The Girl Who Woke Up

A Darcy Hunt FBI Mystery Suspense Thriller | Book 8

EVA SPARKS

Copyright © 2024 by EVA SPARKS

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Prologue

The box truck lumbered loudly down the road, its headlights shooting two bright lances of light into the inky darkness. The three men in the cab had hardly spoken a word for the last thirty minutes. It was late, and the loud rumble of the engine, coupled with the monotony of the drive, had a dozing effect.

Now, Randy, the driver, lit a cigarette and sighed heavily on the exhale. “How much further?”

Vic, a burly man whose overweight frame was stuffed into a pair of overalls, looked at his phone. “Another mile. It’ll be up on your right, a little past the fishing bridge.”

Dillon was wedged into the middle seat. He was lean, with a full beard and tattoos running the length of both arms. “It’s already one in the morning. How long do you expect this to take?”

Vic shot him a look. “What’s it matter? You’re getting paid a king’s ransom to do this. Cash too.”

“I know. I’m just tired is all. Regina’s kid was up puking all last night.”

Vic huffed. “Why do you always shack up with broads who have kids? There’s plenty of tail out there that don’t have any ankle biters running around.”

“Man, I don’t know,” the thinner man groaned. “But they drive me up the damn wall, I can tell you that. Why do they have to cry so much when they’re sick?”

Vic raised a hand and pointed out the windshield. “Slow down. It’s right up here. See that big oak?”

“I see it,” Randy said. “I remember.”

The brakes emitted a loud, high-pitched squeal as Randy brought the truck to a crawl. He navigated onto the narrow shoulder, checked their positioning in the side mirrors, and cut the engine.

The men piled out and met at the back of the truck. Randy unfastened the padlock and rolled the door open. Then he folded down the lift gate and brought it to ground level. Once Vic and Dillon had stepped on, he pressed the button on the side of the iron bumper, and the ramp rose. He stopped it when it was level with the floor of the truck. “How many barrels?” he asked.

Vic disappeared inside. A small flashlight clicked on. “Ten maybe? I can’t see all the way back.” He and Dillon grunted as they maneuvered three plastic barrels onto the lip of the ramp. “Okay.”

Randy brought the lift gate back down to ground level. Heaving and pushing, they got the barrels off the ramp.

They were at the top of a shallow decline that disappeared down a narrow path into the woods. Dillon had already worked a barrel to the edge of the road. Vic helped him tip it so that it lay horizontally on the edge of the pavement. “Easy now,” Vic told the slimmer man. “We don’t need a free roll.” He moved around so his back faced the woods and held the barrel steady as it rolled down the dirt path.

The going was slow, and Randy paced as the men disappeared into the woods. They returned a minute later. Once all three barrels were out of sight, they returned to the truck and repeated their efforts, taking away three more and continuing the process until the truck was empty.

On the last run, Vic came out of the woods by himself. He nodded toward the floor of the truck. “Hand me those gloves.” Randy grabbed the pair of heavy rubber gloves and tossed them over. “The mallet too.” Then he turned back to the woods. “Be back in a while.”

“Y’all hurry up. I don’t want to be out here any longer than we need to. The cash ain’t worth it if we get caught. And make sure your radio is on.”

Vic scoffed under his breath. “I’ll send Dillon up with the empty barrels. Just be ready to roll out when I’m done.” He disappeared into the trees again.

Randy flicked his ash onto the ground, then tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He looked up. Out there, away from the city’s light pollution, the dark mantle of sky overhead glistened with thousands of stars.

If he was honest with himself, he was always edgy when they had to come out here. The money was good, and they had never had any problems. And this time of night, the out-of-the-way rural road was completely abandoned.

But that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t happen to drive past.

Randy returned to the cab and anxiously drummed his fingers on his leg as he stared out the windshield. The passenger door window was open halfway, and he could hear the gentle trickle of the river through the narrow line of trees.

He flicked his expired cigarette out the window and lit a fresh one. For some reason, he felt unusually nervous. His grandfather had given him some advice years ago. Randy recalled him saying that if you’re going to do some work off the books, you couldn’t let yourself get too comfortable. That’s when you start missing things that are right in front of you.

If anyone knew about working off the books, it had been his grandfather. The old man was gone now, but in his early days during the Depression, he made moonshine liquor up in the hills of West Virginia. And most of his friends got caught and thrown in jail at one time or another.

That could be it. Maybe it was having done this a handful of times already. He was expecting something bad to happen. He hadn’t done so well in school all those years ago, so statistics were outside his purview. But he did understand luck and chances.

One of these days, a car with lights on the top would randomly drive by. And Randy wasn’t in good enough shape to lead a chase through the woods.

And he sure as hell wasn’t jumping into that river.

His fingers drummed faster on his knee. He drew in another lungful of smoke and slowly breathed it out.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Hurry up.”

Something down the road caught his eye.

Randy straightened. It was a brief shimmer of light. Possibilities streamed through his mind. All he could come up with was the eyes of a night animal. But there would need to be some kind of light in order to make them glow, and the moon wasn’t out tonight.

He squinted and looked through the windshield.

There it was again, down the road about twenty yards.

Warning bells were going off in his head now. Settle down. You’re acting like a scared tomcat.

But he couldn’t settle himself. He felt like a sitting duck. There was no exit strategy here. Nothing but driving the truck away. But he couldn’t really leave Vic and Dillon behind. And even so, this box truck wouldn’t outrun anything.

“You gotta do something,” he said aloud, and hearing his own voice put a little more courage in him.

Reaching out, he flipped on the headlights. They illuminated the road ahead for a good fifty yards. Half that distance away, on the left side of the woods, he saw the figure of a woman disappear into the trees. She was wearing dark pants and a black jacket.

In her hand was a camera.

Randy cursed. He grabbed the radio off the dash. “Vic, there’s someone down the street. I think they’re taking pictures of us.”

A long silence, then, “Come again?”

“I said, I think someone is taking pictures of us.”

“Pictures? I don’t have no pictures. What are you talking about?”

He knocked the radio on the steering wheel and tossed it onto the passenger seat. “Worthless.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Randy noticed a greasy ball cap on the dashboard. He grabbed it and tugged it low over his brow. No one was going to be taking any pictures of him.

He sat there feeling helpless, like a fish in a bowl. What if they had already snapped a photo of him? In this darkness, they would need some kind of special camera or lens. And that camera had one hell of a long lens on it.

Which means she came prepared. And that could only mean that… she knew they would be here? Could that be right? And what if she wasn’t alone?

Feeling slightly panicked, Randy found the radio on the seat and tried Vic again. “Hurry up! I think someone’s here,” he said in a low, hurried whisper.

No answer.

“Hello?”

He cursed and tossed the device away again.

His headlights were still on, but the form of the woman did not reappear. Reaching out again, he switched on the high beams. His heart dropped into his chest. Farther down the road, he could make out the outline of a dark car.

I could ram it with the truck.

No, that would be a bad idea. If he damaged the truck, they would be stuck out here.

As possible solutions passed in and out of his mind in useless fragments, Randy watched as the woman reappeared beside the car. She hurried around it, opened the driver’s door, and got in. Seconds later, the car’s headlights flashed on, and the car pulled into the road. But just as quickly, it stopped, conducted a three-point turn, and tore off in the opposite direction.

Randy’s fingers found the key in the ignition. He turned the engine over, put the truck in drive—and stopped.

What was he going to do, race and catch up to the car? And then what? Run it off the road and demand answers? Nah…he was getting paid good money for tonight. But not that good. He switched off the truck and cut the lights.

The quiet was unnerving.

What if she had gotten a picture of him? And who did she work for?

Vic and Dillon were still down by the river, and sitting here alone made Randy increasingly uncomfortable. He lit another cigarette, but it didn’t help his nerves this time. He had half a mind to go down there and tell them they had to go.

But that wouldn’t change anything. The woman was gone, and her camera too.

Finally, in a vain attempt to calm himself, Randy waved his hand as though swatting a fly. “Ah, it doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter, and he was about to find out why.

Chapter One

Home Savings Bank Building

Eighteenth Floor

Downtown Albany, NY

“I’m sure that being a special agent with the FBI for several years now, you have seen your share of cases. I know they all don’t end up the way you hope.”

“No,” I answer, pursing my lips and leaning closer to the studio microphone. “They certainly do not.”

“Do you ever wish you could go back and do things differently? That has to be a thing, right? So how do you handle the regret?”

I nod, thinking of the best way to answer her question and still feeling like this whole experience is a little surreal. I’m sitting in a podcast studio across from Albany’s most prominent and beloved celebrity.

Mckayla Forester sits across from me with a set of headphones clamped over her ears, her bright blonde hair tucked out of the way. Her nails are elegantly painted, her inquisitive eyes beacons of curiosity. If I didn’t know better, I might think I was speaking with Barbie herself. At least, her physical persona has that vibe. Mckayla, however, is anything but flighty or shallow. She completely undermines every stereotype that someone might try to pin on her.

Rather than another social media influencer or a socialite living it up on her wealthy father’s dime, Mckayla has succeeded in her own right. Having grown up extremely poor in a mobile home community on the city’s south side, she found her way out of a low economic stratum through her own ingenuity and discipline.

At only eighteen years of age, she wrote a book, Playing in the Mud With Sticks, a memoir that cataloged her struggles growing up dirt poor, dealing with a revolving door of parental figures, and her commitment to not allow her circumstances to keep her down. A major publisher picked up the memoir, and it rocketed up the bestseller lists. The book reads as if it were written by someone decades older, offering incredible insights into the human condition and sharing her personal accounts of love, forgiveness, and hope.

From an early age, Mckayla was lucky enough to have the wisdom and fortitude to understand what many adults never learn—that you can rise above your circumstances and truly make something of yourself.

After the success of her book, Mckayla took her publishing earnings and financed her own debut pop album. Like the book, it rocketed up the charts. Now, three albums and another book later, she has completed the transformation of becoming Albany’s darling and one of America’s newest sweethearts. On top of that, I hear there is a movie in the works with her in the leading role.

I’ve always admired her from afar, so it truly feels a little surreal to have her interview me on her most recent venture, a true crime podcast. I’ve never been one to get googly-eyed over stars and celebrities. After all, they are just people, regardless of their popularity or net worth. But Mckayla might be one of the few exceptions. Not only has she managed to pull herself up by her own bootstraps, she also seems like a genuinely humble human being.

I first met her several months ago at Shaggy’s nightclub. In fact, it was Shaggy who first dropped the idea of me coming onto the podcast. The thought was that I could come on and discuss the work that the FBI does every day in fighting to keep our country safe. Mckayla loved the idea and immediately got her lawyers to solicit the Bureau’s brass to allow me to make a guest appearance on the show.

The lawyers went back and forth with the DOJ, the Bureau’s parent agency, for months. The request was unusual—active agents are intentionally kept out of the spotlight. That is for our own security as well as the protection of the agency’s systems and processes.

Much to my surprise, they gave the thumbs up. It’s not uncommon for retired agents to do interviews or write books about a major case that grabbed headlines during their time with the Bureau. But I’m an active agent. With all the bad press the FBI seems to be getting of late, they thought it might serve the agency’s reputation for me to come on and buff out a new shine. Of course, the approval was accompanied by a laundry list of criteria.

The Bureau insisted that I say nothing about our procedures, nor discuss anything relating to an open or active case, and avoid discussions about past scandals. With all that, I wondered what there might be to talk about, but Mckayla has been a great host. We’ve been talking for almost two hours now, and the time has flown by. Her disarming and bubbly nature has nearly convinced me that I’m simply having a conversation with a good friend.

Additionally, Mckayla had to introduce me with an alias—“Agent Smith”—and inform her listeners as much. That probably served the podcast well, heightening the intrigue for all those listening on the other end.

“I think we all have regrets,” I answer, leaning in a little closer to the microphone. “That’s just part of being human. Earlier in my career, I carried a lot of guilt if a case ended poorly. But I’ve learned that my best has to be enough. Guilt doesn’t help because it leaves me in a powerless position. I can’t change the past. Can I learn from it? Sure I can. But I am human and have certainly made my share of mistakes.”

Mckayla nods behind her microphone. “I love that response. And I can so relate to it. Life has given me a lot of lemons, but I can’t say that I’ve always been good at making lemonade. It’s so easy to carry guilt and anger.” She glances down at a sheet of paper that details a list of questions. “I want to honor your time, so let me ask you a final question. For the last several episodes, my listeners have joined me in walking through the specifics of a serial killer, an arsonist, and a high school teacher’s murder-suicide. Crimes are committed for all kinds of reasons, but in your experience, do you think there is a shared root as to why people do heinous things?”

A wry grin touches my lips. “Mckayla, are you asking me what I think the source of evil is?”

She shrugs as a chuckle passes into the microphone. “Kind of. I mean, our country spends billions of dollars every year across a dozen law enforcement agencies in an effort to stop the spread of crime. But I want to get beneath it all—all the budgets and the policies and the arrests and the trials. A true darkness lurks beneath every violent crime. What do you think the source of that darkness is?”

I blow out a long breath. “Well, I’m no psychologist, and I’m not a priest. A question like that is probably best left for someone like that.” Dozens of faces stream before my eyes, the haunting specters of men and women I have chased down and locked up. “But I can tell you that I think there is a real darkness inside each and every one of us. I don’t know if people are made evil or born evil—based on my experience, I would say it’s a combination of both. Why do some people experience similar difficulties and break bad, but others choose the higher good? I couldn’t begin to answer that.”

Mckayla nods somberly. “What do you think the answer is? That is, to fighting crime at its core? I mean, it’s one thing to lock someone up or allocate additional money for more law enforcement agents. But how do we cut crime at the root?”

I really like where she’s taken the conversation. But I’d be lying if I didn’t feel out of my depth all of a sudden. I’ve witnessed a tremendous amount of evil in my lifetime. And yet that doesn’t make me any kind of expert as to what the right answer might be. So I take my time answering.

“This might sound simple and a little idealistic, but I think the real answer is love. And love is a choice. But why we don’t always choose it, myself included, I couldn’t say. Consult your local diocese or therapist for a better answer,” I add with a chuckle. “Thankfully, more and more programs are being introduced that are built on a foundation of genuine concern for our citizens. Getting at-risk kids the help they need and opening up education and other opportunities to repeat offenders is a start. Those can play an important part in helping our communities prevent crime at its source.”

“Agent Smith, thank you for meeting with us today. I know I can speak for all my listeners when I say that we greatly respect the work you do each and every day. We hope you’ll come back and share more with us at another time.”

“I would love that.”

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, straight from the mouth of an active-duty FBI agent. Until next time, keep your doors locked and your night lights on. You’ve been listening to the Rigor Noirtis Podcast, and this is your host, Mckayla Forester, signing off.”

Mckayla presses a button on the instrument panel, and the recording light blinks out. She’s grinning as we remove our headsets. “Darcy, that was amazing. You totally killed it! Tongue in cheek, of course.”

That gets a wry chuckle out of me. “It was a lot of fun. Thanks for asking me to come on. When will it air?”

“My team will take it through an editing process first, and it should drop in a few days.”

“I love the name. Rigor Noirtis. Quite the play on words.”

She stands up and gathers some papers. “I wish I could take credit for it, but my producer is far wittier than I am.”

“How many episodes in are you now?” I follow her out of the studio and into the main lobby.

“Yours will be number twenty-one. That’s not very many in podcast terms, but we’re already top ten in the true crime genre.” Her phone chimes in her hand. Swiping her thumb across the glass, she silences a reminder. “Ugh, I have this party I have to go to tonight. I completely forgot about it. So much for a hot bath and reruns of The Office.”

I quirk a grin. “You can’t bail?”

“I could, but my agent said it would be good to make an appearance. Some Saudi prince is in town and is hosting a big bash.”

The national news has been actively running the story of a royal Saudi contingent visiting the United States this week. Several days ago, three private jets landed at JFK, and parts of the contingent have already made their way to diplomatic meetings at the UN and Washington, D.C.

I quirk an eyebrow. “A Saudi prince is hosting the party?”

“I know, right? I’ve never met him, but apparently, he likes to throw parties wherever he goes. I’ve heard he’s pretty business savvy, and I guess it’s never a bad thing to make more connections in that regard.”

Mckayla has spent the last couple of years rubbing elbows with the Who’s Who of A-listers—she’s one of them herself. Her lack of excitement about going to the party is a testament to her well-balanced nature. She doesn’t feel the need to go to every high society function just so she can boast about it later. Even so, I seriously cannot imagine having the kind of life where I actually get invited to a party with a Saudi prince.

“You should take Shaggy,” I recommend. “He’s exiled Saudi royalty. He probably knows the prince who’s throwing the party.”

Shaggy, whose real name is Abdul Ramzi, grew up as a member of the House of Saud, the ruling royal family of Saudi Arabia. It is estimated that the House is comprised of over fifteen thousand members, although the top two thousand are the only ones with any substantial wealth or influence in the kingdom.

Shaggy had the good fortune to grow up as one of the individuals in the top two thousand, enjoying the benefits and prestige that came with being a member of the royal family. But his life took a hard U-turn in his early twenties when his girlfriend opened his eyes to the many injustices happening to women all over the kingdom. As a man who enjoyed all the freedoms he could wish for, Shaggy had spent his entire life turning a blind eye to the suppression of women and their rights.

Then he did the unthinkable. As both a man and a member of the royal family, he began to speak out against gender inequality. He started a blog, interviewed with Western reporters, and pressed the Crown Prince Abdullah and his cabinet to enact real and meaningful gender equality reforms.

The pushback from the House of Saud was swift and severe. After repeated threats to silence him and cut him off from his place in the family, Shaggy was forced to flee the country, narrowly escaping what certainly would have been a life sentence in prison.

He finally found his way to America, where he became involved in all manner of illegal activity, just to earn his keep. But he’s finally settled down into more legitimate business affairs. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he still does the occasional backdoor deal that could land him in hot water with the authorities, but I’ve made it my business not to go digging around. He’s become a loyal and trusted friend and even had a direct hand in me catching Marvin Hess last year.

