community function rather than during a midnight raid. "Though I expected the Sheriff, not the FBI. You must be here about Delaney and Winters."

The casual mention of the murder victims sent a chill through the barn that had nothing to do with the cold. Hailey exchanged a quick glance with Graham, whose expression remained professionally neutral despite the implication of Holloway's words.

"On the ground, all of you," Hailey ordered, refusing to be drawn into conversation. "Face down, hands behind your backs."

The younger activists complied, lowering themselves awkwardly to the hay-strewn concrete floor. Holloway, however, remained standing, her posture rigid with defiance.

"Before I comply," she said, her voice carrying easily through the barn's acoustics, "you should know what you're interrupting. This isn't just a cattle operation." She gestured toward the stalls with their electronic locks. "This is a research facility. Experimental hormone treatments are being conducted without proper oversight. These animals are suffering."

Hailey kept her weapon trained on Holloway. "On the ground. Now."

"Agent Rock," Holloway continued, her voice taking on a passionate intensity that filled the cavernous space, "these cattle are being injected with experimental growth hormones. Compounds not approved for use in food animals. We documented everything." She nodded toward the backpack the younger woman had dropped. "Test results from hair samples. Discarded medication vials with labels from pharmaceutical research divisions."

Graham had moved to secure the younger activists, zip-tying their wrists behind their backs while Deputy Peterson covered him. The male activist—Ryan—spoke up from his position on the ground.

"There are files on the office computer," he said, his voice muffled against the concrete floor. "Production records showing weight gains that are biologically impossible without chemical enhancement."

"Enough," Hailey commanded. "Ms. Holloway, on the ground or we will put you there."

Holloway finally complied, lowering herself to her knees and then stretching out on the concrete with a deliberate dignity that somehow made the position seem like her choice rather than a surrender. Graham secured her wrists with zip ties, his movements efficient and impersonal.

As the deputies began escorting the younger activists toward the barn entrance, Holloway turned her head to meet Hailey's gaze. "You think we killed Delaney and Winters." It wasn't a question but a statement, delivered with absolute certainty.

Hailey didn't respond immediately, instead moving to examine the backpack the female activist had dropped. Inside, she found exactly what Holloway had described—labeled sample containers, a digital camera, printed laboratory reports, and several empty medication vials with pharmaceutical markings.

"We document and expose," Holloway continued from her position on the floor. "We intervene when animals are suffering. We might use direct action, yes—like tonight. But we don't kill people."

"You had Delaney and Winters under surveillance," Hailey countered, pulling the notebook from her pocket. "You publicly confronted Dr. Winters, called her complicit in animal suffering."

"I disagreed with their methods," Holloway acknowledged, her cheek pressed against the cold concrete, dark hair spilling across her face. "I thought they were too cautious, too willing to work within a broken system. But I respected their commitment."

Graham had moved to examine the electronic device Holloway had placed on the ground. "What is this?" he asked, not touching the equipment.

"Diagnostic tool," Ryan answered from near the door where Deputy Barnes was holding him. "For the electronic locks.”

"We use it to bypass security systems," Holloway clarified, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous barn. "The cattle were going to be processed tomorrow. We were documenting the evidence of illegal hormone use, then releasing them to a sanctuary in Arkansas."

Hailey knelt beside Holloway, close enough to see the individual strands of hay clinging to the woman's dark hair. "You break into facilities, tamper with private property, and remove animals that don't belong to you. That's not just civil disobedience, Ms. Holloway. Those are felonies."

"I'm aware of the legal classification of my actions," Holloway replied, her tone measured despite her compromised position. The concrete floor pressed against her cheek, leaving a faint dust mark on her skin. "But there's a substantive moral difference between liberating suffering animals and murdering humans."

The barn's massive space seemed to contract around them as Hailey studied Holloway's face. The activist's eyes remained clear and direct, holding Hailey's gaze without wavering. No evasion, no panic—just absolute conviction.

"Get her up," Hailey instructed Graham, stepping back to allow him room to maneuver.

Graham helped Holloway to her feet, the zip ties securing her wrists behind her back. Hay and concrete dust clung to her dark clothing, but she maintained her dignified bearing, standing tall despite her restraints.

Outside, the wail of approaching sirens pierced the night—the Sheriff arriving with additional units. Inside the barn, the sedated cattle had begun to stir, their movements becoming more coordinated as the drugs wore off. One animal released a low, plaintive moo that reverberated through the wooden structure.

"The sedatives," Hailey prompted, nodding toward the cattle. "Veterinary grade?"

"Xylazine," Holloway confirmed without hesitation. "Safe, measured doses. Ryan has training as a veterinary technician. We document everything to ensure the animals' welfare is protected during transport."

"And you acquired these sedatives how?"

"You’ve caught me, Agent Rock. If you expect me to turn in every silent hero who has ever helped me, then you can think again."

The barn door swung open wider as Sheriff Dawson entered, flanked by two additional deputies. His weathered face registered surprise at finding FBI agents conducting the operation, but he quickly masked it with professional composure.

"Agents," he acknowledged with a nod. "Dispatch said you might need assistance."

"We have three in custody," Hailey informed him, gesturing toward the activists. "Breaking and entering, attempted theft of livestock, possession of restricted pharmaceuticals without authorization. Possibly corporate espionage, depending on what's in those files they collected."

Dawson's eyebrows rose as he took in the scene—the electronic equipment, the backpack of evidence, the sedated cattle swaying in their stalls. His gaze settled on Holloway, recognition flickering across his features.

"Ms. Holloway," he said, his tone suggesting this wasn't their first encounter. "Seems you've graduated from protest signs to breaking and entering."

Holloway met his gaze without flinching. "What's happening at this facility isn't just unethical, Sheriff. It's illegal. Those files contain evidence of FDA violations that—"

"Save it for your attorney," Dawson interrupted, signaling to his deputies. "Get them processed and into holding."

As the deputies moved to take custody of the three activists, Hailey's phone vibrated in her pocket. She stepped away from the group, moving toward a quieter corner of the barn where the lowing of the increasingly alert cattle wouldn't drown out the call.

"Rock," she answered, her voice low.

Alice's voice came through, tight with urgency. "Hailey, we've got another one."

The words landed like ice in Hailey's stomach. She pressed the phone harder against her ear, as if physical pressure could somehow make the information less devastating. "Where?"

"Garden Veterinary Clinic. Jessica Miller, a veterinary technician. Worked with Dr. Winters."

Hailey's gaze snapped to Holloway, who was now being escorted toward the barn door by one of Dawson's deputies. The activist's posture remained erect, her movements measured despite the restraints. She couldn't possibly have committed this new murder—she'd been spotted at the Willow Creek Inn, then here at Twin Silos, during the window when it must have occurred.

"How long?" Hailey asked, already moving toward Graham to signal him.

"ME estimates between four and six hours ago," Alice replied, the sound of papers shuffling coming through the connection. "Body was discovered thirty minutes ago by the clinic owner, Dr. Taylor. He stopped by to check on some overnight patients and found the back door unlocked."

Four to six hours. While they'd been watching Holloway's empty hotel room, then tracking her to Twin Silos, someone else had been killing Jessica Miller.

"Scene status?" Hailey asked, reaching Graham and motioning for him to listen in.

"Secured. County techs are processing now, but they're waiting for us before moving the body. Dr. Taylor said there's something... unusual about the positioning."

Hailey exchanged a meaningful glance with Graham. Unusual positioning. Like Delaney and Winters. The same killer was at work, and it wasn't Veronica Holloway.

"We're on our way," Hailey said, ending the call and turning to Sheriff Dawson, who had approached during the conversation. "Sheriff, we need to hand these three over to you. They found another one.”

Dawson's weathered face creased with concern as he absorbed the gravity in Hailey's tone. "Another murder?"

"Jessica Miller," Hailey confirmed, her voice low to prevent the news from reaching the activists being loaded into patrol cars outside. "Veterinary technician at Garden Clinic."

The Sheriff's expression darkened.

Dawson nodded, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. "I'll handle the booking personally. Make sure everything's by the book." He paused, his gaze following Hailey's to the patrol car. "You were looking at Holloway for the murders?"

"She had motive, opportunity, and the technical knowledge," Graham explained, already gathering their equipment. "But this latest killing makes it look unlikely.”

"Unless she has an accomplice," Dawson suggested.

Hailey shook her head. "The precision, the methodology—it's the work of a single individual. I’d bet anything. Someone methodical. Patient." She zipped her jacket against the intensifying cold.

That precision told them something, something right on the edge of conscious thought. But until she found it, only one chill feeling preoccupied her: that if they did not uncover the connection between killer and victims, their methodical murderer may deem their mission complete, vanishing as quickly as they appeared… another cold case buried under winter frost.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The drive to Garden Veterinary Clinic took seventeen minutes, each second feeling like an eternity as Hailey navigated the dark county roads. The SUV's heater fought valiantly against the chill, but never quite managed to dispel the cold that had settled into her bones—a chill that had nothing to do with the winter night and everything to do with the knowledge that they'd been focused on the wrong suspect while another victim died.

The clinic's parking lot was a chaos of emergency vehicles—three county cruisers, the medical examiner's van, Alice's official Sheriff's SUV. Red and blue lights pulsed against the building's brick exterior, transforming the ordinary veterinary practice into something alien and sinister. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the rear entrance, fluttering in the biting wind like ragged flags.

Hailey parked beside Alice's vehicle and stepped out into the frigid night. The air smelled of impending snow, the scent sharp and clean against the background odors of antiseptic and something else—something metallic and organic that Hailey recognized immediately: blood.

Alice met them at the tape perimeter, her face drawn with fatigue and the strain of another murder in her jurisdiction. She wore her Sheriff's jacket zipped to the chin, a department-issue knit cap pulled low over her ears against the cold. And also, Hailey guessed, to hide her bandages.

"Inside," she said without preamble, lifting the tape for them to duck under. She paused, wincing slightly, but then noticing her sister watching, she straightened and shook her head. "Dr. Taylor's waiting in the front reception area. He found her."

The clinic's rear entrance led to a short hallway lined with supply cabinets.

"Inside," she said, lifting the tape for them to duck under. "Dr. Taylor's waiting by the reception desk. He's pretty shaken up."

Hailey and Graham followed Alice through the rear entrance. The door showed no signs of forced entry—no splintered wood, no broken lock. Inside, the hallway was clinically bright, fluorescent tubes casting harsh white light over the institutional green walls and gray linoleum floor. The smell of antiseptic grew stronger but couldn't quite mask the underlying scent of blood.

"She wasn't killed inside," Alice said as they moved down the corridor. "ME's preliminary assessment is that she was attacked in the parking lot. Dragged to the door and..." She paused, swallowing hard. "Positioned."

They reached the reception area, where a man in his sixties sat slumped in a chair, his face buried in his hands. He wore a rumpled dress shirt beneath a heavy winter coat, as if he'd thrown the coat on over whatever he'd been wearing at home. When he looked up at their approach, his eyes were red-rimmed, his expression dazed with shock.