“Girl, I am way ahead of you,” Mckayla replies. “I was going to ask Shaggy to come with me, but he’s in LA for the week. Besides, he left that old life behind. I don’t want to ask him to step back into it on my account.”

Through the glass, I wave goodbye to her producer, who is busy on a phone call. Mckayla walks me to the elevator and presses the call button. “So the podcast is up and running. What’s next on the horizon for you?”

“Nothing,” she says matter-of-factly. “No books, no stadium tours. Just this. The last few years have been a whirlwind.” She gives a rueful laugh. “Maybe at the end of this year, I’ll get back in the recording studio and start working on a new album. But for now, I just want to focus on the podcast and enjoy quiet days at home.”

“Unless you’re invited to party with Saudi princes,” I chuckle.

“There is that,” she sighs. “Darcy, I swear. Whatever you do, don’t ever become a celebrity. There are perks, I’ll admit that much. But so much of it can be exhausting. Everyone wants a piece of you.”

“So much for all my plans for being a household name. I guess I’ll have to scrap them all.”

We share a laugh as the elevator doors slide open. “I mean it,” Mckayla says. “I want you to come back on. This was too much fun not to do it again. And we should hang out sometime.”

“That would be fun,” I say, and wave a quick goodbye as the doors close shut.

Chapter Two

The Gilded Gate Estate

Rensselaer County, New York

“Okay, Miss Forester. Here you are. It’s been a pleasure driving you tonight.”

Mckayla flipped open her compact and checked her lipstick in the backseat of the BMW 5 Series sedan. “Great. Thank you, Nathan.” Touching up her lips, she returned the tube and compact to her clutch.

After convincing herself to attend tonight’s party, she decided it would be easier to call an Uber Black than to navigate the unfamiliar and winding country roads in the dark. The driver, a middle-aged man with his hair pulled into a ponytail, had offered just enough small talk during the ride to let Mckayla be alone with her thoughts, but not so little that he seemed checked out or disengaged from the needs of his passenger.

She glanced out her window at the sprawling mansion and the series of unpolished marble steps leading up to the front door. Thirty minutes. Just have a drink, shake a few hands, and you can be out in thirty minutes. She reached for the door handle and paused. “Is there any way you could wait, Nathan?”

“Wait, Miss Forester?”

“I don’t plan on being long. An hour, tops. Maybe the valets will let you park with the other cars. When I’m ready to leave, I’ll ping the app and you can accept the ride. And I’ll make sure you’re duly compensated for the wait.”

“Certainly. I’ll pull off somewhere down the road. Have a good time at your event. I’ll wait for your notification.”

Mckayla opened her door and got out, allowing herself a few moments to take in the view before her. The mansion, perched on a foothill along the New York-Massachusetts border, overlooked a verdant valley of wilderness and farmland. The regal architecture gave the impression that it was designed for 16th century Italian royalty.

The prince had certainly spared no expense in selecting a location for his party.

In the west, graying streaks of orange and purple streamed across the sky, the last vestiges of a setting sun. Lush gardens surrounding the home were illuminated by lighting hidden within the landscape.

Mckayla steeled herself for the walk up. It had to be at least thirty steps to the portico. No railing and she was in heels.

If I bite it and tumble back down to the driveway, the tabloids will have their headlines for a week straight.

Straightening her shoulders, she placed a foot on the bottom step and started up, carefully maintaining a straight posture and even balance on her way up. A sigh of relief escaped her as she reached the top without incident, though her calves held a mild burn.

Two men in black suits stood on either side of the door, hands clasped in front, their faces tense and their bodies rigid as if they expected a gunfight to break out at any moment. Mckayla had grown used to having private security within close proximity. She often had her own in tow depending on where she was going.

A woman in a black gown stood before the high-arched doorway and gave her a bright smile. “Good evening, and welcome. May I see your invitation please?”

Mckayla opened her clutch and produced the invitation, which included a QR code at the bottom right corner. The woman held out a small electronic device, scanned the code, and nodded satisfactorily. Then she delivered what Mckayla took to be the standard greeting for the evening. “The prince will be delighted that you came. He has yet to arrive, so please make yourself comfortable. Refreshments are just inside.”

As Mckayla stepped across the threshold, her attention was drawn to the foyer’s high ceiling, to a fresco of green vineyards set among a rolling Tuscan landscape. She made her way across the terra cotta floors to a large reception room at the back of the home, where floor-to-ceiling windows offered a generous view of the gardens that continued up the side of the mountain.

Guests mingled in small groups beside a bar, and others had gathered outside on the veranda. In the far corner of the room, a DJ played a remixed version of Weezer’s “Beverly Hills.” The atmosphere was fairly subdued right now, but Mckayla knew that the tempo and energy would pick up as the night drew on and their host arrived.

While many of the older members of the Saudi royal family were known for more formal and conservative lifestyle codes, Prince Rahman was rumored to gravitate toward looser, more Western values. He was well-known for his parties and extravagant spending wherever he went. It wasn’t a stretch to think that things would really get hopping once he arrived.

Making her way to the bar, Mckayla nodded politely at a man who did a quick double-take at her. She bellied up to the counter and caught the bartender’s eye. He asked what she would like to drink.

“Club soda with lime would be great, thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Oh—my god. Mckayla Forester. I didn’t know you were coming.”

Inside, Mckayla cringed, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep her face from contorting into a grimace as she slowly turned around. “Vicki, hi.”

“Look at you! You look gorgeous! And who am I kidding? You always look amazing. And those earrings. Stunning.”

Mckayla and Vicki first met on a movie set last year, a rom-com about a charming MMA fighter. His pet sitter, who was way out of his league, was played by Mckayla. Vicki had the opposing role as the man’s current love interest. The movie opened to favorable reviews and held the top box office spot for its first three weeks.

Vicki was fun and lively, but she talked way too much about other people’s issues for Mckayla’s comfort. It always felt like Vicki was trying to accentuate how good her life was by pointing out all the flaws in others.

I wonder what she says about me when I’m not around.

Vicki brushed a lock of blonde hair off her forehead. Her emerald eyes swept across the room. “I cannot believe who’s actually here. People drove in from New York City, and I even heard that Paul Solaris is coming in from LA. Oh, and Freddie texted and said he’s coming from Atlanta. He’s been down there working on the next season of Resident Downplay.”

A grin emerged on Mckayla’s lips. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to meet a Saudi Prince? It doesn’t happen every day.”

“For real,” Vicki brightened. “What do you think it’s about anyway? You think the prince just wants to show off how many A-listers he can bring together at the drop of a hat?”

“Probably,” Mckayla sighed, then took a sip of her club soda.

“And of course, he’s fashionably late. A man like that can do absolutely whatever he wants.”

Mckayla noted some familiar faces in the room, some of whom she knew personally. Even now, with all her successes, she was often struck by the contrast between her new life and the one she had grown up with.

It had been five years since a publisher picked up her book and it rocketed to the top of the charts—five years since the checks started to roll in. Not long after that, her debut album ignited a world tour, leading to another album, and another book. And then there was the movie last year. Her agents already secured her another three movies over as many years.

What a beautiful whirlwind it had been.

But before all the glimmer and shine, it was a life of hard knocks—abuse, neglect, and outright poverty. Her mother on crack, her mother’s boyfriends shameless and vile, then foster care and more neglect, before running away and living on her own at the back end of a run-down trailer park.

Now, even after five years of steadily rising fame, Mckayla still wasn’t used to all the attention—the camera flashes, the constant requests for interviews, and how everyone seemingly wanted to be your friend. A part of her would always be at home with a simple life.

After all, she hadn’t written that first book to get famous. In fact, she felt like she hadn’t written the book at all. The words had poured out of her like water overflowing the banks of a swollen stream. She recalled how easily her pen flew across that yellow notepad. Hours and hours a day over several days, until the notepad was full and she had to purchase another.

Maybe it had been a form of self-therapy, a way to process everything she had been through so she could see how to look back on it in a healthy way. And what she ended up with was a history of her life, a memoir of sorts, with nuggets of wisdom and hope for her journey ahead. She had always been a firm believer that, while you can’t always change your circumstances, you can choose your responses to them.

And Mckayla had chosen joy. She chose hope.

It was only by sheer luck that an old case worker, wondering how Mckayla was doing, finally located her. Visiting her at the abandoned and dilapidated mobile home she lived in, the case worker showed enough interest in her life that Mckayla felt compelled to show her the first chapter of what she had written. Intrigued, the case worker asked if she could make a copy and send it off to a friend of hers who was a literary agent.

Mckayla had penned it with zero intention of anyone else seeing what she wrote. The catharsis had been real—the healing effects of the writing had allowed her to look back at the pain and the loneliness with courage and even gratitude. But what point was there in a societal outcast sharing her reflections with the world? No one would have any interest in that.

But at the case worker’s persistence, Mckayla reluctantly handed over the notepads.

Not long after, she was busy editing the manuscript and inking a contract. And nine months later, the fireworks went off—TV and podcast interviews, book readings and signings, and then invitations to the biggest parties and concerts.

Everyone, it seemed, loved a rags-to-riches story.

Now, five years later, she had published a follow-up book, made a spectacular debut in the music industry, and had just wrapped up shooting her first movie. It was all exciting, invigorating, and still a little scary. All the flashing bulbs, red carpets, and tabloid covers still took some getting used to.

But you couldn’t live every moment in the spotlight, even if the paparazzi wanted you to. At some point, you had to come back down and try to live some semblance of a normal life. Do normal things. If not, it all had a way of going to your head.

Mckayla knew well enough that human praise was fickle and fleeting. These days, it didn’t take very long to go from hero to zero, from fame to forgotten. So her style was just to take it all in stride and be thankful for every moment.

“Oh, and you know what I heard about…”

Vicki was still talking. Still gossiping. Mckayla hated gossip. All it did was artificially inflate insecure egos. Mckayla moved to extricate herself.

“Vicki—sorry. I’m just going to speak with someone across the room. I think I recognize them.”

“Oh. Of course. Chat more in a bit, huh?” Vicki raised her drink and tipped it back.

Mckayla took a deep breath as she stepped away, glad to be free. It was conversations like that⁠—

The club soda jostled over the brim of her glass as she flinched against a loud burst of noise echoing across the room.

Who would shoot off a firecracker inside? No, she knew it wasn’t a firecracker. She had heard too many variants of gunfire throughout her childhood.

Her fears were confirmed when the subdued cries of surprise shifted into screams of terror as another gunshot went off, and then another. Someone beside her caught a round and collapsed to the ground. Mckayla’s own voice joined the chorus of screams.

Instinctively, she ducked and hurried across the room. But she wasn’t fast enough. A bolt of sharp, intense heat passed through her body. She couldn’t scream anymore, couldn’t stop herself from sprawling headfirst onto the floor.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Three

Residence of Skylar Mills

Albany, NY

“Well, what do you think?” Skylar asks, taking a step back from the wall.

I grab my beer bottle from the top of a paint can and take a pull as I examine our work. The trim along the ceiling and the baseboards still need to be done, but the wall is now a crisp white, a far cry from the dingy gray that it had been.

“It’s shaping up,” I say, placing my paint roller onto the tray.

“I love it!” ten-year-old Reuben exclaims. “When will it be dry? I want to get the logo up.”

“Whoa, there,” I laugh. “Slow down. We can’t paint the logo on until tomorrow. This needs to dry before we can put anything over it.”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“A ‘thank-you’ would be more like it,” his mother chastens him.

“Thanks. I know it will be awesome when it’s done. Just like the one you did for me before.”

Skylar has just relocated to a more upscale apartment complex closer to the airport. As often as she flies to Rochester to see Reuben or he comes to see her, it only made sense to shorten the commute by twenty minutes. Plus, the management at her old complex kept hiking up her rent while the quality of service and maintenance went down. So she felt like it was time for a change.

When Skylar moved back to Albany a couple of years ago, we surprised Reuben by painting his room in New England Patriots colors. But now his fervor for them has waned. Having lived in Rochester for the last few years, and being that much closer to Buffalo, his allegiances have turned to the Bills as his new team of choice.

As for me, I love helping Sky with things like this. Tonight has been really good for me. Work has pushed me hard lately, so it’s nice just to be able to relax and be with people I love. We’ve spent the better part of an hour running our rollers over the wall while eating pizza and listening to the energetic tunes of Twenty-One Pilots streaming from a speaker on the floor.

I run my brush across the wall and click my tongue at Reuben. “You know what they call someone like you, don’t you?”

“What?”

“A fair weather fan.”

“Bandwagon,” his mother rejoins. “I never thought this day would come,” she says, giving a rueful shake of her head. “Who would have guessed that you would have ever bailed on the Patriots?”

“Oh, come on, Mom. They don’t even have any good players anymore. Brady and Gronk are long gone. And now Belichick is gone too. I don’t want to root for a crappy team.”

Skylar and I exchange a humorous look. “Bandwagon,” we say in unison and share a laugh.

“Your allegiance is supposed to stay with a team, not with the players,” I advise him. “Players come and go, but you ride or die with the team.”

He seems less than enthusiastic about my pearls of wisdom. “Okay, Aunt Darcy. But I’m still rooting for the Bills now.” He dips his brush in the paint and runs it down a corner.

Skylar ruffles his dark hair. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go on and play some Fortnite? Let me and Aunt Darcy do the trim.”

His eyes become two large exclamation points. “Really? Okay!” He lets his brush fall to the drop cloth and hurries off but is quickly brought back by his mother’s voice.

“Pick up that brush and go rinse it out in the bathroom sink. And I don’t want to see any splatter on the mirror.”

“Okay…” He rolls his eyes before giving me a lopsided grin and hurrying away with the brush.

“That boy,” Skylar sighs, picking a half-eaten slice of pizza he left on the drop cloth and slipping it into the empty pizza box.

“I’m just so glad he’s okay,” I tell her. “It could have been so much worse.”

“I think I would have fallen to pieces if it were any worse. That little boy is my everything.”

A couple of months ago, Reuben’s father was driving him home from a birthday party when a truck ran a red light and hit them as they were passing through an intersection. Reuben was knocked unconscious and ended up with a broken leg and some internal bleeding. Skylar rushed out to Rochester to be with him and was by his side during the entire recovery. Reuben still favors the leg a little, but his doctor says that as he continues to use it, he should be right as rain. It really is amazing how little bodies can repair so rapidly.

And as for Skylar, it’s so good to have her back. I’m glad she got the time to help her boy recover, and I wouldn’t have wanted her to come back a day sooner than she needed to. Not only is she my best friend, but she’s my partner in fighting crime too. Working through cases without her input and perspective has been challenging—a challenge that I have met head-on, though I have missed her being by my side. We’re a good team, and she really does make me better at what I do.

Skylar steps away from the wall and frowns at it. “I am not looking forward to stenciling the logo. I always feel like I’m going to mess it up.”

“You’ll do fine,” I assure her. “And just so we’re clear, you are totally on your own for that.”

“Trust me, I know. If I let you help, the buffalo would probably end up looking more like an African war mask.”

We share a laugh and start on the trim, with Skylar on a ladder and me on a knee sliding my brush along the top edge of the baseboards.

“So…” she says, her tone thick with curiosity, “tell me about the podcast already. I still can’t believe that you got to do that. And it’s even more unbelievable that you didn’t insist that your partner come with you,” she adds with a twisted grin. “Is Mckayla as cool as they say?”

“Uh, so much cooler. I was blown away by how humble she is. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was speaking with a normal Jane, not a celebrity at the top of her game.”

“What did you talk about for two hours?”

“Most of it was focused on the kind of work the FBI does. But toward the end, her questions were geared more toward me and my own experience with the Bureau.” I dip the end of the brush in the paint and slide it against the wall. “It was a really good time. I was more comfortable than I thought I would be. For a while, it just felt like two friends talking.”

“Well, after it goes live, it will be two friends talking in front of half a million people. So, no sweat.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Even thinking of that many people listening to our conversation causes a small flip in my stomach. I do just fine with small groups of people. Addressing a couple dozen agents on the progress of a case never bothers me at all. Going into the conversation with Mckayla, I knew her podcast was growing rapidly, but I never took the time to consider just how many people that might be. Thinking about it now is a little overwhelming.

“That’s like twenty-five Madison Square Gardens packed to capacity,” she chuckles.

“Stop it,” I scold her, and then poke a playful jab. “Oh, and she also said that we should hang out sometime.”

Her brush stops moving, and I can feel her eyes looking down on me. “You’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying.”

“I am not lying, my dear.”

“You totally suck.”

A smile presses into my lips. Skylar has always been more into celebrity news and gossip than I have. She typically knows all the current drama with any number of Real Housewives or what Kardashian headline TMZ is pushing this week. She enjoys all the glitz, glamor, and gossip associated with a rich and lavish lifestyle, and I certainly can’t fault her for that.

For my part, I don’t mind reading over an occasional scandal, but celebrity news just isn’t my thing. Working for the Bureau involves plenty of its own drama, and while it’s certainly not the glitz and glamor kind, at the end of a week, it’s about all I can handle.

Skylar steps off the ladder and has just repositioned it near the closet when the sound of my phone ringing comes from the kitchen. “I’ll get it,” she says, being nearest to the door. Moments after she disappears down the hall, I hear her groan. “It’s Kemper,” she says, and hands the phone to me.

I’ve had enough off-hours calls to know that when they come, I’m about to be sent into the field. “Sir?”

“Darcy.” The tight edge in his voice confirms that this evening’s fun has just come to an end.

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, there’s been a mass casualty event at an upscale party. I’m assigning it to you. I need you on-site as soon as possible. I’ll text you the address.”

“What is the threat analysis?” I ask.

“Guests have called in reporting gunfire. Though it does appear that the shooting has ceased.”

“And the gunman?”

“There are conflicting reports as to the gunman. The sheriff is en route now. He called for federal backup as soon as the calls came in. By the time you arrive on-site, he should have it secured.”

“What kind of party are we talking about?”

“It’s my understanding that a Saudi prince organized it. Black tie kind of event. That’s all I’ve got.”

As his words register, my stomach falls to my feet and my throat grows thick. I reach out and set my hand against the wall.

“Darcy, you still with me?”

“Yes, sir. I’m here.”

“Francine and I are still in Miami. I’m catching the redeye back tonight. We’ll circle up at the office first thing in the morning.” He then provides additional details before asking me to read Skylar in.

“I’m actually at her place now. I’ll let her know.”

“Good. Keep me posted. I’ll have the sheriff call you with any updates during your drive there.”

“Will do,” I promise.

“And, Darcy. We’re dealing with celebrities and other highly notable individuals who attended this event. It will probably be the most high-profile case either of you have worked. Be prepared to stonewall the media. I don’t want any leaks. The Hoover Building will be handling any statements and PR. You just keep your eyes down and find out who was behind that attack.”

“Understood, sir.” I desperately want to ask him if he was provided with a preliminary list of casualties, but now is not the time to satisfy my personal curiosity.

“Ugh. I don’t like that look,” Skylar groans, eyeing me as I hang up. “It makes me think that we have to start cleaning the paintbrushes.”

I puff out a long sigh. “And the sooner, the better.”

“What? What is it?”

“That party that Mckayla went to—there was an attack. They’re saying mass casualties.”

She draws in a sharp intake of breath. “Darcy, no. What kind of attack?”

“Partygoers have called in saying it was multiple gunshots. The local sheriff is bringing the Bureau in.”

She glances around the room, then down at the brush in her hand. “Right. Okay. I’ll call Reuben’s babysitter. She’s right around the corner. Hopefully she can watch him on such short notice.”

While Skylar runs off to call the babysitter, I collect the brushes and take them to the sink, fighting back a nervous and uneasy sensation churning deep in my stomach.

Chapter Four

The Gilded Gate Estate

Rensselaer County, New York

We made the one-hour trip from Albany to the Massachusetts border in under forty-five minutes. Up ahead, the night is painted with strobing lights from dozens of emergency vehicles. I slow to a stop in front of the checkpoint, on the other side of which two floodlight generators cast the area around the front gate in bright fluorescent white. I switch off the bubble light on my dash as a deputy approaches my window. Rolling it down, I hold up my badge.

“Special Agents Hunt and Mills,” I announce.

“Great,” he says, then yells over to a colleague out near the tape line. “Hey, Sarg! FBI is here!” After his sergeant yells something back that I can’t make out, he hands my badge back. “It’s pretty bad in there. The sheriff will meet you at the front.”

I thank him and lift my finger toward a cluster of news vans parked along the grassy verge. “Make sure no one breaches the perimeter. I need this scene to stay airtight until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We’re on it, Agent Hunt.” He slides the A-frame barricade back, giving us enough room to pass, then waves us on.

I pull past the gate and start down the front drive, which is at least a quarter mile from the house.

“Holy crap,” Skylar exclaims as she stares out the windshield. “It’s like a palace. Who builds things like this?”

I can sympathize with her sentiment. The ornate estate is spread out before us, clinging to the base of a foothill that towers behind it. Lighting hidden within the landscape illuminates the grounds and the old-world architecture of the home. Even though it’s dark outside, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been transported to an estate in Italy.

The house itself is made of carved, rustic stone. A low-pitched terra cotta roof with a stone cupola rises off of it, and a massive fountain sits in the center of the circular drive, water slipping over the edges of all three levels.

“People who make more money in a month than we’ll make in a lifetime,” I answer. “But more power to them, I guess. You wouldn’t find me complaining if I lived in a place like this.”

“Uh-huh. You would after you called me because you were lost for the hundredth time,” she smirks. “How many bedrooms do you think it has?”

“I could not begin to tell you.”

The front of the house is clogged with emergency vehicles, so I pull into the grass and park beside a county cruiser. We get out and make our way past the fountain, where we’re greeted by a woman with broad shoulders, keen green eyes, and long blonde hair threaded through a department-issued ball cap.

She extends a hand. “Sheriff Gower. I appreciate the Bureau responding so quickly.”

I’m certain that she’s seen her fair share of awful as sheriff. A lot of the time, her department will be able to handle whatever comes at them without enlisting outside help. But right now, things are pretty messy. I’m sure it’s a small relief for someone else to step in and take the lead.

And the responsibility.

I nod. “Absolutely. What’s the initial assessment?” I ask her, still unclear as to the exact details of the events of the evening.

“Thirteen casualties in all,” she replies. “Four dead, nine wounded, with half of those in critical condition. Come on, I’ll show you what we’re dealing with.” We follow her up the long flight of steps to the portico.

On the way out here, I tried to call Mckayla with no luck. That only heightened my concern that she might be one of the casualties. So before we go inside, I ask the question that has been weighing heavily on me ever since I heard from Kemper.

“Mckayla Forester was on the guest list,” I tell Gower. “Is she accounted for?”

Gower nods as we reach the top step. “Miss Forester was taken away in an ambulance thirty minutes ago.”

My stomach clenches. “Do you know her status?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you the extent of her injuries. The last ambulance left just before you arrived. It was absolute chaos before that.”

I do my best to push Mckayla out of my mind for now. Whatever her condition, she’s in the hands of professionals who can help her. There is nothing I can do for her. Right now, my focus needs to be on the scene and wrapping my mind around what happened.

“What about the prince? Did he make it out safely?”

She shakes her head. “He never showed.”

“He didn’t show up to his own party?”

“It’s my understanding that high-profile hosts like big celebrities or royalty will show up quite fashionably late. The shooting occurred three minutes after eight. The invitation stated that the party started at seven. The prince could have heard of the shooting and stayed away.”

“Yeah,” I muse. “Perhaps.”

Skylar and I follow the sheriff across the threshold and into the house. As soon as we step into the foyer, we’re met with broken drink glasses and hors d’oeuvres strewn across the reddish terra cotta floor, no doubt dropped by terrified guests as they tried to find the quickest way to safety.

The house boasts high ceilings with exposed wooden beams, arched doorways, and plaster walls that are subtly distressed and adorned with artwork depicting pastoral landscapes and rolling vineyards. But the charming, Old World ambience quickly dissolves as we round the corner and see a wide streak of blood across the tiled floor, as though someone had been dragged out of harm’s way.

We’re in the main reception area near the back of the house. Most of the furniture has been tastefully placed along the walls, no doubt to give guests more room to mingle. In the far corner, a DJ station lies toppled over. Blood is everywhere, and a crime scene unit is taking meticulous photos of every detail in the room.

Three bodies lay sprawled on the floor—two men and a woman—amid a miniature forest of crime scene markers. One of the men took a round in the chest. His crisp white shirt is stained, soggy with blood. The other man is lying on his side, facing away from us. The woman is middle-aged, the entire back of her head missing from where a bullet exited her skull.

Skylar slowly sweeps her gaze around the space. “You said there were four dead?”

Gower nods. “The last one made it out through the back door before succumbing to his injuries.” She leads us around a crime scene tech, past the bar, and out the double glass doors to the back porch, where a man lies face down in a pool of congealing blood, his body angled downward and straddling two stone steps.

A breeze stirs a pleasant fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle across the porch. Up the gently sloping hill in front of us, I can hear the quiet trickle of a garden fountain. The peace and serenity are incongruous with what I know happened here tonight.

I can almost hear the screams of the partygoers as the gunfire erupted, as friends and colleagues were mowed down. All joy and mirth would have evaporated as soon as guests realized that they had to flee for their very lives. In a single moment, laughter would have given way to absolute terror.

“And the murder weapon?” Skylar asks. “We heard that the gunman may not have personally been on-site?”

“Correct,” Gower sighs. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ll show you.”

We go back inside and follow her past the bar and back into the main room, where we cross over to a shallow nook in the wall. At the back of the nook is a wide opening where the sheetrock should be. Instead, a steel frame is bolted into the wall cavity. An assault rifle is mounted to it, pointed in the general direction of the room.

I recognize the weapon. It’s a Heckler & Koch semi-automatic rifle, popular among our military elite. Several spent casings lie on the nook’s platform and a few more down at our feet. The cartridge has been removed.

“I cleared the weapon myself as soon as I arrived on-site,” Gower says. “The cartridge is bagged and ready to go to the lab. According to a couple of guests, that back panel of sheetrock descended into the lower part of the wall, allowing the gun to extend from its hidden position.”

“My god,” Skylar mutters. “Someone planned this well in advance of the party.”

“Any idea how many rounds were fired?” I ask.

“Thirty, if the cartridge was at capacity before the shooting,” Gower replies. “It was empty when I secured it. As for the casings, we haven’t recovered all of them. I would imagine that some of them flew back into this opening and are lodged at the bottom of the wall cavity.”

Just above the gun, a small black box about the size of a deck of cards is bolted to the metal frame. From there, a thin steel arm runs through a rotating sprocket and into the trigger guard. It’s the mechanism that was used to actually fire the gun.

“It was controlled remotely,” I muse out loud.

Skylar leans closer to the weapon for a better look. “Huh, this isn’t right. The scope doesn’t have a lens on the front. There’s another device inside it. Take a look.

I step in beside her and follow her gaze to the scope mounted on the top rail. A smaller, tubular scope is nested inside the larger shell. “A camera,” I say. From the back of it, a wire runs out, down the side of the gun, and disappears into the wall cavity.

“It makes sense,” Skylar says. “This room isn’t more than fifty feet long. At that close range, a scope would have prevented a clean shot, not created one.”

A shudder passes down my spine as it dawns on me that someone could still be watching us. The feed could have continued running all this time. I cross the room and step behind the bar, where I find a stack of black cocktail napkins. Grabbing two, I shake them open, return to the rifle, and drape them over the scope’s housing, tucking them gently around the back so they don’t slip off.

Gower curses. “I didn’t even notice the camera.”

“When our team gets here, I’ll have them disconnect it and run forensics.”

“Huh, look at that.”

I follow Skylar’s gaze to the rear stock of the gun. Hanging from a short nylon string is a black whistle, the kind a coach might use to communicate with their team. “What do you make of that?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No idea. It doesn’t seem to fit.”

“Right. Like, to use the whistle, you would have to be here at the weapon. But the whole setup was designed to be operated remotely.” She turns to Gower. “Did anyone report hearing a whistle?”

“I haven’t heard anyone mention it.” The sheriff’s radio squawks, calling her off to another area of the property. “Some guests and event staff were still on-site when we arrived. We’ve detained them until we get their statements and contact information. I have them staged in the garage, and my deputies are gathering their personal information. I’ll meet you over there in a few.” Then she excuses herself.

I back up several steps and observe where the gun has been set up. It was strategic, that’s for certain. From here, a large number of the guests would have been visible, including those at the bar.

Skylar rests her hands on her hips and surveys the room. “Why would someone do this?”

“Let’s stay focused on the how,” I tell her. “We can ask why when we have more data to work with. Right now, I want to know how they did this. The camera on the gun points to the operator being off-site. But I’m not ready to fully accept that yet.”

She nods. “Maybe they controlled the weapon from somewhere on the property?”

“Right. They could have arrived as a guest or staff and set up in an empty room, maybe upstairs, then made their exit along with the panic. They could have set up in a van and driven off. I don’t want to rule that out. Another possibility, of course, is they were completely off-site and controlled the weapon via a wireless or satellite connection.”

We take our leave of the room and perform an initial sweep of the home, familiarizing ourselves with the layout and contents. The home is massive. One room follows another and leads to an entirely new set of rooms. Some of them are larger than my house. There is nothing that grabs our attention or looks amiss, so we make our way outside and start to walk the perimeter.

“For all we know, they hacked into the home’s security feeds and are still watching us,” Skylar says, stepping around a flower bed.

“Yeah. Well, there’s nothing we can do about that right now,” I tell her.

She eyes a camera high in a corner beneath an eave. “But if they are, can I give them the bird?”

“No, you can’t give them the bird.”

“Just real quick?”

I do my best to suppress a grin. “You’re impossible. Come on.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her raising a middle finger to the camera anyway.

It’s not that Skylar doesn’t take her work seriously, but sometimes you have to let a little steam off where you can. Letting the stress of a crime scene build up inside you can interfere with your thinking process and can hamper how quickly you can progress through a case. I’ve seen it happen with myself and other good agents. For one, I’m glad that she feels comfortable trying to lighten the mood. It really does make the job that much more enjoyable.

Sheriff Gower meets us as we round the corner to the back of the home. “There you are,” she says. “I’ve got a forensics van with the Bureau coming in through the gate. They’re asking for you.”

I nod. “Okay, we’ll meet them up front. I’ll have them debrief with your crime scene team, but first I’ll need them to scan the walls and floors and make sure there are no more hidden weapons. They should have a scanner on the van.”

A frown pulls at the corners of Gower’s lips. “You think there are more guns?”

“Probably not,” I answer. “But we need to be certain. Between a portion of the wall retracting and the gun emerging on a custom-built deployment mechanism, there were a lot of moving parts. If another device got jammed or failed to engage properly, we need to know about it. I’m sure this property was rented for the occasion. The home will need to be turned over to the owner with full confidence that there is nothing that could do any further harm.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have considered that. Guess there’s one more reason I called you in. You guys really know what you’re doing.”

Her collaborative attitude is a breath of fresh air, and a glance over at Skylar tells me that she feels the same way. All too often, our relationships with local LEOs quickly escalate into a pissing contest, with the locals puffing out their chests and trying to prove that they can do it on their own. It’s always a great scenario when we can all work in tandem, rather than trying to wrestle over jurisdiction or get in each other’s way.

The three of us are nearly at the back porch when a bright flash lights up the darkness for a split second, partially blinding me. Skylar curses, as she was looking right toward it when it went off. She rubs her eyes and scowls. “Get him, Darcy. I can’t see a thing.”

“On it.”

I give chase, pushing into a stand of perfectly trimmed bushes and darting around saplings, flower beds, and a firepit as I follow the photographer across the sprawling backyard. My vision finally clears from the bright flash, and I see his pudgy frame disappear around the side of the house.

My legs pump faster as I quicken my pace, determined not to let him get away. Rounding the corner, I call out for him to stop, but he vanishes behind a stand of rounded boxwoods. Up at the front of the home, the yard begins a sharp descent toward the driveway. The photographer is angled sideways, trying not to fall as he lumbers down the grassy slope.

I’m gaining rapidly now and call out again for him to stop. He glances back, and that’s when his foot catches a rock bordering a flower bed. His arms flail out as he pitches forward. A loud grunt is forced from his chest as he hits the ground and tumbles, end over end, until he comes to a stop at the edge of the driveway.

Watching where I place my feet, I hurry down and am standing beside him by the time he sits up. A loud groan escapes his lips, and a tight grimace pinches his features. His camera is lying on its side at the base of a sapling. I pick it up, pop out the SIM card, and slip it into my pocket.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” he protests, struggling to his feet. “It’s private property.”

“You should have thought of that before you breached my perimeter. This is my crime scene, which means you get to play by my rules. Since you decided to break a rule, you also get to face the consequences.”

He fixes me with a hateful glare.

“The SIM card is mine. You won’t be getting that back. The camera will be processed through my office. You can get it back sometime next week, I’m sure.” Gower has just finished coming down the slope and appears at my side. “Sheriff, would you be so kind as to escort this fine gentleman off the premises? And please note the details on his driver’s license. If he breaches my perimeter again, I want him arrested.”

“Gladly,” she smiles, and grabs his upper arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He mutters a series of expletives under his breath as she steers him past the fountain and down the driveway. A moment later, Skylar joins me. “Get your sight back yet?” I ask her.

“Barely. What was he using for a flash, a supernova?”

We make our way to the base of the front steps and wait for our crime scene team to unload their gear from the van. It will take them at least a couple of days to do a thorough inspection of the premises. For now, though, we’ll get them started on cataloging and dismantling the murder weapon, as well as searching for additional ones while Skylar and I head over to the garage and begin to interview the witnesses.

Like I told Skylar, right now we need to stay focused on what happened. But, like her, my mind wants to jump to the who and the why of it all. Someone planted a weapon at a well-attended, upscale party and unleashed terror, killing four and wounding more than twice that number.

The level of planning that went into what happened here this evening could go back months if not years. Remotely murdering partygoers in cold blood like this points to both extreme anger and a high degree of intelligence.

At the beginning of each new investigation, I can’t help but wonder where it might lead. Who is behind it, and why? Right now, I can’t shake the feeling that the truth, whenever and wherever we find it, is going to shatter all my preconceived notions. We haven’t even begun to scratch the surface and find out what’s really going on underneath.

And something tells me that when we do, we are not going to like what we find.

Chapter Five

Capitol Hills Memorial Hospital

Albany, NY

Awelcome blast of air conditioning greets me as the front doors of the hospital swish open and I step to the information desk. The clerk is a small, wizened lady with hunched shoulders. Her crocheted cardigan seems to swallow her up, and her hair has faded to a silvery gray, though traces of its former color linger at the roots. She looks at me over the rim of her bifocals and offers a thin, well-practiced smile. I’ve seen her several times when I’ve come to see my sister. Up until now, we have only exchanged cordial nods.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

“I’m here to see Mckayla Forester.”

A frown tugs at her lips. “I’m sorry, but due to her status, you’ll need to go onto our website and get pre-qualified as a family member. If you’re not family, I’m afraid you won’t be able to see her.”

I hold up my badge. “I’m actually with the FBI. I need to ask her some questions about last night’s attack.”

She blinks and sits up a little straighter in her chair. “Oh. Of course.” Her fingers dance across her keyboard. “She’s on the fourth floor. Room 414. Make sure to check in with the nurses’ station.”