"Dr. Taylor," Alice said gently. "These are the FBI agents I mentioned. Special Agents Rock and Vance."

The veterinarian nodded, making a visible effort to compose himself. He stood, running a trembling hand through silver hair that stuck up in disorderly tufts. "I came to check on Brutus," he said, his voice hoarse. "Surgery patient. German Shepherd. Just wanted to make sure he was comfortable for the night."

Hailey nodded, keeping her voice gentle. "Can you tell us what you found when you arrived?"

Dr. Taylor's gaze drifted toward the front entrance, where crime scene technicians worked behind a partition that blocked the view from the waiting room windows. "I came in through the back, like always after hours. The security light was out—I made a mental note to call maintenance tomorrow." His voice caught on the word 'tomorrow,' the future suddenly uncertain in the face of such violence. "I used my key, but the door was already unlocked. That was unusual. Jessica is—was—very careful about security."

"You came inside," Graham prompted when the doctor fell silent.

"Yes. Called out for Jessica. Sometimes she stays late to catch up on paperwork." He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "When she didn't answer, I checked the kennels first. Brutus was fine. The diabetic cat too. I figured maybe Jessica had stepped out for coffee or something." His voice cracked again. "Then I went to the front desk to leave her a note about leaving the door unlocked."

Hailey could see where this was leading, but let the man tell it at his own pace. Trauma narratives often contained critical details that might be lost if rushed.

"I saw her through the glass doors," Dr. Taylor continued, his gaze fixed on some middle distance, seeing again what had been etched into his memory. "At first, I thought she'd fallen. Then I saw..." His voice faltered. "She was arranged. Like a display. Her arms and legs..."

He couldn't continue, his professional composure finally crumbling. He sank back into the chair, shoulders hunched against a reality too brutal to process.

Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham, then nodded to Alice. "We need to see her."

Alice led them through the clinic's reception area toward the front entrance. The space was surreal in its normalcy—educational posters about heartworm prevention and dental care for pets, a display of premium food products, a bulletin board covered with thank-you cards from grateful pet owners. The juxtaposition of this everyday veterinary practice against the horror that waited beyond the reception desk created a cognitive dissonance that heightened the tension coiling in Hailey's stomach.

Beyond a temporary partition erected by the crime scene team, Jessica Miller lay in the entrance vestibule of Garden Veterinary Clinic. The glass doors were locked from the inside—the electronic keypad showing its armed status with a small red light. Jessica's body had been positioned directly in front of these doors, visible to anyone approaching the clinic from the parking lot, yet secured behind locked doors like a macabre museum exhibit.

The positioning was deliberate, theatrical. Jessica had been arranged on her back, arms and legs extended outward in an X-formation. Around her neck was a plastic identification band—the kind used to tag cattle at processing facilities. The tag bore a six-digit number, the plastic still pristine white against the darkened blood that had pooled beneath her body.

Dr. Elaine Morrow knelt beside the corpse, her silver hair pulled back tightly in its customary bun. She looked up as they approached, her experienced eyes registering their arrival with a grim nod. Despite the late hour, she wore a complete set of scrubs beneath her ME jacket, as if she'd woken up prepared for this call.

"Agents," she acknowledged, her voice carrying the particular flat tone of professionals who have seen too much. "I was just about to finish the preliminary examination."

Hailey crouched opposite Dr. Morrow, careful not to disturb the blood pattern on the floor. "Do you have a time of death?"

"Based on liver temperature and lividity, between eight and ten PM," Dr. Morrow replied, gesturing to her instruments laid out on a sterile cloth beside the body. "Rigor is well-established but not yet beginning to resolve."

Dr. Morrow gently tilted Jessica's head, revealing a deep laceration across the throat. "Exsanguination from severed carotid artery. Single cut, left to right, consistent with a right-handed attacker standing behind the victim." Dr. Morrow pointed to the wound's characteristics with a gloved finger, not touching the damaged tissue. "Clean edges suggest a very sharp implement. Possibly a specialized knife."

"Like a surgical scalpel?" Hailey asked, studying the wound.

"Possibly, though the width indicates something larger than a standard scalpel." Dr. Morrow's eyes narrowed as she examined the cut more closely. "Perhaps a specialized veterinary or agricultural tool."

Graham gestured toward the ID tag around Jessica's neck. "Significance of the numbers?”

Hailey leaned closer, reading the six-digit code: 031824.

"Not immediately apparent," Dr. Morrow admitted. "County records don't use this numbering system for livestock. It appears to be a custom sequence."

"The killer's creating their own classification system," Hailey murmured, the realization settling like a weight in her stomach. "Categorizing the victims according to some personal schema."

Dr. Morrow nodded, the overhead lights reflecting off her silver hair. "There's something else. The victims' positions have been similar—arms and legs posed in an X-formation or laid neatly at their sides. It's reminiscent of how livestock are positioned for certain veterinary procedures."

"Or for processing," Graham added grimly.

The implications hung in the air between them, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the glass doors against their frames. Jessica's unseeing eyes stared upward, reflecting the harsh overhead lighting.

Hailey's gaze moved from the wound to Jessica's face, and a sudden chill gripped her that had nothing to do with the clinic's aggressive air conditioning.

She frowned, hesitant as her own mind made connections that weren’t actually there.

She swallowed briefly, closing her eyes then opening them again.

The victim's features, relaxed in death, bore a slight resemblance to Mindy. Not an exact match—Jessica's hair was lighter, her nose slightly broader—but there was something in the shape of her face, the curve of her jaw, that triggered a visceral response in Hailey's chest.

She forced herself to continue the professional examination, but her pulse had quickened. Jessica Miller was approximately Mindy's age—similar build, similar height. The resemblance wasn't something others would necessarily notice, but to Hailey, who had spent years searching for her sister's face in crowds, the similarities were impossible to ignore.

"Agent Rock?" Dr. Morrow's voice seemed to come from far away. "Are you alright?"

Hailey nodded, not trusting her voice. The fluorescent lights suddenly seemed too bright, the antiseptic smell too sharp. The walls of the small vestibule pressed inward, the space contracting around her. She could feel Graham's concerned gaze on her but couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.

"Excuse me," she managed, rising to her feet with deliberate control. "I need to check something outside."

She felt… strange.

Very strange.

The lack of sleep perhaps?

But no… not just that. Her stomach was strangely churning. She grimaced, a hand to her gut. Her frown only deepened. She released a slow breath as she tried to hasten away from that unsettling feeling in her gut.

But it only intensified.

Now, she found herself shivering.

“What the hell…” she muttered. She moved with shaky but measured steps through the reception area toward the back exit. The hallway stretched before her, the green walls wavering slightly at the edges of her vision. Her breathing had become shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs with increasing urgency.

The cold night air hit her like a physical blow as she pushed through the rear door. She gulped it down in desperate breaths, leaning against the brick exterior of the clinic. The parking lot swam before her eyes, emergency lights pulsing red and blue against the darkness. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of cold air filling her lungs, the rough texture of brick against her palms.

When she opened her eyes again, the world had steadied somewhat. She moved away from the building, seeking a pocket of darkness beyond the chaos of the crime scene. Her fingers found her phone in her pocket, the screen illuminating with a touch.

She scrolled to Mindy’s number.

Still no updates from the deputy who was watching Drake.

No news meant good news.

But… she frowned.

A news notification had shown up in her search engine. The Drake Crime family… it was one of the keywords she had set notifications up for.

She stared at it.

The notification headline made her breath catch: Drake Family Associate Released from Federal Prison.

Hailey tapped the article with trembling fingers, her heart pounding as the screen loaded. A photograph appeared—a man in his fifties exiting a prison gate, his face gaunt but his eyes cold and calculating. Raymond Voss. The name hit her like a physical blow.

Voss had been Drake's enforcer, the man who "cleaned up problems" for the family. He'd been sentenced to fifteen years for racketeering and assault but apparently had been released early on a technicality—something about evidence mishandling that the article mentioned but Hailey couldn't process through the roaring in her ears.

She scrolled frantically, searching for the release date. Three weeks ago. Three weeks Voss had been free, potentially reconnecting with Drake, potentially—

"Hailey?"

Graham's voice startled her. She hadn't heard him approach, hadn't noticed the crunch of his shoes on the parking lot’s rugged surface. He stood a few feet away, concern etched across his features, illuminated in the pulsing red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles.

"I'm fine," she said automatically, locking her phone screen with a quick motion.

Graham didn't respond immediately, just studied her with the careful assessment of someone who knew her too well to believe the obvious lie. "You recognized something in there," he finally said. "Something about the victim."

Hailey hesitated, the cold air burning her lungs as she took a deep breath. "Just... similarities. To other cases." The deflection sounded weak even to her own ears.

Graham moved closer, positioning himself to block the view from the building—giving her a moment of privacy from the curious gazes of deputies and technicians. His voice dropped, meant only for her. "Hailey, if there's something personal about this case—"

"There's not," she interrupted, more sharply than she'd intended. Softening her tone, she added, "I just needed some air. The scene... it's intense."

Graham's expression made it clear he didn't believe her, but he respected her enough not to push. Instead, he shifted topics, professional focus returning. "Alice wants to brief us on Jessica Miller's background. Apparently, she was scheduled to testify in an upcoming animal neglect case."

The information landed with the weight of significance. "Another connection to animal welfare enforcement."

Graham nodded. "The Blackwood case. Eight horses in severe condition. Dr. Winters had conducted the initial veterinary assessment, but Jessica had assisted and was preparing the documentation for court." He paused, watching Hailey's reaction. "The hearing is next week."

Hailey tried to keep her voice steady. “So…” she swallowed, summoning more nerve. “So our killer is targeting people involved in animal welfare enforcement. Not just random selection—specific individuals who document and testify in neglect cases."

“What does that tell us?”

Hailey had trailed off though. She frowned, staring towards one of the light posts at the far end of the parking lot. Something shimmering had caught her eye. Glass?

She approached slowly. As she did, she sent off a quick text to Mindy. How are you?

She then pocketed her phone, forcing herself to relax. She approached the fallen item beneath the light post, dropping to her haunches.

“What is it?” Graham called as he drew in beside her.

Hailey crouched lower, examining the scattered debris beneath the light post. Fragments of black plastic, a cracked screen, and tiny electronic components lay scattered across the asphalt. Not random trash, but the deliberate destruction of a device.

"A burner phone," she said, pulling a pen from her pocket to carefully shift one of the larger pieces. The cheap plastic casing had been stomped on with significant force, the screen shattered beyond repair. "Completely destroyed."

Graham knelt beside her, producing an evidence bag from his jacket pocket.

As Hailey helped gather the fragments, a realization struck her with such force that she nearly lost her balance. "The back door was unlocked from the inside when Dr. Taylor arrived.”

"Right," Graham confirmed. "Suggesting Jessica unlocked it herself."