I thank her and make my way to the elevator, then take it up to the fourth floor, where I find the nurses’ station awash with dozens of flower arrangements. Honestly, it’s like a small corner of the jungle. I can’t even see behind the desk. Various plants, flowers, and wreaths are huddled together on the floor, the counter, and even trickling down the hallway. I stop at the station but can’t see anything through the foliage. So shifting on my feet, I cough into my fist to announce my presence.

“Be right with you,” someone says from behind a bouquet of irises.

Reaching out, I pluck out an enclosure card and read the inscription. Mckayla, I love you. Please get better soon! Your biggest fan, Avery. The next one reads You are a light to us all. Stay tough and get better. That one is from her record label.

A smile curves the corner of my lips. I’m glad there has been such an outpouring of love for her. If anyone deserves it, it’s Mckayla. She really is a light to everyone. Her genuine personality makes it easy to like her.

A rustle comes from behind the desk, and a nurse emerges from around a cluster of wreath stands. Her eyes are weary, and it’s easy to see that she’s frazzled. I’m sure the flowers have a lot to do with it. “Can I help you?”

I present my credentials and let her examine them. “I’m Agent Hunt with the FBI. I need to speak with Ms. Forester.” After jotting my information on a sign-in sheet, she nods and points down the hall. “I just got done checking her vitals. She’s awake. You can go on in.” An officer with APD is stationed outside Mckayla’s door, no doubt to keep overeager fans and curiosity seekers at bay. The nurse waves to get his attention, then gives him a thumbs up.

Footsteps sound behind me. The nurse looks over my shoulder and frowns as she shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. No more flowers. You’ll need to leave those down in the lobby. I’m already dealing with a fire hazard here.” I step to the side to let her engage with the delivery man.

“The lobby?” he says. “Where?”

“Honestly, hon. I just don’t care. We’re trying to care for patients up here. I’m glad Ms. Forester is loved by so many, but I don’t need to be wading through a mound of vegetation to get through my rounds. Take them down to the information desk and they can decide what to do from there.”

He mutters something under his breath and turns for the elevator. I offer the nurse a sympathetic smile and start down the hall. The officer pushes the door open and steps to the side, allowing me to enter.

Over the last few years with the Bureau, I’ve stood over the victims of all manner of violent crimes—some beaten, some shot, others suffering the effects of an explosion or a hit-and-run. Seeing people wounded and broken never gets easier. And now, as I step up to Mckayla’s bed, my heart sinks.

A large purple welt stands out on the right side of her forehead. Her cheek is scratched with tiny cuts, and her left forearm is wrapped in gauze. “Mckayla,” I say quietly, and her eyes slowly open. It takes her a moment to process who it is standing beside her bed.

“Darcy.” A weak smile emerges on her lips. “I thought you were the nurse again.”

One look in her eyes makes my heart break. The shine and glimmer typically resident in them is gone. Her body has been wounded, but now I can see that her soul has been rattled as well, as if darkness has shattered a ray of sunshine. It’s incongruous from what I saw in her just yesterday. Her fresh-faced and sunny disposition has been replaced with a tired and war-weary expression. I smile down at her and take hold of her hand, having to force tears back as she responds with a hard and fast grip.

Her next words come out as a whisper. “I was so…scared, Darcy.”

“I know you were. I’m so sorry.” Fresh anger pierces my chest.

“Do you…know who did it?”

“Not yet,” and the words taunt me. An armchair is sitting in the corner. I go over to it, slide it beside the bed, and sit down. “We’re still trying to put the pieces together. How is your leg?”

I finally got an update on Mckayla’s condition on my way back to the city in the early hours of the morning. She was shot once in the leg. The round went straight through her thigh, just missing her bone and a major artery. Apparently, several glasses had fallen to the floor just before she did, and her face and arm were cut by the broken glass.

She runs her tongue along the dry skin of her lips. “Why would someone do that?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know, Mckayla. There are so many reasons why people do evil things. I promise that we’re going to get answers.”

“So the shooter got away?”

Her question fazes me for a moment, and I realize that no one has given her all the facts yet. In one way, that’s good. It means that despite the rogue reporter who went snapping pictures, the crime scene was buttoned up enough so the specifics aren’t spreading too fast.

I scoot my chair a little closer. “I can answer any questions you want,” I tell her. “But I came here to be a friendly face. I’m not here in a professional capacity. If you need some time before learning all the facts, that’s fine too.”

I actually do need to ask Mckayla some questions about last night, but my primary reason for being here is to check on her. The questions can wait another day or two, as we already got a full picture from the guests that we interviewed on-site last night. But what I told her is true—I’m not here today in any official capacity. So did I use my badge for personal purposes? Okay, guilty as charged. But Mckayla has no family to speak of. And while she does have other friends who have already come to visit, I wanted her to know that I care too, and that she has a friend with a badge who is going to bat for her in the field.

“No, I want to know. I’ve been lying here going over it all in my mind. One minute, I was holding a conversation, and the next, I heard screaming and then felt a streak of pain in my leg.”

“The shooter appears not to have been on-site,” I tell her. “There was a weapon hidden in the wall and operated remotely.”

Her eyes widen. “Why?”

“I wish I had answers, Mckayla. Right now, it’s early into the investigation. Whoever did this didn’t want to be found easily. And it seems that they had a lot of time to plan it.”

“Do you think it had something to do with Prince Rahman? Was it political?”

I shrug. “I’ll update you as I’m able.”

“How many people got hurt?” she asks.

“Thirteen total. Four killed.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. A tear trickles down her cheek. “I’m so angry right now. Why would someone do this?”

I take hold of her hand again. “We don’t know who did this, or why. But I promise you that I will get to the bottom of it. I’m going to find out who did this and make sure that they can never do something like it again.”

I’ve always been cautious of making any promises about the outcome of an investigation. There isn’t a single special agent who isn’t taunted by a stack of open/unsolved cases on their desk. Every single agent has them, and they tend to linger like a bad odor, taunting us and reminding us that the victims and their families have yet to get answers and see justice.

But this one is different. Maybe because a friend of mine was directly impacted. Either way, I’m feeling the burden of getting to the bottom of this and making sure it doesn’t happen again.

I give her hand a final squeeze and stand up, then return the chair to the corner. “You heal up. Let us worry about finding the people responsible.”

“Thank you, Darcy. And thanks for coming to check on me.”

She nods at the windowsill, which is packed with vases of flowers. “At least take a flower arrangement with you. I don’t need all these.”

I smile. “You keep them. Maybe I’ll unburden the nurse of an arrangement.”

Her brows draw into a frown. “The nurse? I don’t understand.”

“You have endeared a lot of fans to you. It’s like a jungle out in the corridor,” I laugh. “And trust me when I say a jungle. I nearly expected Tarzan to come swinging through.”

She winces. “Oh, gosh. I don’t want to be a problem for the nurses. Please, take one. Or two, for that matter.”

“Tell you what. I need to see someone else in the building. On my way out, I’ll grab a couple. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I nod and turn to go.

“Darcy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming.” Her emotional pain is written all over her face.

“Listen,” I say. “You’ll get through this. What you went through was extremely traumatic. The path to healing will be a long one. But don’t forget that you’re a fighter. You’ve been through a lot and have come out on the other side stronger because of it. You’ll pull through this too.”

She nods, and as I step out of the room, a deep-seated anger pulses deep in my chest. This case has become intensely personal. And while I’ll have to keep my own emotions in check, I plan on harvesting every ounce of this anger to find answers to the questions that are beginning to haunt us all.

Chapter Six

Capitol Hills Memorial Hospital

Albany, NY

“Buzz? What are you doing here?”

I step into my sister’s hospital room and close the door behind me. Buzz is sitting in his usual chair beside the bed, reading a magazine. He looks up. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Saw the news about that shooting out on the state line, and for some reason, it got my thoughts spinning on overdrive.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’m heading over there in a minute. I was on the floor above seeing someone and thought I would pop in before I left. What are you reading?”

A coy grin appears on his face as he holds up the most recent copy of Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Issue. “Not much reading, but some superb content, if I say so myself.”

I roll my eyes and stifle a laugh. Buzz might be my uncle, but he’s got a wild streak of typical male energy coursing through him. Most of the time, he keeps it in check around me, which I’m thankful for. Only on rare occasions do I need to chasten him to get him back in line.

He eyes me. “You look like a wrung-out dishcloth.”

“Yeah, well. That shooting on the state line—they put it in my lap. I was out there until about two o’clock this morning.”

“They gave it to you? Hot damn.”

“Yep. Lucky me.”

I walk around the bed and brush a strand of hair off my sister’s face. A few weeks ago, Lila’s doctor called me to say that he thought she was waking up from her coma. This was shortly after he said that he didn’t think she would ever wake up at all. But by the time I arrived here, Lila had gone all the way back under.

She had stirred and fluttered her eyes open several times, prompting the doctor’s phone call to me. Her most recent brain scans have shown substantial healing from her self-inflicted gunshot. With these recent developments, I’m optimistic that she’ll pull out of the coma for good.

Coming here to the hospital has become such a regular part of my life over the past few months that I’ve almost forgotten what it was like without this rhythm. But I’m glad I have it. Coming here like this means that I have my sister back, that she isn’t lost to me for good. Even if she never fully comes back to me, visiting her, speaking with her, will be a normal part of life.

Beginning at an early age, my life didn’t look like that of most kids. My family was torn apart by the sinister actions of one evil man. I was rescued from kidnappers and spent most of my life believing that my sister was killed in a fire. But then, when I understood that she was still alive, I started believing in miracles again. But she didn’t, and now here she is, her body struggling to heal itself.

Buzz closes the magazine and tosses it onto a side table. It’s easy to see that he’s bothered by something. His shoulders are slumped, and his generally easygoing demeanor feels clouded over.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask him.

His head gives a rueful shake. “The world seems to be getting crazier by the day, Darcy. And to be honest, I worry about you.”

I can count on one hand the number of times that he’s told me he worries about me. Buzz has always been in my corner, but he’s never been overprotective, never brooded like my mother might have. He knows my competencies and understands the risks associated with my chosen career. I’ve always appreciated his willingness to see me step in harm’s way without making much of a fuss about it.

“You know I’m always as careful as I can be.”

He waves me off. “I know that. You’re smart, kiddo. But maybe it’s all stacking up on me. Your office building was assaulted last year, and now there’s this shooting in our backyard.” He puffs out a long sigh. “Things used to be simpler. Not perfect, mind you. But they seemed to be more straightforward. Everything is so complicated these days.”

“Well, I wasn’t around in the 1800s when you were growing up.” I shoot him a wink. “But I feel how busy and complicated things are. Remember, though, the human heart hasn’t changed, Buzz. Even though some nut jobs go off the rails, we’re still safer as a society than we ever have been. It’s not the wild west anymore.”

He nods soberly and looks over at Lila. “With your sister here, I feel responsible for keeping us all together. My sister is gone, and your father is too. But we got Lila back, Darcy. I don’t want something to happen that divides us.”

“Like me getting hurt on the job?”

“Or worse.”

I come around the bed and place a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you that I’ll be careful. I’m not reckless.”

“I know you’re not.” A muscle flexes in his jaw. “Hell, I sound like a woman, talking like this.”

I step back and look him right in the eye. “You and me, we’ve lost a lot over the years. You being scared to lose even more is perfectly natural, Buzz. And Lila is going to make it out of this. I believe that with everything that I am. She’ll have a long road to plow. But she’ll make it.”

He nods. “She was with that monster for a long time.”

“She was. Who knows all the poison he filled her mind with? But you know one thing he didn’t have? Love. Love will heal her. In the meantime, we have to keep believing that.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

I glance at my watch. “I need to get to the office. See you for dinner Friday night?”

“I’ll have the grill fired up.”

I really hate to leave him like this. If I could, I would just stay here and keep him company. We keep a deck of cards in the side table and have spent many hours quietly playing rummy or spades. I point to the edition of Sports Illustrated. “Pick up your magazine and get your mind off all this. Quit worrying yourself, old man.”

“I could still kick your ass.”

I pull the door open and laugh at his attempt to put his hardened shell back up. “In your dreams.”

Chapter Seven

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

Stepping off the elevator, I navigate my way across the floor to the break room, where I find Skylar pouring a cup of coffee. I lean over and slide the vases onto the surface of the small table, turning them until I’m satisfied with the way they’re positioned.

“Whoa. What’s going on?” Skylar asks. “Somebody die?” Her eyes widen. “Are you dying?”

I hide a grin as I push a rose a little deeper into the bunch. “I went to see Mckayla at the hospital. I swear, her corridor looked like a botanical garden, so the nurse insisted that I take something with me.”

“A botanical garden?” She leans against the counter and takes a careful sip from her steaming cup.

“Like, two dozen vases and wreaths, maybe more. I’m telling you, being a celebrity is a completely different experience.”

“Penthouses, Porsches, and private islands,” she snickers. “Sign me up. How is Mckayla doing?”

“Physically, she’ll be okay. But the shooting definitely did its damage to her spirit. She’ll need some therapy to work through the trauma of it all.”

She nods. “The news stations have made her the face of the victims. Have you seen the news this morning?”

I huff and step over to the coffeepot. “You know I stay away from the news. I deal with enough negative things in this job. I don’t need it from the news too.”

“Well, Mckayla’s gorgeous mug is keeping people glued to the story. They’re running it for all it’s worth.”

“Great,” I moan, pouring a cup of brain fuel. “We’re going to be under the microscope on this one.”

“Indeed we are, my dear.”

“Hey, you two,” Assistant SAC Jake Akers appears in the doorway. “Kemper wants everyone in the meeting room.”

Akers is in his early thirties and stands about six feet tall. His dark hair is short and well-kept. His shoulders are broad, and sturdy muscles fill out his button-down shirt. More than one female agent has suggested that they should make a Bureau pin-up calendar featuring only Akers.

He does a double take at the flowers. “What’s going on with those?”

I give him the rundown and their connection to Mckayla. He nods. “Okay then. Come on, we all have a lot to discuss.”

“Be right there,” I tell him.

“I wish he would discuss something with me,” Skylar croons after he leaves. “One thing in particular.”

Ever since Skylar transferred to the AFO from Rochester last year, she has had a serious thing for Akers. She is the most confident and self-assured person I know. But whenever Akers enters her periphery, all that melts away and she stumbles on her words and suddenly doesn’t know where to look. It’s a lot of fun to watch.

“You should make a move,” I tell her with a grin. “You’re a looker yourself. The two of you would make beautiful babies.”

“Oh, and how I would like to try,” she says, staring into the space he had vacated moments before.

I laugh and nudge her elbow. “Come on, we have work to do. You can dream in your off hours.”

She follows me out of the break room to the other end of the floor. I can’t begin to say how good it is to be back at the AFO. It’s been over six months since the terrorist attack on our building forced us to vacate. Initially, estimates had the repairs taking upwards of a year, which wasn’t surprising, considering it was a government contract. But the construction gods smiled on us and finally got us right back where we belong.

Honestly, I’m really not that picky. I’m thankful to have a quiet office anywhere that allows me to focus and get my work done, but I was happy to leave that empty closet in the basement of the Homeland annex for the roaches. I think the only thing I’ll miss about the annex is its rural setting across from the Hudson.

So often, I would stand up from my desk and walk one of the trails that worked their way through the property. The air brushing through the treetops and the chirping of birds could go a long way in quieting my nerves and getting my mind in a position to think through the details of a case. Even though I’ll miss those walks, returning to the AFO just feels right.

Our office personnel were scattered across multiple locations throughout Albany. Now, with all of us back under one roof, we’ll be able to collaborate much easier. Zoom meetings helped keep everyone on the same page, but there really is something about being together that unifies our collective sense of mission.

As part of the repair budget from the attacks, the Bureau went ahead with some updates to the interior. New carpet, fresh paint, and new cubicles have given a more modern and lively feeling to our floor. Our meeting area used to be an open space in a far corner of the floor. Now it’s hemmed in with glass walls, and the chairs have been updated to something a little more stylish and comfortable.

Kemper is already at the front when we enter the room. He’s standing in front of a lectern, and a projection screen is behind him to his right. There are probably fifty people in here, double what I’ve ever seen at one time, except for maybe when interim SAC Morrison was first introduced to everyone. Operational and support teams from all over the building have been called in for the most high-profile case we’ve seen since Marvin Hess and Toby Parsons released their reign of terror on the city last year.

Kemper steps over to two analysts in the second row and says something to them. After they stand up and move over to a standing position on the wall, he waves me and Skylar over.

“Sir?” I ask as we approach.

“You two have the lead on this case. I want you up front.” He motions to the empty chairs. “Have a seat and we’ll get started.” We slide into the row, and he gets everyone’s attention. The room slowly quiets down, and Kemper waits for the whispers of a couple of lingering side conversations to cease before he begins.

“Good morning, everyone. I trust you all have heard the news on last night’s attack, so I’m going to jump right in with details of the situation.” He picks up the projector remote and turns it on. The initial slides show the crime scene from various angles and vantage points. He pauses at a photo of the mounted assault rifle. “This was the single weapon used. An H&K HK416 chambered for a 5.56×45 NATO cartridge. It was hidden behind a panel in this nook. All thirty rounds were fired, leaving four fatalities and nine wounded.” He goes on to discuss the party, the details of the location, and the time of the attack.

“We heard the event was hosted by a Saudi prince?” an agent speaks out. “Is that right?”

Kemper features draw taut. “According to the invitations, the event was hosted by Saudi Prince Amir Rahman. None of the guests that we interviewed last night had ever personally met Prince Rahman. The general feeling among the invitees was that the prince wanted to further personal and business connections here in the U.S.”

“If the gun was set up in advance, then are we looking at the Saudi government?” someone asks. “Are we viewing this as a political attack?”