"But Dr. Taylor said she was security-conscious. The clinic handles controlled substances, expensive equipment. Jessica wouldn't leave doors unlocked, especially after hours."

Graham's eyes narrowed as he followed her reasoning. "So she must have unlocked the door for someone. Someone she knew or had reason to trust."

"Or someone who gave her a compelling reason to come outside." Hailey gestured to the destroyed phone. "A call. A distress call that would override her caution." She stood, surveying the parking lot with fresh eyes. "Jessica was working late, alone in the building. Someone calls her, creates an emergency scenario that would compel her to risk breaking protocol."

"A veterinary emergency," Graham suggested. "An injured animal."

Hailey nodded, the scenario crystallizing in her mind. "The killer calls, claims to have an injured animal—something that requires immediate attention. Something that would trigger Jessica's professional instincts."

She turned in a slow circle, reconstructing the scene. "Jessica receives the call. The situation sounds urgent enough that she decides to risk stepping outside. Maybe the caller said they were in the parking lot, couldn't move the animal." Her gaze settled on the dark patch of ground near her car—the spot where the first responders had found signs of a struggle. "She comes out. The killer is waiting."

Graham was already on his radio, requesting the crime scene technicians to expand their search perimeter to include the area around the light post. "We need phone records," he said to Hailey. "See if we can trace the call that brought her outside."

"Burner phone," Hailey reminded him, nodding toward the evidence bag of shattered components. "Likely paid for in cash, no registration. But the call would still show up on the clinic's call log or Jessica's cell."

She looked back toward the clinic building, its windows now illuminated by the harsh work lights of the crime scene team. Through the glass doors, Hailey could see the shadowy figures of technicians moving in hunched orbit around Jessica's body. The clinical efficiency of their work formed a stark contrast to the brutal intimacy of the crime itself. Someone had lured Jessica outside with deliberate calculation, had killed her with precise knowledge of anatomy, had positioned her body with theatrical intent.

Graham frowned, his breath visible in the cold air. "The cattle tag. The positioning. This killer is creating a parallel between livestock processing and human murder."

"Not just any humans," Hailey corrected, the pattern becoming clearer with each victim. "Specifically, people who enforce animal welfare regulations. People who decide which animals live and which are destroyed."

The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of snow. In the distance, thunder rumbled—promising a winter storm rather than a summer shower. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the cold seeping through Hailey's jacket and into her bones.

"Let's get back inside," Graham suggested, noting her shiver. "Alice will have more background on Jessica by now."

They returned to the clinic, where the harsh fluorescent lighting made everyone look sickly and exhausted. Alice stood at the reception desk, a folder open before her, speaking in low tones with one of her deputies. She looked up as they entered, her expression grim.

"Jessica Miller," she began without preamble. "Twenty-eight years old. Five years at Garden Veterinary Clinic. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. Well-liked by colleagues and clients." She flipped a page in the folder. "Specialized in large animal care, particularly horses. Dr. Taylor says she often assisted Dr. Winters with farm visits and neglect cases."

"Family?" Hailey asked.

"Parents in Springfield. Brother in Chicago. Boyfriend in Pleasant—Kyle Reeves, works at the hardware store downtown. We've notified the parents. Deputy's bringing in the boyfriend now."

Hailey nodded, absorbing the information. "Any connection to the Blackwood case beyond her scheduled testimony?"

Alice's eyebrows rose slightly at the specific query. "Actually, yes. According to Dr. Taylor, Jessica was the one who received the anonymous tip about the Blackwood horses. Caller refused to give a name, but provided detailed information about the property and the animals' condition. Jessica reported it to Dr. Winters, who then conducted the official inspection."

The revelation landed with the weight of a cornerstone in the emerging foundation of their case. Hailey exchanged a meaningful glance with Graham, the significance not lost on either of them. Jessica hadn't just been scheduled to testify—she had been the initial catalyst for the entire Blackwood investigation.

"We need the clinic's phone records," Hailey said, turning back to Alice. "Specifically, any calls received tonight between six and eight PM. And Jessica's cell phone—has it been recovered?"

Alice nodded. "Found in her desk drawer. Techs are processing it now."

Hailey nodded. “Let me know as soon as we have any info on that call.”

“And where are you going?”

“Back to the office,” Hailey said. “We have three dead. The pattern is clear…” She paused then added, “and now we have the chance to get ahead of it.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The man sat in his truck across from the county courthouse, the engine silent but the heater still pushing warm air through the vents. Outside, the promised snowstorm had finally arrived, fat flakes drifting lazily past the windshield before settling on the already whitening ground. The courthouse stood like a fortress across the street, its limestone façade gleaming dully in the early morning light, an American flag snapping in the chill wind.

His gaze drifted upward to the sun visor where her photo was clipped—Jenny, smiling in the summer sun, her hair caught by the breeze, their farmhouse visible in the background. Three weeks after that photo was taken, the cancer diagnosis came. Eight months later, she was gone. The final months spent in a hospital bed they'd set up in the living room, where she could at least see the pastures and the cattle she'd loved as much as he did.

His hands, once steady enough to deliver calves in midnight snowstorms, trembled as he studied the official photo of Dr. Eleanor Simmons, printed from the county website and folded neatly beside him on the passenger seat. The county veterinary board director who had stood in his living room three years ago, clipboard in hand, explaining how his family's century of careful breeding and stewardship meant nothing in the face of her ‘professional assessment.’

"Insufficient shelter during extreme weather events," she had said, her pen tapping against the clipboard. "Inadequate nutrition for lactating females. Overcrowding in the north pasture." Each point delivered in that same clinical tone, as if she were reading a grocery list rather than dismantling his life's work.

Jenny had still been alive then, but barely—conscious only a few hours each day, the morphine keeping the worst pain at bay but stealing her clarity. She'd heard the conversation from her hospital bed in the living room. Heard this stranger condemn the herd they'd built together over thirty years of marriage.

"Please," he had said, not too proud to beg. "My wife is dying. I've been at the hospital every day. I hired the Peterson boy to help, but he's just eighteen. Inexperienced. Give me time to get things back in order."

Dr. Simmons had looked at him with what might have been pity but felt more like contempt. "Sir, I understand you're facing personal difficulties. But animal welfare can't wait for convenient timing. These animals are suffering now."

Three days later, the trucks came. Five of them, backing up to his loading chutes. Men with electric prods moving through his pastures, herding the cattle—his cattle, his family's legacy—into the waiting transports. Seventy-three head. Gone in an afternoon.

Jenny had died two weeks later. He'd always believed she'd held on as long as she did because she thought he needed her. After the herd was taken, she'd simply... stopped fighting.

The man rubbed his calloused thumb across Jenny’s photograph, carefully avoiding the edges so as not to wear them further. The last three years had weathered him like decades—lines etched deep around his eyes, hair gone from shocks of grey to nearly white, shoulders permanently stooped as if still carrying the weight of all he'd lost.

He reached for the thermos beside him, pouring the last of the coffee into the plastic cup. The liquid had grown tepid, but he drank it anyway, grimacing at the bitter dregs. The dashboard clock read 7:14 AM. Dr. Simmons wouldn't arrive for another forty-five minutes, according to the courthouse schedule he'd memorized.

The last name on his list, she was the one who could have recommended support instead of seizure, who could have seen a man drowning in grief and depression instead of labeling him an animal abuser—and tomorrow, she'd take the stand to advocate for more power to destroy families like his.

From the truck's center console, he removed the knife—not the one he'd used before, but a new one purchased specifically for Dr. Simmons. Ceramic blade, serrated edge, the handle wrapped in leather cord for better grip. Each victim had their own weapon, each carefully selected to reflect their particular betrayal.

Snow continued to fall, accumulating on the windshield where the defroster couldn't reach. The courthouse steps were already dusted white, the limestone railings wearing caps of fresh snow. A county maintenance worker emerged from the side entrance, salt spreader in hand, methodically treating the walkways. The man watched him work, noting the careful attention to each section of pavement. Here was someone who took pride in their job, who understood the importance of thoroughness.

His gaze shifted to the photo of Dr. Simmons again. Her official county portrait showed a woman in her fifties, blonde hair cut in a practical bob, expression professionally neutral behind wire-rimmed glasses. Nothing in the image suggested compassion or cruelty—just bureaucratic efficiency. The kind of efficiency that had assessed his struggling farm in twenty minutes and condemned three generations of work without hesitation.

The coffee cup crumpled in his tightening grip. He didn’t need the photo.

She had arrived.

He stared through the windshield, breathing heavily now.

Dr. Simmons emerged from her silver Audi, briefcase in one hand, travel mug in the other. She wore a charcoal pantsuit beneath a camel-colored wool coat, practical boots with just enough heel to maintain professional appearance without sacrificing stability on the snow-dusted pavement. Her breath created small clouds in the frigid air as she made her way toward the courthouse steps, stopping briefly to exchange greetings with the maintenance worker.

The man watched her ascend the steps, his breathing slow and controlled. His hand closed around the knife's handle, the leather cord pressing familiar patterns into his palm. Three years of rage condensed into this moment, crystallized by grief and isolation into something hard and pure as diamond.

He had planned for her to be the last. The final statement in his carefully orchestrated message to the county. After Delaney, Winters, and Miller, Dr. Simmons would complete the sequence—the four pillars of the system that had destroyed him. The four who had wielded their professional authority like weapons, who had hidden behind regulations and protocols while real people—people like him—suffered the consequences.

His truck door opened with a soft creak, the sound muffled by the falling snow. The courthouse plaza was nearly empty—too early for the day's business, too cold for casual visitors. Just Dr. Simmons, disappearing through the heavy glass doors, the maintenance worker focused on his task, and a solitary figure slipping from a parked truck, ceramic knife concealed within his coat sleeve.

The courthouse security checkpoint wouldn't open for another thirty minutes. Dr. Simmons had entered through the employee entrance on the side—keycard access only, no metal detectors until the main security station inside. The ceramic blade wouldn't trigger alarms anyway. He had tested similar materials against the courthouse's weekend security when the building was nearly empty, walking through with ceramic components of various sizes. Nothing had registered.

He followed her path, boots leaving fresh tracks in the thin layer of snow. His breathing created small clouds that dissipated in the cold air. The employee entrance required a keycard, but he had prepared for this—had observed the door enough times to know that the magnetic lock occasionally failed to engage properly if the door didn't close completely. He’d helped with the piece of tape he’d left on his way out the previous day.

Today, fortune favored him. As he approached, he saw that the door had indeed failed to latch fully. A slight gap remained, no wider than a finger, but enough that the lock hadn't engaged.

He glanced around once—the maintenance worker had moved to the far side of the plaza, focused on spreading salt along the western approach. No one else was visible in the steadily falling snow.

The man slipped through the door, entering a service corridor lined with beige cinderblock walls and illuminated by fluorescent tubes that buzzed faintly overhead. The air smelled of floor polish and the particular dust that accumulates in government buildings—a combination of paper, electronics, and the passage of countless citizens through bureaucratic processes.

He paused now, feeling another wave of grief threatening to drown him.

No one had quite explained the pain of grief to him before.

It was enough to level a man.

The corridor stretched before him, empty and silent save for the distant hum of the building's heating system. His footsteps, despite his careful tread, echoed slightly against the hard surfaces. Water droplets from melting snow marked his path across the institutional gray linoleum.

The ceramic knife felt warm against his wrist, the handle nestled in a custom sheath he'd fashioned from an old leather belt. His fingers twitched, anticipating the moment when he would finally complete his work. Dr. Simmons would be the culmination—the final statement.

Outside Room 217, he paused, listening. The soft click of computer keys, the rustle of papers, the distinctive sound of a ceramic mug being placed on a wooden desk. Dr. Simmons, going about her morning routine, unaware that judgment had arrived at her door.

He straightened his posture, squared his shoulders. The grief and rage that had driven him this far crystallized into cold purpose. He knocked on the door—three precise raps, professional and unremarkable.

"Come in," Dr. Simmons called, her voice carrying the practiced authority of someone accustomed to directing others.

The door opened smoothly on well-maintained hinges. Dr. Simmons sat behind a temporary desk, her camel coat draped over a visitor's chair, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviewed documents spread before her. She looked up at his entrance, her expression shifting from professional neutrality to momentary confusion as she tried to place his face.

"Can I help you?" she asked, removing her glasses. "I'm afraid I don’t…”

She trailed off, dread now dawning in her eyes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In the FBI's temporary office, Hailey sat motionless at her desk, surrounded by the detritus of an all-night investigation—empty coffee cups, discarded food wrappers, printouts covered in her increasingly jagged handwriting. The overhead fluorescents hummed with merciless consistency, their harsh light emphasizing the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin. She hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.

Graham entered carrying two fresh coffees, the steam rising from the cups in delicate spirals. The office door clicked shut behind him with quiet finality. His limp was more pronounced this morning, the cold weather aggravating his old injury. He placed one cup beside Hailey's keyboard without comment, then lowered himself into the chair opposite her desk, the plastic creaking beneath his weight.

"Lab results," he said, sliding a folder across the cluttered surface. "Nothing distinctive about the chemical compound used on Delaney. Standard euthanasia solution. Pentobarbital sodium. Available at most veterinary clinics, animal shelters, research facilities."

Hailey nodded, unsurprised. She'd suspected as much. The killer wasn't trying to be clever with exotic substances—they were making a point with methodology, not materials. She opened the folder, scanning the technical analysis without really seeing it. The words blurred together, her exhausted brain struggling to process the information.

"Phone records?" she asked, reaching for the coffee. The ceramic was hot against her palms, the heat a welcome anchor to physical sensation after hours of mental abstraction.

Graham shook his head. "Dead end. The call to Garden Veterinary Clinic came from the burner phone we found destroyed in the parking lot. Paid for with cash at a convenience store in Springfield three weeks ago. No security footage retained for that period."

"Convenience store owned by Hal Martin," Hailey noted, recalling the information from their preliminary investigation. "Who sold forty-three identical phones in the past month. Keeps no records of cash purchases under twenty dollars."

Graham nodded, taking a careful sip of his coffee. "And the SIM card was too damaged to recover any data. The lab tried, but..." He gestured toward the report, the technical explanation of the destruction spanning several paragraphs of dense jargon.

The office fell silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of the snow plow clearing the parking lot. Outside, the day had brightened marginally, the snow clouds thinning just enough to allow diffused sunlight to illuminate the white landscape.

Hailey stared at the crime scene photos spread across her desk—the clinical arrangements of bodies, the calculated positioning, the livestock tags with their mysterious numbering system. Something was eluding her, hovering just beyond her grasp like a word on the tip of her tongue.

"I need to think," she said suddenly, rising from her chair with such abruptness that coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup, staining a corner of the lab report. "Somewhere quiet."

Graham nodded, understanding without explanation. "Interview room three is empty. I'll make sure no one disturbs you."

The interview room was windowless and spartan—a metal table bolted to the floor, three chairs, a one-way mirror reflecting her exhausted face back at her. Hailey switched off the overhead fluorescents, leaving only the small task lamp in the corner illuminated. The sudden dimness was a relief to her burning eyes.

She sat in the darkness, letting the silence envelop her. The building's ambient sounds receded—the ringing phones, shuffling papers, murmured conversations all fading into a distant hum. Her breathing slowed, deepened. Her thoughts, scattered by exhaustion and urgency, began to coalesce into more coherent patterns.

Start from the beginning, she told herself. Not from the first murder, but from the connections that preceded it.

Dr. Sarah Winters. Veterinarian. County animal welfare inspector. Responsible for evaluating reported cases of neglect or abuse, determining if animals should be removed from their owners. The first victim.

Richard Delaney. Animal welfare advocate. Worked with county officials to strengthen regulations on animal keeping. Lobbied for stricter enforcement of existing laws. The second victim.

Jessica Miller. Veterinary technician. Worked with Dr. Winters on farm visits and neglect cases. Scheduled to testify in the Blackwood case. The third victim. Tagged with a phony number.

Three victims with clear professional connections to animal welfare enforcement. Three people who had, in some capacity, been involved in decisions about which animals lived and which were seized, potentially euthanized.

Hailey closed her eyes, resting her forehead on her clasped hands. The darkness behind her eyelids was complete, allowing her mind to construct connections without visual distractions.

If the killer was targeting people involved in animal welfare enforcement, the most obvious suspects would be those who had lost animals due to welfare complaints. The county would have records of all seizures over the past several years—names, dates, circumstances.

With this in mind, Hailey jerked upright, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. She fumbled for her phone, tapping out a quick text to Alice requesting county records of all animal seizures in the past five years. The response came faster than expected—Alice had anticipated the request and already compiled a preliminary list.

The file downloaded to Hailey's phone, the screen's blue light harsh in the darkened room. She scrolled through the document, names and dates and property descriptions blurring together. Forty-seven seizures in five years. Forty-seven potential suspects.

She narrowed the parameters. Seizures involving multiple animals. Seizures that resulted in animal euthanasia rather than rehabilitation and rehoming. Seizures where the owner contested the action.

Twelve cases now.

She refined further. Owners with no prior history of animal welfare violations. Owners who had suffered personal hardships around the time of the seizure—medical issues, financial crises, family tragedies.

Five cases remained.

Hailey studied each one carefully, searching for the connection that would crystallize their investigation. The Perez family, whose goat herd was seized after a barn collapse during a tornado. The Wilkinson operation, where horses were removed following the owner's stroke and subsequent hospitalization. The Chen property, where a rabies outbreak necessitated the destruction of an entire sheep flock.

The Blackwood estate, currently awaiting court judgment. And Westwood Farm.

She paused, her finger hovering over the Westwood entry. Something about the name tugged at her memory. Westwood. She recalled hearing the story.

A tragedy at the time.

Diving into the Westwood Farm case files, Hailey discovered the full story: respected third-generation rancher Walter Westwood had faced devastating financial troubles while his wife battled terminal cancer. The county records were clinically precise yet told a devastating human story between the lines of bureaucratic language.

Westwood Farm: Seventy-three head of cattle seized due to "inadequate shelter, nutrition deficiencies, and failure to provide veterinary care." Three years ago, during one of the harshest winters in county history.

Hailey pulled up the complete file on her tablet, the blue light illuminating her face in the darkened room. The inspection had been conducted by Dr. Eleanor Simmons, the county veterinary board director. Dr. Winters had been present as a consulting veterinarian. Richard Delaney had advocated for the seizure at the emergency county meeting. And Jessica Miller, only nineteen at the time, had assisted with documentation, photographing the conditions and helping process the animals as they were loaded onto transport trucks.

All three victims had been directly involved in the Westwood seizure.

Hailey felt a cold shiver creep down her spine. "Graham!" she called.

No answer.

She got to her feet, hastening towards the door. The darkened interview room suddenly felt claustrophobic, the walls pressing in as the connections solidified in her mind. She burst into the hallway, the fluorescent lights momentarily blinding after the dimness.

"Graham!" she called again, more urgently. Several heads turned at her tone, but Graham wasn't among them.

She spotted Deputy Rodriguez at the coffee station. "Where's Agent Vance?"

"Call came in," Rodriguez replied, stirring creamer into his cup. "Courthouse security. Possible security breach. Sheriff Rock asked for FBI assistance."

Hailey's pulse quickened. "The courthouse? Why?"

Rodriguez shrugged. "Some issue with a side door not latching properly. Security footage showed someone entering who shouldn't have. Probably nothing, but with everything going on..."

Hailey was already moving, pulling up the county website on her phone as she walked. The courthouse schedule for today showed routine hearings, nothing related to their case. Then she saw it—the county veterinary board meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dr. Eleanor Simmons was listed as the primary speaker, presenting testimony on strengthening the county's animal seizure protocols.

Dr. Simmons. The county veterinary board director who had led the Westwood Farm seizure.

"Rodriguez!" Hailey called over her shoulder. "Call Graham. Tell him to find and secure Dr. Eleanor Simmons immediately. Then contact courthouse security—full lockdown, no one in or out."

She broke into a run, the weight of her weapon against her hip a reassuring presence. The county courthouse was only three blocks from the Sheriff's office where they'd established their temporary headquarters. In this weather, driving would take longer than running.

Outside, the snow had intensified, fat flakes swirling in the bitter wind. The sidewalks were treacherous, covered in a deceptive layer of snow over ice. Hailey ran anyway, her boots finding purchase where they could, slipping occasionally but never falling. Her breath came in white plumes, the cold air burning her lungs with each desperate inhalation.

She read the file on her phone as she ran, her breath coming in misty plumes.

The file's details seared into her mind as she ran, the cold air stinging her lungs. Walter Westwood, sixty-two years old at the time of the seizure. His wife, Jenny, fifty-nine, diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer eight months before the inspection.

Their century-old ranch had weathered droughts, floods, and market crashes, but the combination of Jenny’s medical bills and Walter's increasing absences to care for her had created the perfect storm.

The inspection report was methodical, Dr. Simmons' clinical language documenting each deficiency with photographic evidence. Cattle standing in knee-deep mud. Insufficient wind breaks during record low temperatures. Feed quality below minimum standards. Water troughs frozen, some cracked from ice expansion. The report noted that Westwood had hired local teenager Nathan Peterson to help, but the boy lacked the experience to manage a herd of that size during extreme conditions.

Hailey skimmed past the technical details to Walter's response. His handwritten statement was a stark contrast to the typed bureaucratic language—the shaky penmanship of a man at the end of his rope:

My wife is dying. I spend every day at the hospital. I've been a rancher all my life. These cattle are our legacy. Please give me time to hire proper help. The Peterson boy is trying, but he's just a kid. I will fix everything once Jenny stabilizes. I'm begging you for a little more time.

The request had been denied. The emergency seizure order showed all three signatures: Dr. Simmons as the primary authority, Dr. Winters as the consulting veterinarian, Richard Delaney as the county animal welfare representative.