Kemper puts up a hand. “No, we are not. Let me be very clear on that. As some of you will be aware, a contingent of the royal family arrived in the U.S. six days ago. Overnight, the State Department got involved with investigating the claim that the prince was behind the party, and possibly the attack. They tapped the CIA to investigate. As you can imagine, it wouldn’t bide well for our political relations with the Saudis if a member of their royal family was behind a terrorist attack on American soil.” Kemper flips a page of his notes and continues. “As for Prince Amir Rahman, he is deep in the line of succession and has little to no influence in Saudi politics, or business, for that matter. Langley’s intelligence shows that he hasn’t left Saudi Arabia in nearly six months. It is their determination that there is no Saudi involved in this attack. This conclusion is supported by Bureau analysts in our New York and D.C. offices.”

Skylar and I exchange a glance as the room breaks into a low murmur.

“So as far as we can tell,” Kemper continues. “Rahman’s name was most likely used on the invitations to give credibility to the party and to draw in high-profile attendees. The attack was timed with the Saudi contingent from the U.S. so it would seem credible if anyone decided to research the prince. But let me reiterate. We have zero reason to think that this had anything to do with the Saudi government. I don’t want any semblance of that idea repeated when we leave this room.”

The implications of this new information are deep and far-reaching. With the Saudis being ruled out, there appears to be but one conclusion—the party itself was planned by the attackers to lure victims to the location. They created their own barrel, and when the fish showed up, the shooting commenced.

Another hand goes up. “Sir, do we have a guest list? Any way to know exactly who received an invitation?”

Our SAC shakes his head. “We have no way of knowing how many people were invited. But fifty-seven people showed, based on invites that were scanned at the front door, including their plus ones. Fifteen guests and nine staff were still on-site when the first responders arrived. Several of the guests were able to furnish names of people they knew or recognized. We are requesting that the news stations put out a notice for any guests to reach out to the Bureau with their name and contact information. It will be of the utmost importance that we create a composite of all the guests that were there. Other than that, there is no way to arrive at a complete list of names.”

Kemper flips a page on the lectern. “Each of your team leads already has an email from me about how you are to proceed. There are a lot of details to sift through. We need to comb through everyone who was on-site last night. And I mean everyone. Caterers, valets, security, bartenders, food and flower vendors. I want to know who the first person was on-site, who unlocked the doors to get things started. The weapon was controlled via a satellite uplink hidden in an upstairs closet. ASAC Akers will be working directly with a select few of you to analyze the source of the connection. Agents Hunt and Mills are taking the lead. Any requests from them are to be considered priority one. Questions?”

Someone across the aisle raises their hand. “Just to be clear, there are no suspects at this time?”

“That’s correct.” Our leader nods. “And that needs to change immediately. Every person in this room is at the top of your field. I’m proud to have you on my team. The Bureau believes in you. I believe in you. Now let’s get out there and get some answers.” He dismisses the room and then motions to me and Skylar. “Let’s circle up in my office in five.”

The atmosphere in the room is tense as everyone disperses. Each person here feels the weight of playing their part well. Criminal investigation is not a one-man show. While case agents are the ones out on the street, chasing down leads and interviewing witnesses and potential suspects, we wouldn’t get very far without our support staff.

Kemper has assigned roles to each team, and every member has a very specific role to play. They all want to get it right. Sometimes just one slip, one missed detail, can mean the difference between solving a crime or the perpetrators getting away with it.

On our way out of the room, Skylar and I stop to talk with Brooks. He clicks his tongue when he sees us. “You two have your work cut out for you with this one. Anything you need, just ask.”

“Thanks,” I tell him. “We probably will hit you up for something. Right now, we’re still trying to wrap our heads around just what it is we’re dealing with.”

He gives an understanding nod. “I heard Mckayla Forester was injured. Shantice broke down in tears when she heard. She follows Mckayla on Instagram or something like that. I get the feeling that young woman isn’t like her social peers.”

“She definitely is not,” I assure him. “Her heart is made of pure gold.”

“I heard she was shot last night. How is she doing?”

The question is posed by Agent Tony Cheng, Brooks’s new partner. He stands an inch or two shy of six feet, has an oval face with strong features, and short black hair. Cheng is a seasoned agent with nearly a decade with the Bureau, recently transferred from the Los Angeles Field Office. His parents were first-generation Chinese immigrants. It’s easy to see that even now, in his mid-thirties, much of what he does is to make them proud.

Don’t get me wrong, Cheng is his own person, but he has a level of respect for his parents that you don’t see much of these days. So many kids and even adults seem to focus strictly on their own lives to the exclusion of almost everyone else, including the people who brought them into this world and spent time raising them.

I think about what I wouldn’t do to have my parents back, to be able to stop by their place for dinner or just have a conversation on the back porch. That will never happen for me, but I’m sincerely happy that others get to experience the love of family like that.

As for Brooks, I’m glad to see him riding with a partner again. Last year, Steven Mayworth, one of our most decorated and beloved agents, was killed defending this building during the terrorist attack. He had been Brooks’s partner for several years and was a good friend to all of us. When Mayworth died, Brooks took it hard and was in no hurry to be assigned a new partner.

A couple of months back, when Skylar was in Rochester tending to Reuben, Brooks came alongside me and helped me get an important case across the finish line. It’s one thing to work a case with someone because they’re a fellow agent and they’ve been assigned to you. But it’s an entirely different thing to work with someone you both respect and trust. Had Skylar not been able to return to the AFO for any reason, I would have absolutely asked for Brooks as a permanent partner. He’s an incredible agent and an even better man.

From what I’ve seen of him so far, I like Cheng. He doesn’t have the lighthearted and jovial nature with which Mayworth balanced us out, but he has a sharp mind and takes his work seriously.

“Mckayla will be right as rain soon enough,” I answer Cheng. “Her leg will no doubt have a permanent scar, but she’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“We have a federal assault case we need to give some attention to this afternoon,” Brooks says. “In the immediate, Kemper has us going back out to the mansion where the shooting took place and reassessing it in the daylight. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Sounds good.”

The two agents head off, and Skylar and I file out of the meeting room. Unfortunately, we barely make it back onto the main floor before we’re intercepted.

“Well, well. You two sure have the deck stacked against you on this one. You seriously think you can pull it off?”

Special Agent Daryl Simmons turns away from the water cooler and assesses the both of us. He gives Skylar elevator eyes that make me want to slap the smugness right off his face. I don’t, though, because it’s not exactly the best time to take a mandatory leave of absence for assaulting a co-worker.

I keep meaning to get a video of him eyeing Skylar like that so I can submit it to HR. I swear, most of the time, his behavior borders on some kind of sexual harassment.

Besides microwaved pizzas and Mountain Dew, I’m pretty sure that Daryl’s only reason for waking up each morning is to make my life miserable. With plump cheeks, a pear-shaped physique, and a hairline that seems to get thinner by the day, Daryl would serve the planet much better if he got hired on as the Michelin mascot.

Just like any other workplace, the FBI has its fair share of employees who don’t take their work as seriously as they should. Daryl spends most of his time dinking around, not focusing on solving the crimes that are on his desk, and heckling other agents who are actually focused on getting stuff done.

Last time I checked, he has only closed out three cases this year. And I’m pretty sure that two of those required nothing more than interviewing a couple of witnesses. Most of the time, he has his feet up on his desk while playing a game on his phone.

Those are the perks of being the lieutenant governor’s nephew. All it takes is a quick call to his uncle, and he can leverage all the political clout he needs to get his way. Including doing a half-assed job at work that affects real people’s lives.

Daryl’s lack of any kind of work ethic and his inattention to his cases seriously drive me up the wall. That, and his increasingly demeaning and sexist attempts at humor.

If last year’s attacks on the AFO had any silver lining, it was that for many months, Daryl worked in a different building on the other side of the city. But now that we’re all back under the same roof, I have to find a way to keep things civilized.

Even Kemper has tried time and time again to get Daryl demoted or sent to another field office. But his attempts have yet to find success. We’re all crossing our fingers though. Surely he can’t mooch off the Bureau forever.

Skylar shoots him a fiery glare that might incinerate the average person. “Hey, Dopey, don’t you have a stack of donuts to eat?”

The corners of his mouth curve into a haughty grin. “You know, Agent Mills, calling other people names is a sign of an underdeveloped personality. You might want to get that checked out.” He nods at me as if he expects me to agree with him.

Skylar’s fingers curl into fists at her side, prompting me to jump in before she does something rash. I think she might have enjoyed the break from him even more than I have. “Look,” I say, “can’t we all just get along? Please?”

“Yes,” he nods. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“So the best way to do that is for you to walk your fat ass back to your desk. And don’t come out until that clock on the wall reads six p.m. Please take the stairs, not the elevator. I don’t want it smelling like your body odor when I arrive in the morning.”

Daryl’s eyes bug out in surprise as his mouth falls open. Stepping out of the conversation, I start down the aisle before he can say anything else.

Skylar hurries to catch up. “Oh…my god. I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Why not? He deserved it.”

“You are so bad,” she says, sheer pleasure lining her voice. “You know he’s going to tattle.”

“Let him,” I say. “You’re a good agent, and you deserve to be treated with some respect. I am so over his attitude of superiority. If he wants to act like a little brat, then I’m going to treat him like one.”

“I’m nominating you for agent of the year. You are so the coolest.”

“I know,” I say with a wry grin. “Now come on. We have a meeting with the boss.”

Chapter Eight

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Long night last night,” Kemper says once we’re seated in his office. “I hope you two got some sleep. Based on what I’m seeing, this one is going to call on everything you have.”

“Sleep?” I wave him off. “There will be plenty of time for that later. I think I can speak for both of us when I say that we’re ready to start looking for answers.”

“Absolutely,” Skylar chimes.

Kemper nods his approval. “Good. Because right now, we don’t have a lot of those answers you mentioned. Like I said in the meeting, the Saudis had nothing to do with it, and Rahman’s name was probably used to lend credibility to the party and to draw in high-profile attendees.”

“Has forensics come away with anything we can use yet?” Skylar asks.

“No,” he replies. “There were no prints on the gun or the apparatus it was attached to. Everything else is still in process at the lab.”

“What about the event staff?” I ask. “That’s the low-hanging fruit. Someone booked their services and paid for them. There must be some kind of trail.”

“We do know that a single company was hired to provide event services. You’ll need to speak with them.”

“And what about the estate itself? How was that booked?”

“It was rented for three days via a booking agent in New York City. I want you both to go out to the booking agency and speak with them in person. No stone unturned.”

Beside me, Skylar rubs her brow. I know she’s feeling the weight of getting this right, just as I am. Someone planned and carried out a mass shooting of civilians. Their ability to do that successfully shows a high level of intelligence and a strong competency for strategic planning. So far, they have left no evidence behind, another incredible feat in itself.

I’m hopeful that something will turn up in these early stages of the investigation, but I can’t count on that. We’re going to have to be on our A-game for this one.

I cross my legs and lean into the chair’s armrest. “Sir, what about the gun? It was controlled remotely. Have we made any progress on tracking the wireless feed?”

“Hardware was found installed in the attic above the garage. It was probably installed a day or two before the party. The connection was routed via a satellite uplink. Unraveling it all is going to take some time. As for any other weapons hidden in the walls or floors, the scanners didn’t pick up anything.”

There are a dozen angles to consider and analyze—from where the invitations might have been purchased, to tracking the QR code printed on them, to how the estate was reserved, and how they got access. Right now, we’re still in the information-gathering stage, trying to make sense of all the various touchpoints. Once we’ve done that, it will be Skylar’s and my job to piece everything together into a cohesive picture, hopefully shedding some light on who was behind the attack.

“What about the guests?” Skylar asks. “Do we have a breakdown of the social demographics yet?”

“We do.” He tugs a piece of paper from his leather portfolio and slips on his reading glasses. “Five CEOs, three from Fortune 100 companies. Seven VPs, three CFOs. There were several venture capitalists, a state senator, and a lobbyist, among other white collar professionals. The rest have been classified as socialites or celebrities.”

“And the victims?”

“Let’s see. The four deaths were an attorney, a consultant, a VP of a logistics company, and the founder of a growing tech startup. This list has been emailed to you, along with their names. The nine non-fatal casualties were a general representation of the entire group of guests.”

I look over at Skylar, who is still wearing a pensive expression. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s too early for any kind of profile, I know that,” she says. “But does he hate popular and successful people? With all the moving parts and pieces involved, this was a major operation to pull off. Why invite a full representation of the cultured class, just to mow some of them down?”

I shrug. “Who knows? He could have been snubbed or shamed out of the upper echelons of society. Maybe he was betrayed by people who had power or influence.”

“Or it could be a political statement,” Kemper adds. “An attack on the social representatives of prosperity. Though political attacks are generally accompanied with an interpretation of the event—a letter or statement of some kind is left behind.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “But you’re right. It’s too early to get inside the unsub’s head.”

“There’s a fair chance he has military experience,” I suggest.

Kemper nods. “Agreed. But make sure that when you say ‘he,’ you’re not narrowing this attack down to a single person. Something like this took a lot of planning and coordination. We could be dealing with more than one person.”

He makes a good point. “Right,” I say. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“And what about the camera feeds from the estate?” Skylar asks him. “Did we get anything from those?”

“Yes, the cameras. I’m glad you brought those up. An initial review of the footage shows that the feed was looped three days before the party. The feed comes back on moments before the shooting takes place. We did, however,”—he looks directly at Skylar now—“see quite clearly the bird you raised to the camera last night.”

Beside me, Skylar squirms. “I told you,” I whisper through gritted teeth, making sure not to move my lips.

“Uh, yes,” she answers. “A slight falter in judgment, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Liar,” I cough into my hand.

“I understand the need to blow off steam,” he states. “But responding to a crime scene is your job. You’re expected to have thick skin. Please maintain a level of professionalism that befits the Bureau.”

She gives him a solemn nod. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

I move to direct the heat off her. “I know there isn’t a way to arrive at the actual guest list. But there had to be a decent number of people who received an invitation and didn’t show. Getting the names of more invitees might help us better analyze the social spectrum and discern how the killer thought through his targets.”

“The Bureau is issuing a request to the media,” Kemper says, “asking them to put out a general call to anyone who received an invitation to the party. They’ll be directing the public to a Bureau hotline. And, speaking of the media, I know I mentioned this to you last night, Darcy, but with this being a multiple homicide event, and with so many high-profile people having attended, there are a lot of eyes on this one. Half the country will be watching, including our own brass. We have to get this right, and I trust that the two of you will handle it with the appropriate level of urgency and propriety.”

“Yes, sir,” we chime.

Skylar raises a finger. “Oh, and sir?”

“Yes?”

“What are the odds we could get Daryl Simmons transferred to our satellite office on the outskirts of hell? If hell isn’t available, then maybe northern Alaska?”

That gets a rare grin from our leader. “When it comes to Agent Simmons, my hands are tied. Between us, I’ve tried to keep him extremely busy with menial work, but then I inevitably get a call from higher up telling me to let up on him.”

“What a lazy bastard,” she growls under her breath. “He’s like a paperweight with a badge. Except that paperweights actually come in handy sometimes.”

“Look, people like Simmons always run their course,” Kemper says. “They can only ride on the backs of their advocates for so long. Eventually, their support apparatus falls away. When it does, Simmons will be left to stand on his own merit.”

“Which means he would be overqualified as bathroom janitor at a donut shop,” Skylar mutters.

Grabbing his pen, Kemper scratches something on the corner of his legal pad and tears it off. Then he leans forward and hands it to me across the desk. “Here’s the name of the brokerage that rented out the estate for the party. I want you both to go and speak with them in person. And keep me in the loop. We’ve got a lot of moving parts on this one, and you’re just the tip of the spear.”

Chapter Nine

Empire State Building

New York City, NY

“Ilove this city so much,” Skylar says as we cross 5th Avenue in the center of a crowd of people. “I remember the first time I ever came here. I was in middle school, and my parents brought us for Christmas. We skated in Rockefeller Plaza. Magical. Absolutely magical.”

“It really is something else,” I agree, nodding to a newspaper vendor as we reach the sidewalk.

The city is humming with energy. It seems to crackle with it. Everyone seems to be walking with such purpose, and the traffic exudes a collective resolve, horns heralding the drivers’ frustrations. The extreme height of the buildings makes you feel small and insignificant, like the whole city is far greater than its parts.

Reaching the iconic Empire State Building, we push through the revolving door and enter one of the most renowned lobbies in the world. The stunning marble, 1920s-era chandeliers, and incredible Art Deco style create the illusion of being transported back in time.

It really is incredible what we, as a species, have been able to accomplish over recent times. Not until the invention of steel in the late 1800s were we able to build such massive buildings. The Empire State Building is so large and holds so many business suites with their own addresses that it actually has its own zip code.

We stop at the visitor screening desk and present our credentials. Due to the building’s popularity, if you don’t have business here, you have to purchase tickets to gain access to the interior. We’re cleared after a few minutes and step onto the elevator. I punch the button for the 49th floor—which isn’t even halfway up.

“Can you imagine working in a place like this?” Skylar says as we make our way up. “How totally cool would that be?”

“It would be pretty amazing,” I tell her. “But I’m sure the novelty would wear off after a while.”

The city truly is amazing. But unlike Skylar, I’m not convinced I would want to live or work here. Albany suits me just fine. It’s the right balance of the city and the availability of nature. Just outside the city, limestone cliffs tower over the Hudson and Mohawk Valleys. Just to the north are the Adirondack Mountains. New York City is an incredible place to visit, but maybe I am an old soul. At some point, I would want to step away to relish in the quiet and the magnificence of nature.

Skylar shoots me a look. “You’re such a killjoy. If our field office was here, in the Empire State Building, you think the awesomeness would wear off?”

I shrug. “Everything loses its luster at some point.”

“Coming from the agent who just spent the better part of a year working in a concrete basement and fighting the roaches for desk space.” She cocks an eyebrow.

“Okay,” I concede with a laugh. “Working from here would rock.”

“There you go.”

The doors open, and we step out onto the quiet floor. We use wall markers to guide our way to the right suite. The front entrance is all glass, and a small waiting room sits on the other side. We make our way inside and stop in front of the receptionist’s desk.