Jessica Miller was listed as ‘Documentation Assistant,’ her role involving photographing conditions and processing identification records as the cattle were loaded onto transport trucks.

The follow-up report contained the final devastating detail: Jenny Westwood had died two weeks after the seizure. Walter had been alone at the hospital with her. No visitors. No family. The funeral attendance had been sparse—most neighbors keeping their distance after the very public seizure and the implied accusations of animal cruelty.

The last entry was from six months later: Walter Westwood had sold the empty farm to a developer and disappeared. No forwarding address. Property tax records showed he'd moved out of the county, but there was no indication of where he might have gone.

Hailey reached the courthouse plaza, her lungs burning from exertion and cold. The grand limestone building loomed before her, snow accumulating on its broad steps and ornate railings. A county maintenance worker was spreading salt near the western entrance, his orange visibility vest bright against the winter landscape.

"FBI!" Hailey called, flashing her badge as she approached. "Has anyone gone inside through this entrance in the last twenty minutes?"

The worker straightened, leaning on his salt spreader. "Just county employees, ma'am. Dr. Simmons went in about ten minutes ago. Then Agent Vance—he asked the same question. Went in looking for her." He pointed toward the employee entrance. "That side door there."

"Anyone else?"

The worker's forehead creased in concentration. "Now that you mention it, there was another fella. Older gentleman. Didn't recognize him, but he had a county maintenance badge. Figured he was from central services."

Hailey's pulse spiked. "What did he look like?"

"White hair. Tall, but stooped over some. Wearing a dark coat." The worker frowned. "Come to think of it, he didn't have any maintenance tools with him. Just went straight in."

Walter Westwood. It had to be. After three years of grief and isolation, he had returned to exact revenge on those who had destroyed his life.

"Call 911," Hailey instructed the worker, already running toward the side entrance. "Tell them Agent Rock needs immediate backup at the courthouse. Possible active shooter situation."

The employee entrance was supposed to be secured by keycard access, but when Hailey reached it, she found the door slightly ajar—just enough that the magnetic lock hadn't engaged. She drew her weapon, using her shoulder to push the door open while maintaining her shooting stance.

The service corridor beyond was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting harsh shadows across the institutional beige walls. Water droplets marked a path across the linoleum floor—melted snow from someone's boots, leading deeper into the building.

Hailey followed the trail, her footsteps echoing despite her attempt at stealth. The corridor branched, one path leading toward the main courthouse facilities, the other toward the administrative offices. The water droplets continued along the administrative route.

She checked her phone—no service in this part of the building, the thick limestone walls blocking reception. Her radio crackled with static, similarly useless. She was on her own, at least until backup arrived.

The water trail led to the second floor, up a utilitarian stairwell used primarily by maintenance staff. Hailey took the stairs two at a time, her breathing controlled despite the exertion. At the top, she paused, listening. The administrative wing stretched before her, a series of closed doors with departmental plaques. Room 217: County Veterinary Services.

The door to Room 217 stood partially open. No sounds emerged from within—no conversation, no movement, nothing to indicate what might be happening inside. Hailey approached cautiously, weapon raised in a two-handed grip, every sense heightened by adrenaline.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Hailey approached the door with measured steps, her weapon steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. The hallway felt unnaturally quiet—no distant conversations, no ringing phones, just the soft hum of the heating system pushing warm air through ceiling vents. She positioned herself against the wall beside the doorframe, then called out, "FBI! Dr. Simmons? Graham?"

No response.

She pivoted into the doorway, weapon sweeping the room in a controlled arc, ready to identify and neutralize any threat.

Papers scattered across the floor like oversized confetti. A coffee mug lay on its side, dark liquid soaking into a fallen manila folder, staining the edges of documents within. Dr. Simmons' desk chair had been overturned, one wheel still spinning slowly in the silent room. The camel-colored coat Hailey had seen in the file photo lay crumpled near the wall, as if thrown aside in haste.

Most alarming was the window—shattered. A huge hole in the middle, glass shards jutting out like dorsal fins but none inside the window.

The shattered window revealed more than just broken glass—blood droplets spattered the remaining shards and the window frame. Not a large amount, but enough to confirm violence had occurred. The cold air pushed through the opening, disturbing papers and chilling the room.

Hailey moved forward cautiously, scanning for any sign of Dr. Simmons or Graham. The administrative office was modest—desk, filing cabinets, small conference table with three chairs. A door in the back wall led to what appeared to be a private restroom. That door stood ajar, darkness beyond.

"Graham?" Hailey called again, her voice tight with controlled urgency. "Dr. Simmons?"

Still no answer.

She crossed to the shattered window, careful to avoid disturbing potential evidence. Looking out, she saw a fire escape—an old metal structure bolted to the limestone exterior of the courthouse. Fresh snow on the steps showed clear boot prints descending to the alley below. Two sets of prints—one larger, one smaller. Someone fleeing, someone pursuing.

"Damn it," Hailey muttered, holstering her weapon and retrieving her phone. Service here near the window was weak but present. She dialed Alice.

"Hailey?" Alice answered immediately, her voice tense. "Where are you?"

"Courthouse. Room 217. Dr. Simmons is gone—signs of a struggle, blood at the scene. Graham must have interrupted Westwood and pursued him. They went down the fire escape to the east alley." Hailey's words came in rapid succession, professional training overriding the fear clawing at her chest. "I need all available units to establish a perimeter. Westwood may have Dr. Simmons as a hostage."

"On it," Alice replied, the sound of movement audible through the connection. "Deputies are already on scene. I'm two minutes out."

Hailey ended the call and moved to the window again, assessing the escape route. The fire escape was old but appeared sturdy enough. Fresh snow covered the metal steps, making them treacherous, but the boot prints showed someone had successfully navigated them moments ago.

Decision made, Hailey climbed through the broken window, the remaining glass edges threatening to snag her clothing. The cold hit her immediately—far more intense than it had seemed from inside. The metal railing was frigid against her gloved hands, the steps slippery beneath her boots. She descended carefully but quickly, following the fresh tracks in the snow.

The alley below was narrow, hemmed in by the courthouse on one side and the county records building on the other. Dumpsters and recycling bins created a makeshift obstacle course, their metal sides dusted with accumulating snow. The boot prints led toward the south end of the alley, where it opened onto a small parking area reserved for courthouse maintenance vehicles.

Hailey followed, her own footsteps crunching in the fresh snow. She drew her weapon again.

A sudden sound like a heavy grunt broke the air, and she stiffened.

She approached cautiously, noticing as she did a foot jutting out from behind the wall.

Hailey rounded the corner and her world collapsed into a single horrifying image: Graham sprawled in the snow, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Blood had soaked through his pant leg, transforming the navy fabric to a glistening black. His face was ghostly pale against the pristine white snow, his eyes half-open, unfocused. A maintenance shovel lay discarded nearby, its metal edge stained dark red.

"Graham!" His name tore from her throat as she rushed forward, holstering her weapon with fumbling fingers.

She dropped to her knees beside him, the wet snow immediately soaking through her pants. Up close, the damage was worse—a deep laceration across his temple had painted half his face crimson, the blood already beginning to freeze in the bitter cold. His breathing came in shallow, irregular gasps, each exhale creating a faint cloud in the frigid air.

"Graham, can you hear me?" Hailey pressed her fingers to his neck, finding his pulse—present but weak, too rapid. She shrugged off her jacket despite the cold and draped it over his torso, trying to preserve what body heat remained. "Stay with me. Please."

His eyelids fluttered, recognition momentarily lighting his features before pain dragged him back toward unconsciousness. His lips moved, forming words without sound. Hailey leaned closer, her ear nearly touching his mouth.

"West...wood," he managed, each syllable a tremendous effort. "Took...Simmons. Black...truck."

"Shh, don't try to talk," Hailey urged, though each word was precious information. She fumbled for her phone, fingers numb with cold and fear. "I'm getting help."

The sight of Graham's blood spreading across the snow unleashed something primal in her chest—a desperate, clawing panic she hadn't felt since finding Mindy's empty bedroom all those years ago. This wasn't just her partner wounded in the line of duty. This was Graham—the man whose quiet strength had become her anchor, whose subtle humor had lightened her darkest days.

Her hands trembled violently as she dialed, the phone slipping in her grip. "Officer down!" she shouted the moment the call connected. "East alley behind the courthouse. Agent Graham Vance, multiple injuries, massive blood loss. I need medical, now!"

The dispatcher's voice came through, professionally calm, asking for details she barely processed. Hailey answered mechanically while her free hand pressed against the wound on Graham's leg, trying to stem the bleeding. The snow beneath him had turned to slush, diluting his blood to a pale pink that spread in an ever-widening circle.

“It’s fine,” Graham muttered, wincing. “Not as bad as it looks. Hit me with a shovel. Stabbed me in the leg. But I’ll be fine. Go!”

“No!” she cried in response.

“Go! Black truck. Hailey, go!” Graham insisted.

She spotted cops now sprinting down the side alley, heading towards her, and she beckoned them over.

“Over here!” she called.

The officers rushed toward them, snow crunching under their heavy boots. Hailey recognized Deputy Peterson leading the group, his broad frame moving with surprising speed despite his size.

"Shit," Peterson breathed as he took in Graham's condition. "Ambulance is two minutes out."

"He needs pressure on that leg wound," Hailey instructed, already rising to her feet. "And keep him warm. He's going into shock."

Peterson nodded, immediately kneeling to take her place beside Graham. Another deputy shed his heavy jacket, adding it to Hailey's over Graham's shivering form. A third officer was already on his radio, updating dispatch with Graham's condition.

"Westwood has Dr. Simmons," Hailey said, her voice hardening as she shifted from terrified partner to focused agent. "Black truck. They can't have gotten far in this weather."

"Sheriff's setting up roadblocks on all major exits," Peterson reported, his hands now pressed firmly against Graham's wounded leg. "APB is out on Westwood and any black truck."

Graham's eyes found Hailey's, pain and urgency warring in his gaze. "Go," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the approaching sirens. "Find her."

Hailey hesitated, torn between staying with Graham and pursuing Westwood. The professional imperative was clear—Dr. Simmons was in imminent danger, and every minute counted. But leaving Graham bleeding in the snow felt like tearing away a piece of herself.

"I'll stay with him," Peterson promised, reading her conflict. "Won't leave his side until he's in the hospital."

The decision crystallized. Hailey nodded once, a sharp gesture that contained all the words she couldn't speak. She squeezed Graham's hand—a brief, fierce pressure—then turned toward the parking area where her SUV waited.

"I need a description of the truck," she called over her shoulder. "Make, model, anything distinctive."

"Old Ford," Graham offered in a strained voice. "F-150 maybe. Rusted around the wheel wells. No plates that I could see."

Hailey broke into a run, the cold air burning her lungs with each ragged breath. The ambulance's sirens grew louder, the flashing lights reflecting off the snow-covered buildings as it approached from the main street. She didn't look back—couldn't risk seeing Graham loaded onto a stretcher, couldn't bear the possibility that it might be the last time she saw him alive.