Behind it is a slim African American man with short, bleach-blonde hair. Looking up at us, a well-practiced smile lights up his face. “Hello, and welcome to Myers and Ekhart. How can I help you?”

I hold up my badge. “I’m Agent Hunt. This is Agent Mills. We need to speak with the booking agent for this property.” I hand him my card, on the back of which I’ve written the address for the Gilded Gate Estate.

“Of course. One moment.” He pecks on his keyboard and scans the information on his screen. Moments later, his eyes widen in understanding as he connects the property with the attack. “Oh. Right. Let’s see… the booking agent is actually Mr. Ekhart. He’s one of our founding partners.” He reaches for the phone, but then draws his hand back and gives us a self-conscious smile. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” I nod as he stands up and disappears down the hall.

“Smart guy,” Skylar chuckles. “Don’t let the boss know the FBI is here without a quick consultation.”

The receptionist returns a couple of minutes later and leads us down the hall to a door on the right. He opens it for us and waves us into the expansive office, then shuts the door behind us.

We’re greeted by a tall, stocky man in his late fifties. His graying brown hair is thinning on top, but his features are strong and he carries himself with an air of equanimity. “Luke Ekhart,” he greets us, and shakes our hands in turn.

The office is decorated in a mid-century modern style. Carefully curated colors are artfully set against each other—white, brown, avocado green, and orange. The tight geometric angles of the furniture, along with a minimalist sense of space, give me the sense that I’ve been transported back in time fifty years, that this is a world where Mary Tyler Moore would feel right at home. Wood, chrome, and vinyl stand in tension with each other to create a distinct but curiously unified look. Several abstracts decorate the walls, along with a print that I think might be an Andy Warhol, though I can’t be certain.

Ekhart invites us to have a seat in front of his desk. The chairs are a little funky, made of wooden frames and vinyl cushions, but they’re comfortable, and in my book, function will always win out over form. In this case, the designer managed to do both.

His desk sits in front of a massive window that looks out over the East River and Long Island beyond. It must be nice to have such a stunning view of one of the most iconic cities in the world. We’re already so high up that I can’t imagine what an office view another fifty floors up might be like.

Ekhart sits up straight in his chair. His expression is strained, but he maintains a well-practiced professionalism. “So you’re here to discuss the booking of the estate in Columbia County? Where the attack was last night?”

I nod. “That’s correct.”

He looks grim. “You can’t think that we had anything to do with that?” His lips press into a fine line. Clearly, he’s concerned at the prospect of being a cog in a federal investigation that’s making national headlines.

“Not at all,” I assure him. “But you are the leasing agent on record.”

He visibly relaxes but maintains an expression that hints that he would rather be at an appointment with his proctologist than talking to us. “So what do you need to know?”

“You may have heard via the media that the attack was conducted remotely. Whoever was responsible was not on-site at the time of the shooting. We’re here because we need to trace the individual behind the rental of the property.”

He nods. “I understand. And our firm is more than happy to help in whatever way we can.”

“How did you communicate with your client?” Skylar asks him. “The individual who booked the property.”

“Through email.”

“Exclusively?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Is that typical?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say typical. But it does happen. It wasn’t out of the ordinary if that’s what you’re asking.”

I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “Was it booked online?”

Ekhart shakes his head. “Our website doesn’t allow for online bookings. Our firm acts as an intermediary between high-net-worth clients and individuals of substantial means looking to rent out their properties. For the most part, on the renter’s end, we deal with third-party booking agencies or personal assistants. The client interested in renting or leasing one of our properties typically does not handle any booking themselves. We’re talking about individuals who don’t blink an eye at spending twenty or thirty thousand dollars a night to reserve accommodations that suit their particular interests. Our firm’s clients have residences all over the world, from penthouses in Singapore or Dubai to mountainside mansions in Switzerland and private islands in the Caribbean.”

“So you provide a concierge booking service?” I say.

“Precisely.”

“But the individual who rented out the Gilded Gate Estate—they didn’t utilize a booking agency?”

“That’s right,” Ekhart says. “Again, that wasn’t typical, but it has been done before.”

“And what name did they provide?” Skylar asks him.

Ekhart pauses for a long moment. “I want to help however I can. What happened last night was atrocious. But you’ll understand that I have certain privacy obligations I must maintain for my clients. I’m happy to have this discussion with you, but any specific requests for client information will probably require me to loop my lawyer in.”

Thankfully, Kemper sent us out of the office fully prepared. It’s crucial that we make as much progress in this investigation as quickly as possible. Going in circles for a couple of days with Ekhart’s lawyers just isn’t an option right now.

“I totally understand that,” I tell him. “You have a business to run and client interests to respect.” Leaning forward, I pull a piece of paper from my back pocket, unfold it, and place it on his desk. “Here is a warrant authorizing us to review any files, receipts, and communication relating to the recent rental of the Gilded Gate Estate.”

Ekhart’s eyes widen. He picks up the paper and examines it. “I’ve never seen one of these in person. Our legal team will have to review this.”

I don’t get the feeling that he’s trying to stall for time or hide anything. I’m sure that having the FBI show up and present you with a warrant can be a little disconcerting. “Of course,” I reply. “Have them verify the authenticity and authority behind that. But we’ll need everything emailed to us within the next two hours.”

“Two hours? Why so quickly?”

I level my gaze at him.

“Oh, right. Of course. I’m sure you want to get to the bottom of this.”

“As soon as possible,” Skylar adds.

He sets the warrant down and rubs his brow. “Of course.”

“How did the client pay for the rentals?” I ask him.

“Um…” He takes his time answering. Clearly, he’s wondering how much he should give away without first consulting with his lawyer. “Crypto tokens. They paid with crypto.”

Skylar and I exchange a glance, and inside, I give a silent groan. Whoever was behind the attack already did a highly thorough job hiding their identity. Transacting in crypto only reinforces that fact, as crypto can be nearly impossible to trace.

“Did that raise any red flags? I know crypto is on the rise in some areas of the market, but it’s not a standard way of paying, is it?”

“No, it’s not. And it didn’t raise any red flags, per se. The request for payment in that medium was a little unorthodox, but not unheard of. Cyber tokens are becoming more prominent. But I said no and didn’t even bother to talk to the homeowner at that point. But when the renter came back with a much larger offer and said it was for a member of the Saudi family, I pushed it to the homeowner for review. It’s not a request you get every day,” he says, with a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“So I assume the homeowner gave their consent. What is their name?”

“Timothy and Beth Holmes. Their main residence is in Miami. But I believe they’re in Australia right now.”

“Was the transaction legitimate? Any problems with the payment?”

Ekhart shakes his head. “None at all. They paid thirty percent over asking—we requested that due to the additional work we had to do on our end to process the tokens and then convert them back into dollars. They paid it, no questions asked—all upfront. Everything cleared and posted. The owners got paid, we got paid, and everyone was happy.”

“You’ll let us know if that changes?” I ask. “If there is a reversal in the transaction.”

“Certainly. Although, I’m not sure that’s even feasible now. Like I said, our banking institution already converted it into dollars. And it’s my understanding that once a transaction occurs on the blockchain, it’s irreversible.”

And untraceable.

Ekhart runs a beleaguered hand across his mouth. I can tell that this conversation is starting to wear on him. Having the FBI put your company at the forefront of a mass shooting investigation would be sure to rattle anyone’s nerves. Some say that no publicity is bad publicity, but I’m not getting that vibe from Mr. Ekhart right now.

“I don’t get it. Why would a Saudi prince want to commit mass murder?” he asks us. “I don’t follow politics all that much, but I thought the U.S. was on good terms with them.”

The last thing we need is for this to blow up into a diplomatic nightmare. The news stations are already running with the Saudi terrorism narrative, despite the Bureau’s attempt to squash it from the get-go. We need to correct the story wherever we can.

“Mr. Ekhart, right now, we don’t know who is behind this attack,” I tell him. “The person who rented the Gilded Gate from you has intentionally cloaked their identity. So until you officially hear otherwise, I would ask you not to disperse a narrative that has anything to do with the Saudis. We’ve been instructed not to affirm or pursue that particular line of inquiry.”

A frown etches across his face. “Okay. Sure.”

We stand up, and I thank him for his time. “We look forward to receiving an email from you shortly. Again, it’s imperative that we receive all information you have on the client and all correspondence you had with them as well.”

He agrees, and we show ourselves out and take the elevator back down to ground level. “Whoever is behind this is obviously a master at cloaking themselves,” Skylar comments as we pass through the bustling lobby. “To be honest, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Hopefully, Ekhart’s records will have something we can use,” I answer, though I’m not very optimistic about it.

We push through the revolving door and step to the curb, where Skylar raises her hand to hail a taxi. “Where to now?”

If I’m honest, I’m a little disappointed that our trip out here didn’t yield more immediate results. That’s the nature of the job though. You work smart, and you work hard, hoping that one of the leaves you overturn will yield something fruitful. “I guess it’s back to Albany to keep digging. But first, there’s somewhere else I want to stop.”

“Ohh, a field trip. How exciting.” A taxi pulls up, and she sweeps a hand toward it. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Ten

Memorial Plaza

New York City, NY

“Okay, here you are. Enjoy your visit. This is a very amazing place.”

I fold the cash in my hand and reach across the seat, giving it to the cab driver. “Thanks for the ride, Yusuf.”

Even with all the stop-and-go, the honking and vying for space on the road, it’s been a pleasant drive. I don’t get to the big city very often. Watching the hustle and bustle of residents and visitors while listening to Yusuf talk has been a fun experience.

During our short ride here from the Empire State Building, I learned that Yusuf immigrated here from Pakistan twenty years ago. With the money he has earned driving a cab, he was able to buy a modest apartment and put his oldest daughter through college.

My time in conversation with him reminds me just how eclectic America is. We truly are a nation of immigrants, boasting large populations from all over the world. This nation is a melting pot of cultures, languages, and people, and we’re all the better for it.

It’s a needful reminder that other countries don’t value freedom and democracy like we do. People come to this country from every conceivable place, hoping for a better way of life where they can work to accomplish their hopes and dreams.

Skylar opens her door, scoots to the edge of her seat, and pauses. “Yusuf, if you ever want to take a trip out of the city, bring your family up to Albany. We’ll give you a tour of our office and take you to lunch. Just look us up.”

“I have left New York City only once in five years, and that was to attend the wedding of a friend’s son. But thank you for the invitation.”

“It’s good to get away sometimes,” I tell him. “It’s been great talking with you and learning about your past.”

He waves me off. “I talk too much. This is what my wife tells me all the time. But I talk even more around pretty women.” He winks at us in the rearview. “I did not know that the FBI hired beautiful models to work for them. But I can see very well that you both know how to protect yourselves. That is good.”

“That we do,” I chuckle.

We say goodbye and step out of the cab, and I toss up a wave goodbye as it drives off. I turn and take in the sight before me, and a wave of nostalgia and somberness immediately crashes over me as we make our way onto the grounds of the National September 11 Memorial.

A ring of swamp white oaks surrounds the memorial’s grounds, forming an insulating perimeter that keeps out some of the bustle of the city. Skylar and I quietly walk up to the South Memorial Pool and stare down into the water.

Both the South and North Memorial pools occupy the exact footprints of the former Twin Towers. In the middle of each reflecting pool is a sizable square where water flows into the void and disappears. Wherever I orient myself around the pool, if I look down into the square, I can’t see to the bottom, only the water flowing into it. The design was intended to invoke a sense of loss.

The names of almost three thousand victims are inscribed on bronze parapets flanking the memorial pools. It’s a sobering experience to walk around and survey the names of those we lost on that tragic day, not unlike visiting the Vietnam Memorial in D.C.

So many relationships are represented in these names. Mother and fathers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, grandparents, friends, and co-workers. Our nation lost so many that day. Those who carried so much hatred in their hearts tried to buckle us at the knees. And they did wound us, taking so many precious lives.

But America has always been a nation of strength and determination. It’s in our very DNA. From the Pilgrims coming to this new world, enduring harsh winters and learning how to prosper, to our principled stand against a tyrannical England, to our western expansion and coming out on the other side of a civil war and two world wars—we are a nation defined by grit and tenacity. No matter what, we always find a way to rise from the ashes.

I’m reminded of this as I look up at One World Trade Center. The massive tower stands over the city as a reluctant American landmark. Including the length of the antenna, the building stands at 1776 feet—a deliberate reference to the year the Declaration of Independence was signed—making it the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere.

Since we were already in the city, I wanted to come here and pay my respects, as well as remind myself what I fight for on a daily basis. Part of the oath I took when joining the Bureau stated that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. What happened last night at the mansion was nothing less than a domestic terror attack.

Whether it’s international radicals flying planes into buildings, a shooting at a public event, or politicians shoveling state money into their private coffers, those responsible must be held to account. And being here reminds me of everything that Skylar, Kemper, our entire office, and I fight for every single day.

When crimes occur, not only must the perpetrators be caught and held accountable, but the victims deserve some kind of answers. Oftentimes, crimes present no clear reasons as to why they happened. It isn’t always clear why evil people decide to do heinous things. That’s part of the very nature of evil—sometimes it abandons all rationale.

When we fail to solve a crime, it’s as if we double the pain for the surviving victims. Getting answers and putting people behind bars is a large part of freeing up loved ones to begin the long and arduous process of healing.

It’s one of the reasons I joined the Bureau in the first place. I didn’t grow up wanting to be in law enforcement. But after college, in the middle of a blossoming career in veterinary medicine, a news bulletin about a missing girl grabbed my attention and my heart and wouldn’t let go.

I do miss working with animals. They are such a gift to our world. But after several years with the Bureau, I can say that I’ve definitely found my true calling. Being here at the memorial reminds me of that. The work we do each and every day matters, something that can be easy to forget in those seasons when cases are piling up, answers are hard to come by, and paperwork is demanding most of your attention.

Now, as I look around the grounds of the memorial, my thoughts turn back to the four victims we saw slaughtered at the mansion last night. Others remain in the hospital, still fighting for their lives. I give Skylar a nod and see that she’s ready to go as well. So, with a final glance around, we turn and navigate our way out of the plaza.

It’s time to find some answers.

Chapter Eleven

Winsome Event Catering

Albany, NY

“I’m sorry, Agent, but Mr. Lawrence is still unavailable. I hate that you came all the way back here for nothing.”

I can almost feel the steam coming out of my ears. It’s been two days since we came back from New York City. Since then, we’ve been working every angle we can find. Yesterday, I came here to speak with the owner of Winsome Catering, but I was told that while, yes, he was in the office, he was unavailable to speak with me. I left my card with the understanding that he would call me back. Twenty-four hours later, and I still haven’t heard a thing.

The receptionist is a spritely young woman in her early twenties. Her bright blonde hair grows straight down her back, and her teeth are nearly as white as the paper on her desk. She wears a white pantsuit, and gold hoop earrings hang near her neck.

It takes everything in me to bite back a snide comment, but I manage to press on a tactful smile and speak without an edge to my voice. “Is he here now?” I ask her.

“Yes, Mr. Lawrence is in his office. But I’m afraid that he’s booked the rest of the day.”

Skylar leans into the counter and flashes a bright smile of her own. “I don’t think we got your name.”

“It’s Melanie.”

“Gotcha. Melanie, I’m not sure if you heard about the mass shooting on the state line the other night. The one at the mansion?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh my gosh. I did hear about that. It’s all over Insta and TikTok.”

“Right. We’re actually trying to find out who committed such a terrible crime. Winsome Catering managed the event.”

Melanie nods, but I don’t see the connection behind her eyes. “That’s great. I just answer the phones, so I don’t know a lot about the accounts that we have. It was a big party, wasn’t it?”

Skylar turns and looks at me with an ‘I can’t do this’ expression, so I jump back in. “The fact is, we represent a federal law enforcement agency, and avoiding us presents a big problem. If we can’t see your boss right now, he’s going to be in some trouble.”

“Oh. He said he was busy. I still have your card from yesterday. I’ll make sure to pass on the message again.”

A door opens at the far end of the hallway, and four people dressed in business attire emerge. Halfway to us, they enter a glass-walled conference room. Three of them take a seat at the long table, and the other, a stocky man with thin spectacles and a balding head, stands behind the chairback at the end of the table and addresses them.

“Melanie,” I say without pulling my gaze from the conference room. “Is one of those people Mr. Lawrence by any chance?”

“Sure is. That’s him right there.” She points. “The one standing up.”

“Thank you.” We start down the hall and ignore her efforts to bring us back.

The three clients each have a thick binder open in front of them. They’re flipping through them, looking at venues, flower arrangements, and color schemes. According to the company’s website, Winsome Catering is a one-stop shop for every type of occasion. They handle the soup to nuts for weddings, retirement parties, bar mitzvahs, corporate parties, and the like.

Daniel Lawrence stops mid-sentence as we step into the conference room. The look on his face tells me that he knows exactly who we are, and that we have caught him between a rock and a hard place. I’m sure that whoever these clients are, they’re prepared to pay good money for his services. Having law enforcement show up in the middle of a meeting isn’t exactly great for the company’s image.

“Mr. Lawrence, Agents Hunt and Mills with the FBI. I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need a few minutes of your time.”

He grits his teeth and speaks in a low growl. “Look, can we not do this right here? I have clients I’m trying to assist. If you go back out to the waiting area, I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

“You had your opportunity to speak with us at your convenience, Mr. Lawrence. I, for one, am all about small businesses and not interfering with the way they operate. But that’s something you should have thought of before you asked your receptionist to stonewall us. You’ve had twenty-four hours to contact me, and I haven’t heard a word from you.” What I don’t add is that if I go back out to the front, he might decide to scurry out a back door. I don’t trust him not to disappear through an exit in the back. For whatever reason, he’s reticent to speak with us. Not a great look.