Her SUV started immediately, the engine roaring to life as she cranked the ignition. The tires spun briefly on the slick pavement before finding purchase. She activated the emergency lights but left the siren off—no need to announce her approach to Westwood.

The radio crackled with updates as Hailey navigated the snow-covered streets. County Road 27 wound through the northern farmlands, a treacherous route even in good weather. In this snowstorm, with visibility reduced to mere yards, it was a death trap.

"Last visual on suspect vehicle near mile marker 43," the dispatcher reported. "Deputy Ramirez lost sight when the truck turned onto an unplowed access road."

Hailey's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Mile marker 43. That put Westwood somewhere in the network of back roads that crisscrossed the county's agricultural district—hundreds of miles of unmarked dirt tracks and private drives, impossible to effectively blockade even with every available unit.

"Update on roadblocks," she demanded, the SUV fishtailing slightly as she took a corner too fast.

"North and east exits covered," came the response. "Highway patrol assisting at the county line. Problem is the farm roads—too many to block."

Hailey pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Westwood had grown up in this county, had farmed here for decades. He would know every back route, every seasonal road, every creek crossing. The deputies, mostly town-raised, wouldn't stand a chance of predicting his movements.

Snow pelted the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep pace. Beyond the headlights' reach, the world dissolved into swirling white. Visibility was deteriorating by the minute. Three more patrol cars had reported losing traction on the increasingly treacherous roads.

"Agent Rock, this is Sheriff Rock," Alice's voice came through the radio, formal in the presence of other officers. "We have no visual on the suspect vehicle. All units are converging on the last known location, but the storm is hampering efforts."

Hailey slowed the SUV, pulling onto the shoulder to think. The digital map on her dashboard showed her position and the last reported sighting of Westwood's truck—nearly seven miles apart, with a maze of rural roads between them. Even if she reached the area, the chances of randomly encountering Westwood were virtually non-existent.

She closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to set aside the panic for Graham and the urgency of the pursuit. Think. What did she know about Walter Westwood?

A grieving widower. A man who had lost everything—his wife, his livelihood, his family legacy—in the span of weeks. A man methodically eliminating those he held responsible, in the specific order of their involvement. Dr. Simmons wasn't just another victim—she was the culmination, the architect of his destruction in his mind.

Westwood wouldn't just kill her anywhere. Not after the theatrical staging of the previous victims. Each murder had been a statement, carefully orchestrated for maximum impact. Dr. Simmons deserved something special in his twisted logic—something symbolic.

Hailey's eyes snapped open, certainty flooding through her veins like ice water. Westwood Farm. The place where it all began—where Dr. Simmons had stood clipboard in hand, where the trucks had loaded his cattle, where his life had unraveled thread by thread while his wife lay dying.

"Alice," she said into the radio, abandoning formality, "he's taking her to Westwood Farm."

A moment of silence, then: "That property was sold years ago. It's been developed into—"

"It doesn't matter," Hailey interrupted, already pulling back onto the road, tires spinning before finding purchase on the snow-packed surface. "It's where this started for him. It's where he'll end it."

The navigation system calculated the route as Hailey accelerated, the SUV's powerful engine straining against the increasingly hazardous conditions. Westwood Farm—now the Pine Ridge Estates housing development—lay fifteen miles northwest of her current position. In good weather, perhaps twenty minutes. In this blizzard, with roads deteriorating by the minute? Impossible to say.

"All units," Alice's voice commanded through the radio, "converge on Pine Ridge Estates, formerly Westwood Farm. Approach with extreme caution. Suspect is armed and dangerous with a hostage."

The radio erupted with acknowledgments, deputies reporting their positions and estimated arrival times. Most were thirty minutes out or more, hampered by the storm and the rural location.

Hailey drove with singular focus, her world narrowing to the stretch of road illuminated by her headlights. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the snow, which was now falling so heavily that it created a hypnotic tunnel effect in the beams. The SUV's tires crunched over the accumulating snow, occasionally losing traction on hidden ice patches beneath.

Her mind raced ahead to what awaited at Westwood Farm. The property had been developed—the pastures divided into building lots, the barns demolished, the farmhouse likely renovated beyond recognition. Would Westwood even recognize it now? Or was that part of his plan—to show Dr. Simmons how completely his world had been erased?

The digital map showed her progress as an agonizingly slow crawl across the screen. Twelve miles remaining. Eleven. The roads worsened as she left the maintained county highways for more rural routes.

But she didn’t slow down.

She simply couldn’t afford to.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

As Hailey left the main road, the Pine Ridge Estates sign loomed out of the swirling snow—an ornate stone structure with gilded lettering that promised ‘Luxury Country Living.’ The irony wasn't lost on her. This land, once the lifeblood of the Westwood family for generations, had been parceled and sold to wealthy urbanites seeking weekend retreats from city life.

The development was eerily deserted, the storm having driven residents indoors or, more likely, kept the weekend homeowners in their primary residences. Half-constructed houses stood like skeletons against the white landscape, their wooden frames creaking in the wind.

Construction equipment sat abandoned, transformed into strange, hulking beasts by the accumulating snow.

Hailey killed her headlights as she turned onto what had once been the main drive to the Westwood farmhouse. The lane was now paved and widened, but it followed the same gentle curve through what had been pastureland.

Ghost-like impressions of tire tracks remained visible despite the rapidly falling snow—someone had driven this way recently.

She parked behind a copse of pine trees that had somehow survived the development's landscaping efforts, concealing her vehicle from immediate view. The silence when she cut the engine was absolute—no traffic noise, no human sounds, just the soft hiss of snow falling through pine branches and the distant moan of wind across open fields.

The farm's layout was etched in her memory from studying the case files. The main house would have stood to the east, the cattle barns to the north, and the equipment sheds clustered near what was now a half-finished community clubhouse.

Through the veil of snow, Hailey could make out the skeletal framework of new construction where the farmhouse had once stood—just foundation and framing, the work abandoned for the season.

But to the north, where the largest cattle barn had been, a structure still remained. Unlike the sleek modernity of the new construction, this building hunched against the landscape like a creature from another time, weathered wood silvered by decades of sun and snow, its roof sagging in the middle like a weary spine.

The developer had apparently left it standing, perhaps as a rustic feature to enhance the countryside aesthetic they were selling.

And there, nearly invisible against the building's shadow, sat a black Ford truck, snow already gathering on its hood and roof. The vehicle's dark bulk merged with the barn's silhouette, but the fresh tracks leading to it were unmistakable despite the storm's best efforts to erase them.

Hailey drew her weapon and reached for her radio. "Sheriff, I have visual confirmation of a suspect vehicle at the old cattle barn on the Westwood property. Proceeding on foot. Request immediate backup."

"Hailey, wait for—" Alice's voice was lost in a burst of static as the storm interfered with transmission.

She tried again. "Alice, do you copy?"

More static, then a broken fragment: "—minutes out. Do not engage alone. Repeat, do not engage alone."

Hailey hesitated, the radio cold in her hand. Protocol was clear—wait for backup when confronting an armed suspect, especially one holding a hostage. However, the protocol assumed reasonable response times, not rural blizzard conditions with deputies scattered across the county.

The radio crackled again, a different voice breaking through the static. "Agent Rock, this is Memorial Hospital. Agent Vance is stabilized. Requesting to speak with you."

Her heart stuttered. Graham was conscious, talking. The wave of relief nearly buckled her knees.

"Put him through," she said, her voice rough with emotion she couldn't afford to indulge.

The connection hissed and popped, the storm playing havoc with the transmission. Then Graham's voice emerged, weak but unmistakable. "Hailey? You there?"

"I'm here," she replied, eyes never leaving the barn where Westwood had taken Dr. Simmons. "How bad is it?"

"Thirty-two stitches in my leg. Mild concussion." His voice faded momentarily, then returned. "They're keeping me overnight, but I'll be fine. Where are you?"

"Westwood Farm."

A pause, then: "Alone?"

Hailey didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Hailey, don't." The urgency in Graham's voice cut through the static. "He's desperate. Cornered. You can't go in without backup."

"Dr. Simmons doesn't have time," Hailey replied, watching as a faint light flickered to life inside the barn—not electric, but the wavering glow of a lantern or flashlight. "Every minute we wait..."

"Listen to me," Graham insisted, his voice stronger now, fueled by concern. "Westwood had opportunities to kill me. He didn't. He's not a natural killer—he's a man with a mission. He won't rush this final act. He'll want it to mean something."

Hailey considered this. Graham was right. Westwood had been methodical throughout, each murder carefully staged, each victim positioned with theatrical precision. Dr. Simmons was the culmination of his revenge—he wouldn't simply slit her throat in a panic.

"Backup is coming," Graham continued. "Alice diverted all available units. Highway patrol, too. Wait for them, Hailey. Please."

Backup was coming… but still ten or more minutes away. That was an eternity to someone in Dr. Simmon’s position, potentially even fatal.

The snow swirled around her, the cold seeping through her clothing. Without her jacket, still draped over Graham in the alley, the bitter wind cut to the bone. She felt every second, drawn out… agonizing. It would be the same for Dr. Simmons, terrified and alone with a man who had already killed three people.

"I'm going to get closer," Hailey said, a compromise. Assess the situation. I won't engage unless Dr. Simmons is in immediate danger."

"Hailey—" Graham began, but she had already ended the transmission, clipping the radio to her belt.

The distance to the barn stretched before her like an exposed nerve—two hundred yards of open ground, the snow providing both cover and hazard. Each step would leave a trail, but the rapidly falling flakes might obscure it quickly enough to prevent Westwood from detecting her approach.

Hailey moved in a crouch, using what little concealment the landscape offered—a half-built gazebo, stacks of construction materials, the skeletal remains of what had once been a windbreak of cottonwood trees. The cold bit through her thin shirt, her fingers already numbing around her weapon.

Without her jacket, the wind cut like razors against her skin, but the physical discomfort barely registered through her focus.

As she drew closer, details of the barn emerged from the swirling white—weathered boards warped with age and moisture, rusted metal fixtures, a door hanging askew on broken hinges.

This hadn't been the showcase building of Westwood Farm; this had been a working barn, practical rather than picturesque, designed for the daily business of cattle management.

She crept forward, each footfall carefully placed to minimize sound. The snow muffled her approach, but also threatened her balance on the uneven ground beneath. Twenty yards. Ten. The barn's weathered exterior loomed above her, the wood silvered by decades of sun and snow, dark patches where moisture had penetrated and rotted the boards.

The gap she'd spotted was at eye level, a place where time and weather had warped two boards away from each other.

Hailey pressed her face close, one eye peering through the narrow opening. At first, she saw nothing but darkness beyond the immediate pool of light cast by what she now recognized as a camping lantern placed on an upturned feed bucket.

Then her vision adjusted, and the scene before her crystallized with horrifying clarity.

The interior of the barn was cavernous, the soaring ceiling lost in shadows above the lantern's reach. What had once been stalls lined the walls, their gates long since removed, leaving skeleton-like partitions. The concrete floor was cracked and stained with decades of use, small puddles reflecting the lantern light where snow had blown in through gaps in the walls.

In the center of this decaying, cathedral-like relic stood Walter Westwood, his white hair wild in the flickering light, his tall frame stooped with age and grief. He wore a dark wool coat crusted with ice along the shoulders, the fabric worn thin at the elbows and cuffs.

His face, once handsome in a weathered, agricultural way, had collapsed into deep furrows that mapped his suffering like topographical lines.

Before him, secured to one of the remaining fence posts with baling wire, stood Dr. Eleanor Simmons. Her professional composure had cracked, revealing the terrified human beneath the bureaucratic veneer.

Her blonde bob was disheveled, a trickle of blood had dried along her temple, and her wire-rimmed glasses sat askew on her nose. The camel coat was gone, leaving her in just her charcoal pantsuit, completely inadequate against the bone-deep cold of the unheated barn.

But it wasn't the wire binding her wrists or the ceramic knife in Westwood's hand that held Dr. Simmons immobile—it was the photographs. Dozens of them, spread across an ancient wooden table that Westwood had dragged to the precise center of the barn floor. Hailey realized the exact spot with a chill, where the county inspection team had gathered that fateful day three years ago to document the condition of Westwood's starving cattle.

"Look at them," Westwood commanded, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. He tapped one gnarled finger against a faded color photograph. "This is Jenny at twenty-three, the day we bought this place from my father. Look at her face—the pride there. Three generations of Westwoods had already worked this land, and we were carrying it forward."

Dr. Simmons' eyes darted to the photograph, then back to Westwood's face, searching for mercy she clearly didn't expect to find. "Mr. Westwood, please—"

"I'm not finished," he cut her off, the quiet authority in his voice more chilling than rage would have been. He selected another photograph—older, sepia-toned, its edges worn soft with handling. "My grandfather, 1932. Dust Bowl year. Lost half the herd to drought but kept the core bloodlines alive. Slept in the barn with the pregnant heifers, hand-feeding them what little good hay remained."

Westwood's fingers trembled as he arranged the photographs in a precise chronology across the table's scarred surface. The lantern light caught the images in flickering illumination—faces of men and women spanning decades, all bearing the same determined set to their jaw, the same connection to this land that had now been parceled into ‘luxury country living.’

"This farm survived the Depression," Westwood continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that Hailey strained to hear through the gap.

She could see his tension building. Could see his anger mounting.

Then she spotted the knife appear in his hand.

As the invisible minutes counting down her backups arrival continued to slip past, Hailey could see that Eleanor Simmons was out of time.

She moved, taking three steps to the left and bursting through the ajar door, gun drawn.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The barn door crashed against the interior wall, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like a gunshot. Hailey advanced in a tactical stance, weapon trained on Westwood, her voice ringing with authority despite the fear clawing at her throat.

"FBI! Drop the knife, Westwood!"

Walter Westwood didn't flinch at her entrance, as if he'd been expecting it-or perhaps as if her presence was so inconsequential to his purpose that it barely registered. His eyes, pale blue and surprisingly clear in his weathered face, flicked toward her only briefly before returning to Dr. Simmons.

"You're too late," he said, his voice carrying the particular flatness of someone beyond desperation. "This has been three years in the making. You can't stop it now."

Hailey advanced two more steps, her boots crunching on the debris-strewn concrete. The cold inside the barn was bone-deep, her breath forming clouds that momentarily obscured her sight line. Without her jacket, the chill penetrated immediately, but she welcomed it—the discomfort sharpening her focus, keeping exhaustion at bay.

"Put down the knife," she repeated, maintaining the steady aim of her weapon. "It's over, Walter. The deputies are minutes away. There's nowhere to go."

A smile tugged at the corner of Westwood's mouth—not amusement, but something darker, more resigned. "I never planned to go anywhere, Agent. That was never part of this."

Dr. Simmons strained against the baling wire securing her to the post, her professional composure fracturing under the weight of terror. "Please," she said, addressing Hailey rather than her captor. "He's been ranting about his wife, about the cattle. He's not rational!"

"I'm perfectly rational," Westwood corrected, his tone conversational despite the ceramic knife in his hand. "More rational than I've been in years. Grief clouds the mind, you know, clouds judgment. But now, at the end, everything is very clear."

Hailey took another step forward, close enough now to see the photographs spread across the table in more detail. Not just family portraits, but documentation of the farm's history—cattle in snow-covered pastures, a younger Walter standing proudly beside a blue-ribbon bull at the county fair, Jenny Westwood leaning against a fence post, her smile bright in the summer sun.

"Tell me about Jenny," Hailey said, shifting tactics. The knife remained in Westwood's hand, but his stance hadn't changed—he wasn't immediately poised to attack. If she could keep him talking, backup would arrive. "She looks happy in these photos."

Something flickered in Westwood's eyes—surprise, perhaps, at the genuine interest in Hailey's voice. Then he snorted. “Shut up. You can’t stop this. Don’t play me.”

He pressed the knife against Dr. Simmons' throat, the ceramic edge dimpling her skin without yet breaking it. But then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he said, "Jenny was happiness itself.” His voice fell into a near whisper. “Thirty-two years together. Never once heard her complain, even at the end when the pain was so bad she couldn't sleep."

Hailey maintained her aim but didn't advance further. The fragile scene before her could shatter with the slightest miscalculation. "The cancer took her quickly," she said, drawing on the file she'd studied. "Pancreatic. Stage four by diagnosis."

Westwood nodded slightly, the movement causing Dr. Simmons to flinch as the knife shifted against her skin. "Eight months from diagnosis to death. The last three, she couldn't even leave the hospital bed we set up in the living room." His gaze hardened as it shifted to Dr. Simmons. "That's where she was when the doctor here decided our cattle were more important than giving a dying woman peace in her final days."

Dr. Simmons' eyes widened. "I didn't know—"

"You knew," Westwood cut her off, the first real anger bleeding into his voice. "It was in my appeal. I wrote it all down. Begged for more time. Explained I'd hired help, but the boy was inexperienced. Told you Jenny was terminal, that I'd fix everything once she stabilized. You read it, stamped it 'Denied,' and sent the trucks anyway."

The memory seemed to physically pain him, his shoulders hunching further as if under an invisible weight. "She heard them loading our cattle. The noise carried to the house—bellowing, truck engines, men shouting. She kept asking what was happening. I lied. Told her it was routine medical checks." His voice cracked. "My last words to my wife were a lie to spare her the knowledge that our life's work was being dismantled while she died."

The raw grief in his voice resonated through the barn, momentarily drowning out the howl of the wind outside. Hailey felt it like a physical blow—the depth of this man's loss, the way it had hollowed him out and refilled the empty spaces with nothing but rage and purpose.

"I understand your pain," Hailey said quietly, meaning it. "But this won't bring Jenny back. It won't restore your farm."

"Of course it won't," Westwood replied, something like pity crossing his features. "This isn't about restoration. It's about justice—about consequences." He gestured toward Dr. Simmons with his free hand. "She made a decision that destroyed lives. Now she faces the consequence of that decision."

Dr. Simmons' professional facade had completely crumbled, tears tracking down her cheeks and fogging her crooked glasses. "Please, Mr. Westwood. I was doing my job. The conditions—"

"The conditions were temporary!" Westwood's voice filled the cavernous space, echoing off the weathered beams overhead. "I had a boy helping, just eighteen, doing his best. I was at the hospital every day with Jenny. The conditions weren't good, but they were temporary!" His hand trembled, causing the ceramic knife to nick Dr. Simmons' skin. A thin trickle of blood appeared on her throat.

Hailey took a half-step forward, then froze when Westwood's eyes snapped to her. "The cattle would have recovered," he continued, his voice dropping again. "I had a plan. Feed deliveries are scheduled. A real farmhand is coming the following week. All I needed was time."

"Walter," Hailey said, deliberately using his first name, creating a connection. "I believe you. I understand why you're angry. But Jenny wouldn't want this."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Don't pretend to know what my wife would want."

"She loved this farm," Hailey pressed, gesturing toward the photographs with her free hand while maintaining her aim. "These pictures show that. She wouldn't want it to be the place where you became a murderer."

Something flickered in Westwood's eyes—doubt, perhaps. Or recognition. The knife wavered almost imperceptibly against Dr. Simmons' throat.

"I'm already a murderer," he said quietly. "Three times over. One more won't change anything."

"It changes everything," Hailey countered. "Delaney, Winters, Miller—they're gone. Nothing can undo that. But Dr. Simmons is still alive. You still have a choice."

Outside, the faint wail of sirens penetrated the howling wind. Backup was nearly here. Hailey needed to keep him talking, keep that knife from completing its deadly arc across Dr. Simmons' throat.

"They categorized my cattle," Westwood said suddenly, his gaze distant with memory. "Tagged them like inventory. Decided which ones were salvageable and which would be destroyed. Assigned numbers instead of seeing the bloodlines I'd spent decades developing." The bitterness in his voice was oceanic. "So I did the same to them. Tagged them. Categorized them according to their role in destroying my life."

"The livestock tag," Hailey realized aloud. "The numbers weren't random."

Westwood shook his head. "Dates. Important ones. The day Jenny was diagnosed. The day they took our cattle. The day she died. The day I decided they would pay." He looked at Dr. Simmons with cold detachment. "And for her—the day we bought this farm. The beginning and the end, coming full circle."

Dr. Simmons whimpered, her professional composure completely abandoned. "Please, I didn't know about your wife. I was following protocol—"

"Protocol," Westwood spat the word like poison. “Enough talk!”

Jenny. The in-road was Jenny. But how? Hailey’s mind spun.

She said, “Not here… Not here.”

That was it, she realized. His wife and this location. Turning it against him.

She pushed harder.

"Walter," Hailey said, her voice soft but cutting through the tension like a blade, "Jenny never knew about the cattle, did she? You protected her from that knowledge."

Westwood's hand faltered, the ceramic knife wavering slightly against Dr. Simmons' throat.

"You lied to spare her pain," Hailey continued, recognizing the opening. "Your final act of love was shielding her from knowing what was happening outside while she lay dying."

"She deserved peace," Westwood whispered, his voice suddenly fragile. "After everything-the chemo, the surgeries, the pain—she deserved to die believing our life's work was intact."

Hailey took a careful step forward, her weapon still trained on Westwood, but her voice was gentler. "And now you want to commit murder in this barn—the heart of the farm she loved. You want her legacy to be this?"

"She has no legacy!" The words tore from him, ragged with three years of compressed grief. "They took it all. The cattle, the land—" He gestured wildly at the barn around them, its deteriorating structure a physical manifestation of his loss. "Look what they've done to it. Luxury homes where our pastures were. This barn was left as a quaint decoration. Nothing remains of what we built."