He cuts his eyes to his guests, who look rather uncomfortable at the moment. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Yang.” He looks at the younger of the three. “Ms. Yang. Let me assure you that this is quite out of the ordinary for us. Planning your wedding, Ms. Yang, is of the highest importance.” He turns back to me and lowers his voice. “You need to leave. Now.”

“I don’t think so. In fact, you seem intent on avoiding a conversation with us. We can either do this now—and my apologies to the Yangs—or I can charge you with obstruction of justice.”

“You’re not serious?” he huffs.

“Oh, she is so serious,” Skylar chimes in. “Go ahead and test her. It’s one of my favorite things to watch. Better than movie night.”

“We’re trying to solve a multiple homicide,” I tell him. “We don’t have any more time to waste.”

Mr. Yang stands up. “We will reschedule. Obviously, this is something you need to take care of. We will plan another time to meet.”

“No!” Lawrence snaps, but quickly gathers himself. A nervous chuckle escapes him. “I mean, you don’t need to do that. They can wait until we’re done. This is a big event for you.” He spreads his hands and plasters on his most charming salesman-like smile. “A once-in-a-lifetime event. It needs to be right. If we bump our meeting, then we’ll lose precious time.”

“Yes,” the client nods, looking more put out by the second. “We will. These women are with the FBI, Mr. Lawrence. I, for one, will not stand in their way. You should not either.” He rises from his seat and is immediately followed by his wife and daughter. “Good day.”

“Please, you don’t need to—” Lawrence stammers, but is cut off.

“I said good day, Mr. Lawrence.” They leave without glancing back.

As soon as they’re gone, Lawrence glares at us. “I hope you’re happy. You could have waited ten minutes. What’s your problem anyway?”

“My problem?” I ask. “You do realize that you could have avoided the embarrassment in front of your client by just calling us back, right? All you had to do was give me a time to meet with you. Like I said, I have no desire to interfere with your business.”

“Well, you did,” he snaps back. “And now, I might lose the Yangs altogether. They were already on the fence about working with me. The daughter wanted to plan her wedding with a firm in Manhattan.” He sinks into a chair and rubs his brow. “I don’t know what to do. I’m nearly broke and can’t get clients like I used to. Event planning is moving to companies with a strong social media presence. They’re hipper and cooler than we are, and that’s what people want these days. It’s all about the image.”

Skylar and I sit down across the table from him. “Running your own business isn’t easy,” I tell him. “I’ve had plenty of friends who have done it. Some win, some don’t, and some only win for a time. It’s a lot to keep up with.”

My words have the desired effect. His posture softens. “I wasn’t avoiding you. After what happened at the Gilded Gate, I expected the authorities would reach out. When Melanie told me yesterday that you had stopped by, I got scared.”

“Why?” Skylar asks. “You’re not being accused of anything. Unless you have something to hide?”

“I didn’t want the bad publicity,” he explains. “I thought if I could avoid you for a couple more days, then some of the public attention would die down and it wouldn’t matter as much if my clients found out. Then I would be in a better position to explain to them what was happening and keep them from canceling. You can understand the trepidation our clients would have when they hear that a mass murder that made national news was catered by our company.”

I’m starting to get an idea why his business might be on the verge of failing. Fear is one thing, but I really don’t see why his clients wouldn’t understand. His paranoia is driving his business. Had he called me back, the Yangs would probably not be second-guessing their decision to work with him, which I assume is precisely what they’re doing right now.

I lean forward and fold my hands on the table. “The fact is, Mr. Lawrence, we’re here now. I have some questions that need to be answered. Are you prepared to cooperate?”

He tugs a handkerchief from his back pocket, removes his glasses, and blots his face. He puts his glasses back on and sighs. “Sure. Go ahead.”

I recall my notes that I reviewed earlier. “You handled everything except security for the party that night, correct?”

“That’s correct. Security is a whole different industry, so we don’t touch that.”

“And what services did you provide?”

His hand reaches up and scratches his chin as he thinks. “Flowers, food, door service, valet, bartender, and DJ. I had a cleanup crew scheduled for first thing in the morning. And I don’t know that I’ll get any of them to work with me again. They’re all terrified out of their minds. One of the servers was inches from being shot.”

“Who was the client?” Skylar asks.

“Don’t you need a warrant to get information like that?”

A tight smile emerges on my lips. “Look, Mr. Lawrence. You’ve already stalled once. This is your company. I’m going to ask that you go ahead and get us what we need before we leave here today. I could come back with a warrant, but that will take more time and we’ll end up with the same result. And if I do have to come back, I’m sure we’re going to find something amiss in the paperwork. Something that will require us to shut you down until we can get everything resolved.”

“That’s right,” Skylar chimes in. “That could be two to three weeks. And from what you just told us, that’s two to three weeks you can’t afford to be without a happy clientele.”

Lawrence nearly rises from his chair. An angry flush creeps up his neck. “You can’t do that!”

I pin him with a hard gaze. “Yes, in fact, I can.”

“What’s the deal, anyway?” Skylar says. “Are you just on a power trip, or do you have something to hide?”

His face pales. “No, I don’t have anything to hide. I swear.”

“So power trip then. Got it.”

“Mr. Lawrence,” I say, “it looks to be that you might care more about keeping your business afloat than for fellow citizens who were gunned down. I’m not here to harass you. I’m here to find the person who committed this crime and turn their case over to the attorney general’s office. So, if you have nothing to hide, would you please help us out? You have pressed my patience to the absolute limit.”

Skylar grimaces. “Oh man, you do not want to push her past her limit. She will go full ballistic on you. And trust me when I say it will not be a pretty sight.”

He sighs and rubs his brow again. “I don’t know who the client was exactly. He contacted me through our website and laid out specific instructions for what he wanted. He requested that we email him that all was in order but said he would be unavailable for additional questions.”

“And how was payment made?” I ask him.

“Cashier’s check.”

Expecting him to say crypto, I’m a little surprised to hear it was something more easily traceable. “A cashier’s check?”

“Yes.” Then he quickly adds, “It’s already cleared my bank. It doesn’t belong to the FBI.”

Skylar utters a small sigh. “Relax, Mr. Lawrence, we’re not here to take your money. Did you happen to make a copy of it?”

“No.”

“Who do you bank with?”

“Why?”

I so badly want to reach across the table and throttle this guy. I can’t recall the last time someone was this difficult and unwilling to cooperate. Not unless they were guilty. “Because we’ll need to get a copy of the cashier’s check, if not the hard copy,” I tell him.

He grudgingly tells us the name of the bank and then asks if that is all we need.

“No,” Skylar says. “How did he get the cashier’s check to you?”

“He walked it in. Gave it to Melanie.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. He came here, to your office?”

“Yes? Is that a problem?”

Skylar quietly clicks her tongue, a subtle admonishment for me to keep my anger under control. So I plaster on yet another smile and trudge forward. “Did Melanie get a look at him?”

“I couldn’t say. I didn’t ask her.” He pauses and looks at each of us in turn. Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Surely you don’t think that my client was the person behind the shooting?”

“Actually, there is a fair chance he is.”

“Oh my god. And I—I emailed him. And Melanie—oh my god.”

“Would you ask her to come in here, please?”

Looking dazed now, he slowly rises from his chair. “Just a moment.”

After he’s gone, Skylar and I sigh in unison. “What is wrong with this guy?” she asks. “Somehow he’s running a business, but he’s a few bricks short of a full stack.”

He returns with his receptionist and invites her to take a chair across from us. “Melanie,” I begin, “Winsome Catering handled the event for the Gilded Gate party the other night. Mr. Lawrence said that the client came in and dropped off a cashier’s check to you. Do you recall that?”

She picks at her fingernails. “Yeah, I remember. I had just gotten back from lunch.”

“Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“What he looked like?” Her brow lowers as she thinks back. “No, not really.”

Skylar scoots her chair closer to the table and leans forward. “So here’s the thing. The FBI has a strong interest in finding him. He could very well be the individual who carried out the attack at the mansion.”

Her gaze darts from her boss back to Skylar. “Wait, you’re saying the man who killed all those people might be the same one who dropped off the check?”

“Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

“That is so creepy!” Her eyes brighten. “And a little cool!”

Not that I needed one, but her reaction gives me more reason to think that social media is rotting the minds of our youth.

“It’s not cool,” Lawrence corrects her. “It’s actually quite frightening.”

“Do you have cameras inside or outside this office?” I ask him.

“No. Never had a reason to. Melanie, can you describe the man at all?”

“Ugh, he was like normal height. He was wearing sunglasses. His hair was short.”

“What color?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Blond? Maybe black.” She rubs her chin. “Or maybe it was longer. He told me what the envelope was for, and I said okay. Then he left.”

I glance at my watch. “Melanie, I’m going to send a sketch artist over here in the next couple of hours. Please make sure you’re here and that you can allocate a block of time to give them.”

“But I didn’t even pay much attention. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Just try. That’s all I ask. A brutal crime was committed the other night. You might be able to help us catch the person responsible.”

“Yeah. Okay, I guess.”

I dismiss her, then slide my card across the table to Lawrence. “I need any and all correspondence you received forwarded to this email immediately.”

He picks up the card and examines it. “I’ll look and see if there’s anything he sent me that you can use.”

“No, I don’t want you to make an assessment like that. Let me repeat what I said. I need any and all correspondence you received forwarded to this email immediately. Is there anything about that that’s unclear?”

“No,” he sighs, and looks up at the clock on the wall. “Are we done here?”

Chapter Twelve

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Ugh, what an ass kicking.” I drop into my chair and slump back. “I could go for a glass of wine after that.”

“More like a bottle,” Skylar replies dryly. “I need to start keeping one in my desk. What was with him, anyway? What a weirdo. No wonder his business is on the brink.”

“I have no clue. And his receptionist was no better.”

This is one of those times when I wish I had still had my couch stationed outside the cubicle. I spend so much time here at the office that not long after I started at the AFO, my team pitched in for a couch just for me. Instead of sleeping with my head on my desk, I was able to lie down in comfort for a little shut-eye.

My work-life balance is important to me. I’ve seen agents who burn out or end up looking sixty when they’re only forty-five because they didn’t know how to rest and cut loose from the job. As for me, there is no doubt that I’m losing the battle to the work side of the equation. However, I am aware of the problem and am trying to stay ahead of it. That’s why I take time to exercise and try to eat somewhat healthy.

So imagine my disappointment when the administrators in charge of the AFO’s remodel decided the couch needed to go, saying that it was a safety hazard. I thought it best not to make a fuss about it. That couch offered a happy comfort and relaxation as I thought through roadblocks in my cases, but I never saw it as a necessity, just a convenience.

As it is now, my temples are pounding. That had to be one of the most irritating interviews I’ve ever had. And after leaving Winsome Catering, we spent nearly an hour combing the vicinity, going up and down the street looking for cameras.

“It feels like a taunt,” Skylar says now as she leans back in her chair and props her feet on her desk. “He didn’t go through all the trouble to remotely control the weapon at the party and hide his identity, only to get caught on camera somewhere else. He wanted us to know he got close, but not close enough to identify him.”

“Assuming it was him who dropped off the cashier’s check. He could have paid some guy off the street to deliver it.”

“Good point. Another thing I don’t get is, he rented the mansion with crypto. That gave him a high level of anonymity. So why pay for the catering with a cashier’s check? You pay for them with cash, but the bank location can be traced, among other details.”

“For starters, I’m fairly certain that Daniel Lawrence wouldn’t know the first thing about accepting crypto as payment.”

A grin forms on her lips. “You can say that again. Lawrence’s operation isn’t nearly as sophisticated as Myers and Ekhart. I’d be willing to bet that if you have an office in the Empire State Building, you have the kind of connections that can help you figure out how to accept crypto if you don’t know how.”

The afternoon ticks away while we focus on different threads of the investigation. Skylar continues to review the rental and payment information sent over from Myers and Ekhart while I sift through other odds and ends.

The analysts have done a great job of taking a vast amount of data and distilling it down into organized and manageable chunks for us to work with. Everything about this attack reveals a high level of sophistication, from the invitees to the QR code on the invitations to the setup of the weapon and the apparent impossibility of identifying who carried out the attack.

Access to the Gilded Gate is granted at the front gate via a six-digit code. A lockbox on the back door contains a set of keys for the house, as well as the alarm code. Both of those security features were accessed on the morning three days before the party.

For three days, the individual who paid Myers and Ekhart a large sum of crypto to rent the estate remained there and took their time setting up the assault rifle and the satellite uplink in the attic. Five hours before the party, the front gate was opened, which is when the killer apparently made his exit. According to the access log, the gate remained open, and soon after, the event staff began to arrive in preparation for the party.

The security system at the Gilded Gate has revealed a continuous twelve-hour loop of the camera feed, beginning with the day before the rental started. The loop ended, and the regular live feed resumed moments before the shooting commenced.

The only person seen on the feed during that period was a mechanic who was there to service the fountain in the backyard. He never entered the house and has already been cleared of any involvement. Cheetah’s best guess is that the unsub hacked into the system before physically reaching the property.

The only other major piece to this is the security company that was contracted for the evening. ASAC Akers is handling that angle himself, but from what I hear, he is coming short on that as well.

So far, eight people have responded to the media’s calls to notify the Bureau if they received an invitation to the party but failed to attend. We’re not going to identify every single person that didn’t attend. It just isn’t possible. But having a slightly broader list gives us that much more data to work with.

I have no idea why our guy did this, or who he is. But his selection of the guests he invited offers a narrow window into his mind. No one was sent an invitation that he did not personally want there. One thing is obvious—he has something against people who have done well in life.

Needing a mental break, I head off to the break room and pour some more coffee. It’s warm, so I slide it into the microwave. While I wait, I look over at the flowers Mckayla’s nurse gave me. They’re still healthy and vibrant and really brighten up this dingy little room.

Mckayla texted me this morning and said she was feeling much better after being discharged and spending last night in her own bed. Despite everything, she seemed most concerned about me since the success of this case lies on my shoulders.

The microwave dings. I pull out my coffee and return to my desk, where I spread out the list of the invitees’ names and comb through them again, looking for any irregularities against the larger whole. Then I turn to the eight names recently added to the list.

“Huh,” I say, and spin in my chair. “Check this out.”

Skylar slides her headphones onto her neck and takes a sip of her coffee. “Whatcha got?”

“I’m looking over the names of everyone who was invited to the party. All of them were definitely on the upper echelons of the social ladder.”

“Right. We already knew that, didn’t we?”

“Yes, which is why this is so interesting. Among the responses of the non-attendees, there is a state representative from Ohio, a Hollywood director—even a violinist with the Baltimore Orchestra. But there is one name in particular that stands out. Carmela Reynolds. She’s a journalist and has been since she graduated with her master’s ten years ago. She doesn’t come from money.” I click around on my screen. “She had student loans, and it looks like she lives in an ordinary apartment. Her registered vehicle is a Nissan Maxima.”

“Huh. And she’s the only ‘normal’ person on the list?”

“Everyone else has money or status. I don’t know about you, but that’s a glaring anomaly in my book.”

“Indeed.”

“What are you guys up to?”

“Ugh, not now,” Skylar groans. “What do you need, Daryl?”

He leans over the partition closest to her. A lollipop stick hangs out of the corner of his mouth. “You getting some work done?”

“We were, yes. But now I’m not because I’m talking to you. Do you actually need something?”

He grabs the stick and sucks loudly on the candy. The loud slurping sound makes my skin crawl. “I heard it was Daniel Lawrence who catered the party at the mansion the other night,” he says.

Skylar deadpans him. “Yeah. So?”

“So, Daniel is my cousin.”

Slowly, Skylar and I swivel in our chairs and make eye contact. Then we burst into laughter until we’re both doubled over.

“What?” Daryl scowls. “What is with you two?”

“It makes…so much sense now,” Skylar says through her laughter. “So much sense.”

“Lawrence didn’t say anything about having a cousin at the Bureau,” I tell him.

He waves off the comment. “We haven’t spoken in years. He tends to be a bit of a whiner when things don’t go his way.”

“You don’t say.”

“Besides, it’s your case. I’m not going to interfere with your work.”

“Daryl, your very existence in this world interferes with our work,” Skylar quips.

His nostrils flare. “That’s rude, Agent Mills. Maybe you should consider getting some lessons in being nice.”

A smirk crosses her lips. “You and your cousin should consider getting on testosterone therapy. Just for starters.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you both need to grow a pair.”

“All right,” I say, still chuckling. “Let’s drop it down a notch.”

Daryl looks at me as if I’m the only person to have stood up for him since middle school. “Yes, thank you. Let’s do that.”

“Oh, but let’s not allow for any confusion,” I tell him. “I’m totally with her. You should probably have your T-levels checked. At least dial down the doughnuts.”

He curses us under his breath and storms away. Skylar released a contented sigh. “I needed that so much. His entire family must have crawled out of the wrong end of the genetic pool.”

That was probably the harshest I’ve been on Daryl, and a small part of me feels like I should have taken it a little easier. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but I make a mental note to try a little harder to be nice to him.

Kemper appears from around the corner wearing a grave expression. “Hey, you two. I just got a call from APD. They responded to a disturbance at a house in Beverwyck. When they arrived, they found a woman had been murdered. They called us because a black whistle was found at the scene.”

Skylar and I rise from our chairs in tandem. “What is the victim’s name?” I ask.

“Carmela Reynolds.”

Chapter Thirteen

Beverwyck District

Albany, NY

“The scene has already been photographed,” an APD officer says. “We’ve been waiting for you to arrive before we remove everything.”

“Go ahead,” I tell him.

Skylar and I take a couple of steps back while two crime scene techs take over. Carmela Reynolds was murdered by multiple newspaper pages being wrapped around her face, kept in place by plastic wrap that stops at her neck. Her body sits in a wooden chair perched beside the kitchen table, her hands and feet zip-tied to it.

The plastic wrap comes off, and the pages are slowly peeled away. Her face is finally revealed to show another ball of newsprint stuffed into her mouth. Her curly black hair is matted to her cheeks. In her lap lies a black whistle.