"Jenny remains," Hailey countered, taking another step. "In your memories. In these photographs." She nodded toward the table. "But if you do this, if you murder Dr. Simmons here, then Jenny’s farm becomes nothing but a killing ground. Is that how you want her to be remembered?"

The sirens were closer now, multiple vehicles by the sound of them. Snow and wind would slow their approach up the drive, but they were minutes away at most. Westwood's eyes darted toward the barn door, then back to Dr. Simmons.

"It's too late," he said, but the certainty had leached from his voice. "I've come too far to stop now."

"It's never too late to honor Jenny properly," Hailey insisted. "Think about how she lived, not how she died. Think about the woman who stood beside you for thirty-two years. Would she recognize the man you've become?"

Dr. Simmons remained absolutely still, barely breathing, as the knife trembled against her throat. The trickle of blood had frozen in the frigid air, a crimson streak crystallized on her pale skin.

"You don't understand," Westwood said, his voice barely audible over the wind whistling through gaps in the barn walls. "When they took our cattle, they didn't just take animals. They took our purpose, our identity." His eyes, pale blue and suddenly ancient, met Hailey's. "Do you know what it's like to lose your purpose at the exact moment you lose the person who gave your life meaning?"

The raw vulnerability in the question struck Hailey with unexpected force.

She wasn’t sure how to answer. So she gave him honesty. “No… No, I don’t. But I know loss. You still have this place. The ground isn’t bloody. Not yet.”

He stared at her. And suddenly, he looked very weary.

Slowly, Walter released a long, pent-up breath.

And then, he stepped back.

Hailey barely moved.

He dropped the knife, giving an almost exhausted shrug as if to say What else is there to do?

Hailey approached cautiously. The doctor was fully crying now, sobs shivering in her throat as her eyes fought to stay open against the tears.

Sidestepping her, Hailey moved toward the broken man, but Westwood didn’t react. He didn’t say anything else as Hailey pulled his arms behind his back.

She didn’t either, simply sighing.

His vendetta had taken him so far.

She tried not to think of Victor Drake—tried not to think of much as the cuffs clicked into place.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The fluorescent lights of Memorial Hospital had been dimmed for the evening, casting the private room in a gentle glow that softened the institutional edges.

Hailey sat in the visitor's chair, pulled close to Graham's bed, her feet propped on the metal frame, a stack of comic books balanced on her lap. She'd shed her professional attire—the blood-stained shirt and snow-dampened slacks—in favor of a simple t-shirt and jeans one of the deputies had brought from her go-bag. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and dark circles under her eyes were the only visible remnant of the ordeal they'd survived.

"'I am vengeance,'" she read, deliberately deepening her voice to a gravelly whisper. "'I am the night. I am—'"

"That is not how Batman sounds," Graham interrupted, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes despite the bandage wrapped around his head. He was propped up against a mound of pillows, his injured leg elevated and heavily bandaged. An IV line trailed from his arm, but the monitors that had surrounded him earlier had been reduced to just one, its steady beeping a reassuring background rhythm.

Hailey looked up from the comic, one eyebrow raised. "Oh? And you're suddenly the authority on Batman's vocal intonation?"

"I've seen every film adaptation since 1989," Graham replied with mock seriousness. "I believe that qualifies me as an expert witness."

A smile tugged at Hailey's lips, the first genuine one in what felt like days. "The court acknowledges your expertise, Agent Vance." She turned the comic book toward him, pointing at a particularly dramatic panel. "But the text clearly indicates brooding intensity here. Michael Keaton wouldn't cut it."

Graham's laughter was interrupted by a wince as the movement jarred his injuries. Hailey's smile faltered, concern immediately replacing the brief moment of levity.

"Should I call the nurse? Are you due for more pain medication?"

Graham shook his head, the movement careful and controlled. "I'm fine. Just discovered that laughing uses muscles connected to stab wounds. Who knew?" His attempt at humor didn't quite reach his eyes, which were clouded with the lingering effects of trauma and medication.

Hailey set the comics aside, suddenly overwhelmed by how close she'd come to losing him. The doctor's words echoed in her mind—"The blade missed the femoral artery by less than a centimeter. A millimeter deeper, a slightly different angle, and he would have bled out before help arrived."

"Hey," Graham said softly, reaching out to touch her hand.

She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment. The stark white of the hospital room, the antiseptic smell, the quiet beeping of the monitor—it all crystallized the fragility of their existence in a way that even facing armed suspects rarely did.

"Westwood could have killed you," she finally said, her fingers intertwining with his. "He had every opportunity."

"But he didn't," Graham replied. "He used just enough force to incapacitate me. Even in his rage, he was... selective."

Hailey considered this, remembering Westwood's hollow eyes in the barn. "He only wanted the people directly involved in the seizure. You were just an obstacle." She squeezed Graham's hand. "Lucky for both of us."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of the monitor and the occasional muffled announcement over the hospital's PA system. Outside the window, snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in pristine white that belied the violence of the day.

"Alice called," Hailey said eventually. "Westwood's being processed. No bail, given the flight risk and the severity of the charges."

Graham nodded. "And Dr. Simmons?"

"Treated and released. Superficial cut to the throat, mild hypothermia, severe shock." Hailey's expression darkened slightly. "She kept saying she was 'just following protocol.' As if that somehow absolved her of the human cost of her decisions."

"Most people need that distance," Graham observed. "The ability to separate their professional actions from their personal responsibility. Otherwise, how could anyone make difficult calls?"

Hailey didn't respond immediately, her thoughts turning to the photographs spread across that weathered table in the barn—generations of Westwoods, their lives intertwined with the land that had been sold and subdivided into ‘luxury country living.’

She shook her head, pushing aside the thoughts. Then she reached out again and gripped Graham’s hand in return.

Neither of them moved, preferring to sit in comfortable silence, staring out the window at the falling snow.

EPILOGUE

The prison loomed large against the Chicago skyline, and the guards watched as two men emerged from the front gates, both of them tugging at their clothing as if the garments no longer quite fit.

Raymond Voss waited by the black sedan, his gaunt frame casting a long shadow across the snow-dusted pavement. His cold eyes tracked their progress from behind darkened sunglasses, calculating and patient. The wind coming off Lake Michigan cut through his woolen overcoat, but he gave no indication of discomfort. He had endured far worse than winter chill during his fifteen years behind those same walls.

The taller of the two released men reached him first, his muscular build barely contained by the ill-fitting civilian clothes provided by the correctional facility. His face was all hard angles, weathered by years of incarceration but undiminished in its predatory intensity. He didn't smile as he approached Voss, merely nodded—a gesture of acknowledgment between equals, between survivors.

"Marcus," Voss said, extending a hand that bore the distinctive knuckle scars of a man who had fought his way through life. "You look well."

Marcus Drake gripped Voss's hand, the pressure just shy of confrontational. "Raymond. Didn't expect to see you personally." His voice was a rough whisper, as if he had grown unaccustomed to speaking at normal volume. "Thought Victor might send one of the new people."

"Victor believes in tradition," Voss replied, releasing Marcus's hand and turning to the second man. "Thomas. Good to see you walking free."

Thomas Drake was smaller than his brother, but no less formidable. Where Marcus was all barely contained aggression, Thomas exuded the quiet menace of a snake coiled in high grass. His eyes—the same unusual amber shade as Victor's—moved constantly, cataloging every detail of their surroundings with practiced vigilance.

"Surprising how quickly things change when evidence gets misplaced," Thomas remarked, his tone conversational but his meaning clear. The Drake family's influence had reached into the evidence lockup, into the prosecutor's office, into the very foundations of the justice system that had imprisoned them.

Voss opened the sedan's rear door, gesturing for the brothers to enter. "We have much to discuss. The situation in Pleasant has... evolved since your incarceration."

The brothers exchanged a glance loaded with meaning before sliding into the vehicle's leather interior. Voss took the driver's seat, adjusting the mirror so as not to see the road behind them but to maintain visual contact with his passengers.

"The FBI has established a presence," he continued as he pulled away from the prison, the massive structure diminishing in the rearview mirror. "A task force investigating Victor. Led by a woman named Hailey Rock."

Thomas's expression remained neutral, but his fingers twitched against his thigh—a tell that Voss noted and filed away. "Rock. The name's familiar."

“Should be. She’s the one your brother’s been after. She’s the one who put him behind bars.”

“I see…”

A long pause. Both brothers exhaled deeply.

Then, Thomas muttered. “Better take us to him, then. Now.”

A nod. The doors were shut completely, the windows rolled down, and the car pulled away from the prison, leaving those locked doors far, far behind.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FINDING YOU

(A Hailey Rock FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 15)

The thrill of the carnival turns sinister as FBI Agent Hailey Rock tracks a murderer using fairground games as instruments of death. Can she unveil the face behind the funhouse mirror before the carnival leaves town, taking another soul with it?

 “A brilliant book. I couldn’t put it down and I never guessed who the murderer was!”

—Reader review for Only Murder

FINDING YOU is book #15 in a long-anticipated new series by #1 bestseller Rylie Dark, whose bestseller SEE HER RUN (a free download) has received over 700 five star ratings and reviews.

A cat-and-mouse thriller with harrowing twists and turns and filled with heart-pounding suspense, the HAILEY ROCK mystery series offers a fresh twist on the genre as it introduces two brilliant protagonists who will make you fall in love and keep you turning pages late into the night.

Future books in the series are now available!

“I loved this thriller, read it in one sitting. Lots of twists and turns and I didn’t guess the

culprit at all… Already pre-ordered the second!”

—Reader review for Only Murder

“This book takes off with a bang… An excellent read, and I'm looking forward to the next book!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“Fantastic book! It was hard to put down. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“The twists and turns kept coming. Can't wait to read the next book!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“A must-read if you enjoy action-packed stories with good plots!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“I really like this author and this series starts with a bang. It will keep you turning the pages till the end of the book and wanting more.”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“I can't say enough about this author! How about ‘out of this world’! This author is going to go far!”

—Reader review for ONLY MURDER

“I really enjoyed this book… The characters were alive, and the twists and turns were great. It will keep you reading till the end and leave you wanting more.”

—Reader review for NO WAY OUT

“This is an author that I highly recommend. Her books will have you begging for more.”

—Reader review for NO WAY OUT

FINDING YOU

(A Hailey Rock FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 15)

Rylie Dark

#1 bestselling author Rylie Dark is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including the Hailey Rock, Morgan Stark, and Sadie Price series. Rylie’s most recent latest releases are the Hannah Mercy, Sloane Riddle, and Hayden Smart series.

Please visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

SERIES BY RYLIE DARK

HANNAH MERCY

SLOANE RIDDLE

HAYDEN SMART

ARIA BRANDT

CASEY FAITH

BECCA THORN

JESSIE REACH

KELLY CRUZ

MAEVE SHARP

ALEX QUINN

TARA STRONG

HAILEY ROCK

SADIE PRICE

MIA NORTH

CARLY SEE

MORGAN STARK