Skylar crosses her arms over her chest and strokes her chin. “You don’t think he’s going to target everyone who didn’t make it to the party, do you? Was the party just the start of killing everyone he invited?”

“I wish I knew. But he singled her out specifically. Why?”

“She was a journalist. Maybe she blew the whistle on someone? It could be that one of her stories exposed something.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t explain the other murders and why a whistle was left behind there. None of our analysts have been able to connect them. One was an attorney, another was a VP of a transportation company. That has nothing to do with journalism.”

“So why target Carmela? Like you noted at the office, she isn’t wealthy. Something about her made him stand out to him.”

“She’s the fly in the ointment, that’s for certain.” I move around a tech and observe the body from another angle. “The shootings at the party felt malicious. This one, though, feels angry.”

“So it was personal,” Skylar notes.

“Sure looks like it.”

“Make sure to photograph both sides of newspaper pages,” she tells a tech. “They could have been purposefully selected by the killer. We’ll need to examine them.”

What makes this even more interesting is that Carmela lives in Boston. Why she was here in this house is still unclear. A Ginger Birden is the homeowner, so we’re thinking Carmela was in town visiting a friend. A packed suitcase with female clothing in it was located in one of the bedrooms, but there was no sign of a phone or laptop belonging to Carmela.

“The neighbor who called it in is waiting outside,” the officer says, “if you want to speak with him.”

I nod, and we follow him out the front door and off the front walkway. The neighbor stands at the edge of his yard where the tape line has been set up. He’s a thin wisp of a man. His corn silk hair is white, and his worried eyes are framed behind thick lenses. After introductions are made, I ask him to relay what it was that prompted him to call the authorities.

“Who was that in the house?” he asks in an anxious tone. “It wasn’t Ginger, was it? Her car isn’t parked in the driveway, and that’s usually where she parks it. The cops won’t tell me anything.”

“It isn’t Ginger,” I tell him. “Thank you for being an attentive neighbor and calling it in. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Of course. I was in my front office, and I heard an unusual noise. You can see that I have a hearing aid, but it works just fine. I got up out of my chair and stepped onto the front porch. That’s when I was certain that someone was screaming. As you can see, the houses aren’t very far apart, but by the time I got to her front door, it had stopped. I knocked, of course, and called out several times, but I never got an answer. The curtains are drawn, so I couldn’t see anything.”

“How long ago did you hear the screams?”

He glances at his watch. “Nearly an hour ago.”

“Have you seen anyone else here with Ginger over the last few days?” I ask. “A houseguest, perhaps?”

“No. I keep a pretty good eye out, but I don’t catch everything, of course.”

“Have you spoken with any other neighbors? Did they hear anything?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve talked with three of them so far. No one saw or heard anything. The rest are still at work, so I don’t think anyone else has been home.”

He lifts his chin and points over my shoulder. “There’s Ginger right now.” He lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad she’s all right.”

We thank him for his time and start back across the grass. Ginger Birden is emerging from her car, which she had to park down the street. Once she arrives at the tape line, I whistle to the officer and wave her in.

Ginger has shoulder-length auburn hair and green eyes, which are two saucers of fear as she approaches. “What is this? What’s going on?”

“Ms. Birden, we’re with the FBI. Your neighbor called in a disturbance inside your house.”

“A disturbance? What are you talking about? My friend—Carmela—she isn’t in there, is she? Did I get robbed?”

“No,” I say gently. “You were not robbed. Yes, Carmela was in the house.”

“Is she okay? Tell me she’s all right.” Her eyes are pleading, her frantic voice at a high pitch.

Solemnly, I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Carmela is dead.”

“No!” Her hands clap down over her mouth. “How?”

“I can’t say much at this time, except that it doesn’t appear to have been an accident.”

“Not an accident?” Her face contorts into a mask of agony and confusion. “You’re telling me that someone wanted to murder her? There’s no way! I need to see her,” she blurts out. “I need to see her.”

I put a hand out to stop her. “We’re still processing the scene.”

“But it’s my house!”

“Yes, but now it’s also a crime scene. As soon as we’re done, we’ll let you in to get any personal items you need. It will be a few days before we can turn the house over to you again.”

“A few days?” Her hands go to the sides of her head, and she paces in circles, half sobbing, half muttering to herself. Skylar and I stand back and give her a few minutes to process the news. Soon enough, she comes back over.

“This has to do with that party, doesn’t it?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The news said the whole thing was a setup. What are they doing now, going around killing everyone who didn’t attend?”

“We don’t know yet,” I admit. “Carmela lived in Boston, is that right? What was she doing here?”

“She was coming out here to go to the party, so I told her to stay with me. She ended up getting food poisoning or something and was sick the night of the party. She was so bummed that she didn’t get to go. Until the news broke of the shooting. It really bothered her that she had almost gone.”

“How long have you known her?” Skylar asks.

“We met in college and have been friends ever since. We still make time to see each other two or three times a year.”

“She was a journalist for the Boston Globe, correct? Did she mention any stories she was working on?”

Ginger pinches the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe we’re talking about her in the past tense. This is such a nightmare.” She wipes at her eyes. “Stories… No, she didn’t mention anything specific. Other than the shooting itself. I overheard her speaking with her boss about doing a piece for that, but I didn’t ask about it.”

“We were unable to locate her phone in the house. Being that she was a journalist, I would have expected to have found a computer as well. Do you know where they might be?”

“Due to the nature of her work, Carmela was never without her phone. Not ever. And she always kept her laptop close by. If she wasn’t using it, then it was in her leather satchel.”

“A gray satchel?” I ask.

“Yes.”

A leather satchel was sitting on the kitchen counter. Unfortunately, there was no laptop in it. Once again, we have a murder scene with no obvious clues left behind.

Once we finish questioning Ginger, Skylar and I split up and case the neighborhood. There are only two doorbell cameras on the street. Both of the owners were home and allowed us to review the most recent footage on their phones. The cyber team will have to confirm that with a review of their own.

The APD officers who responded to the scene found no signs of a break-in, so we can’t even land on a conclusive means as to how the unsub got into the house. With this new development, we’ll need to go back to the drawing board and attempt to sketch an outline of our killer’s profile. With any luck, we’ll get back some DNA or fingerprints from Ginger’s house that can point us in the right direction.

But knowing how thorough our unsub has been, I’m not feeling all that lucky at the moment.

Chapter Fourteen

Frothy Bean Coffee

Albany, NY

As it turns out, luck did decide to smile on me. For the moment, at least.

I’m sitting in my go-to coffee shop across from Carmela Reynolds’s boss. Rose Porter is a brunette in her mid-fifties and wears a white button-down blouse and dark slacks. Full, shiny black curls cascade off her shoulders, and cat eye frames give the finishing touch to a commanding air of competence.

After Skylar and I left Carmela’s crime scene, I called Rose to learn what stories Carmela might have been working on. Rose had just landed at the Albany airport, having come from Boston to personally help Carmela put the finishing touches on a piece the Globe was going to run on the mansion shooting.

When she learned from me that her reporter was dead, she accepted the invitation for an interview, provided we spoke at a place with good coffee and, in her words, “not some stuffy interview room in a government building.”

So, by a fortunate stroke of luck, I don’t have to fly to Boston for this conversation, and Rose gets to enjoy some pretty amazing coffee.

As a managing editor of the Boston Globe, Rose will have more experience in her little finger than I’ll probably ever have. She is one of the people who decide which stories the paper will run. That fact alone tells me something about her character. It means she has no problem ruffling feathers. Reporting the news with integrity means that you’re willing to find and speak the truth, no matter who you’re in danger of upsetting. You don’t get to her level by worrying what people think of you.

You have to be immune to being swayed by people of influence and stick with a story if you really believe in it, even at the risk of upsetting your superiors. In the few minutes that I’ve had with her, Rose strikes me as that kind of person. She seems to have a no-BS approach to life, though I can see that she’s personally affected by learning of the murder of one of her reporters.

I’ve chosen a spot at the very back of the shop so our conversation can’t be overheard. Even with the constant sound of conversational chatter, milk steamers, and soft jazz, this isn’t a conversation that anyone needs to be privy to in any way.

“Carmela worked at the Globe for ten years,” I say now. “How long had she been in her current position?”

“Three years,” Rose replies. “She started as a social media specialist, then an assistant comms coordinator. After moving into copywriting and proving her mettle in other areas, she finally got an open door to slip into an investigative reporting role. This last year, especially, she put out some good stuff. The stories were strong, and her copy was tight.”

“Speaking of her stories, I wondering if⁠—”

“You want to know if she was poking her nose in the wrong place and if that’s why she was killed,” Rose interrupts. “I’m asking the same question. Nothing comes to mind.”

“But your reporters don’t share every idea they have or every story they’re working on, do they?”

She takes a sip of her coffee and carefully returns it to its porcelain saucer. “Not every one, no. But if it’s getting any traction in their mind, if they start to feel it or really believe in a potential story, they’ll run it by me. I’m one of the gatekeepers as to what makes it in the paper. A reporter isn’t going to spend ten hours a week for two months investigating, say, killer bees in the suburbs, if they aren’t pretty sure they can convince me to run it.”

“Ginger Birden, Carmela’s friend, told me that Carmela had seemed bothered by something even before the shooting. Like she was preoccupied. Had you noticed anything like that?”

“She has been on the quiet side lately. Others around the office noticed it as well. Everyone has a personal life, and I don’t see it as my business to pry. It didn’t appear to be interfering with her work, so I didn’t ask her about it.”

“What was Carmela currently working on?” I ask her.

Rose picks up her phone and thumbs the screen. “Let’s see…the growing trend of homelessness among veterans, healthcare insurance fraud, and misspent infrastructure budgets in poorer counties.” She sets her phone down. “We recently published a piece she wrote detailing the lack of nutrition in school lunches. It was good. But nothing she’s written lately has been too acerbic. Not by my standards.”

“Nothing that would have upset or concerned someone enough to murder her?” I press.

“Again, you never know where an investigation might lead, but nothing she had written or was planning to write presents any red flags to me. Not that would get her killed.” Rose sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe she’s gone. The office is going to take this hard. Everyone loved Carmela.” When Rose looks back up, her eyes are moist. “How was she killed?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that right now, with it being a part of an ongoing investigation.”

The older woman blinks. “You’re not going to tell me how she was killed, Agent Hunt? I’m giving you my time—the least you can do is tell me how one of my staff members was murdered.”

I nod. “Then I want this off the record for now.”

“That’s not really how it works.” Her brows knit into a frown.

“Then I suppose we’re at an impasse.” I haven’t told Rose about Carmela’s murder connecting back to the mansion shooting via the whistle. That’s not a detail I want the public to know about just yet. Some details need to stay out of sight until I can begin to understand just what we’re dealing with.

We stare each other down for several long moments. Finally, I move to break the tension. “Look, Ms. Porter. You seem like you’re used to getting your way. I’m sure that’s what makes you good at your job. But orchestrating and protecting the flow of critical information is what makes me good at mine. The person who hid an assault rifle at the mansion planned that entire event knowing full well that it would make national news. They wanted the attention. Somehow, Carmela’s death is connected. Do you really want to know how she was killed just so you can publish it in your paper and give her killer the attention he wants, or do you want to take a quieter approach and let me find him?”

She studies me for a while, then the ghost of a smile appears on her lips. “I like you. You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.” She nods. “Okay, I’ll run the story of her murder with the minimal facts that I have. But I want your word that when you do release the details of what happened in that house, I’m the first call you make.”

“Deal,” I agree, and finish my last bit of coffee. “Did Carmela know why she had been invited to the party at the Gilded Gate? She was the only journalist invited.”

Rose leans back and crosses her legs beneath the small table. “We were both surprised that she was invited. At the time, no one really knew what the event was about, just that it was being hosted by a member of the Saudi royal family. Naturally, she assumed she was being invited as a member of the media and was prepared to attend on a professional level. Now that we’re on this side of things, and you’re telling me she was the only journalist invited, it doesn’t add up.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “Especially now that she was targeted after the party. You were coming to Albany to help her write a piece on the shooting?”

“Yes. Her invitation put the Globe in a unique position to cover the event, even if she wasn’t able to attend. She called and said she was feeling better this morning, so I booked a flight here. We planned on getting it into tomorrow’s paper. Did you recover her belongings?”

“Her phone and laptop appear to have been taken.”

Rose groans. “I kept trying to get her to back up her work on the company’s cloud server. It’s actually company policy but not strictly enforced. If her computer is gone, then we won’t have any of her notes on anything she was preparing.

I understand her frustration. Rose wants the truth to be known and told. Not having access to Carmela’s professional thoughts and meanderings in the time leading up to her murder complicates things. In that sense, Rose and I are in the same boat. Without those details, we’re both cuffed. From my perspective in tracking down her killer, there was a reason her electronic devices were taken.

“I want to go back to Carmela’s prior article,” I tell Rose. “I know you said there was nothing she was working on that raised any red flags, but had she broken a big story recently? Maybe something that got her above the fold of the paper?”

Rose nods. Her phone buzzes with a text, which she replies to. “Sorry, I still have a newsroom to run.”

“No problem.”

“Let’s see, anything above the fold?” she repeats. “Yes, Carmela had one big story. Earlier this year, she wrote one hell of a piece exposing corporate fraud. A manufacturing company based out of Boston was misreporting supply costs, which helped to prop up their stock price. She spent a long time on it, finding informants, wooing sources. Her careful reporting exposed the whole thing.”

“Is there a chance her murder could be connected to that?” I ask.

“There is always a chance of anything, Agent Hunt. If I’ve learned anything in this job, it’s that. But with this particular story, I would seriously doubt it. Carmela already turned all her evidence over to the prosecuting attorney. She’s not a trial reporter, so once the story broke, she moved on to other topics of interest. Could it be someone from the company getting revenge? Maybe, but it hasn’t even gone to trial yet. I’ve reported the news in Boston for nearly four decades. I’ve seen revenge killings before. This one doesn’t smell like one.”

“Okay, I appreciate you being honest with me.” We stand up, and she shoulders her bag.

“There is a quantitative difference between what you do, Agent Hunt, and what we do. But qualitatively, we do the same job. We look for facts, and when we can’t find them, we’ll risk life and limb to get them. You should know that I’m not going to stand idly by in the aftermath of one of my journalists being murdered. Both my team and I will be working to find who killed her, and why.” I open my mouth to answer, but she lifts a hand to stop me. “I’m a professional, Agent Hunt. I have no intention of stepping on your toes or getting in your way. You have a badge for a reason, and I, for one, plan on respecting that.”

Through the conversation, I’ve been intrigued and surprised by her level of professionalism. There is no doubt that she is brimming with emotions right now. Someone in her charge was just brutally murdered, and she’ll have to return to Boston and lead her team through their own responses to this tragedy.

I extend a hand, and we shake. “Thank you for your time.”

She nods, and I can see resolution stand hard in her eyes. “Find out who killed my reporter, Agent Hunt. Otherwise, my team might beat you to it.”

Chapter Fifteen

U.S. Route 7

Berkshire County, Massachusetts

“Looks like it’s right up here, around that next bend,” Skylar says. “Might want to slow down.”

It’s been two days since Carmela’s murder. We’ve spent the intervening time interviewing everyone in her social circle. I’ve spent hours on the phone talking with family members, work colleagues, and friends. No one was able to provide any useful information that might steer us in the right direction. Many of them did agree with Rose and Ginger, saying that Carmela had been unusually preoccupied and reserved over the last few weeks, though Carmela wouldn’t give any insight into what was bothering her.

After submitting a warrant to her cell phone provider, they were quick to release her phone records to us. I had Cheetah review her calls and texts, looking for anything unusual while I perused her geodata. In the meantime, agents from our Boston Field Office searched Carmela’s house, as well as her desk and locker at the Globe. Last night, they scanned and emailed me what little they found.

One item did stand out. Carmela had scratched an address on a notepad and circled it several times. According to her phone’s geodata, she visited the location two weeks ago. Not that big of a deal except that it corresponded to something I learned in one of the interviews I conducted yesterday.

One of Carmela’s fellow journalists said that a couple of weeks ago Carmela had traveled from Boston to western Massachusetts to look into a possible story. It was when she returned that she became pensive and more withdrawn. Apparently, she was in the early stages of her research and didn’t bother to tell Rose about what kind of story it might produce.

Had she stumbled onto a potential story that got her killed? Just what had she discovered that would make someone want to see her dead? Right now, the answers to those questions are eluding me, but I intend to do everything I can to find them.

Back at the office, I looked up the location’s satellite imagery and found nothing but a metal-roofed building, standing far back on a densely wooded property. In fact, that entire part of the state is rural and sparsely developed. The location isn’t much to go on, but when you’re desperate for answers, any lead is a good lead.

Now, as I round a bend overshadowed by tall trees, I ease down on the brakes and scan the edge of the road. Skylar points out the window. “There it is. See it?”

On the right side of the road is a four-inch square post that sticks out of the ground about four feet. It’s old and weathered, and the address is painted down the front in faded white numbers. The entrance to the drive is choked with weeds, but I pull in anyway and am greeted by a rusted chain link fence with two lines of rusted barbed wire running across the top. On the other side is nothing but tall trees towering over us. There is literally nowhere to go.

“What the heck?” Skylar gripes. “Is this right?”

I twist my lips as I stare at the fence through the windshield. The satellite imagery showed dense vegetation on this side of the property. I figured there would at least be a way in. “Let’s check it out.”

We step out of the car and examine the area. We’re at the front of what used to be a driveway. On the other side of the fence, I can still see a vague outline of where the drive once continued into the property, now choked with tall weeds and even a few saplings.

The fence follows the county road for at least fifty yards. It finally stops about fifteen yards from where we are and runs off into the woods, marking out the property line.

Skylar moves to the front of the post and reads the number off. “Huh, this is the right place. Why would someone completely fence off their property and not even allow for a way in? It’s weird.”

I see a mailbox farther down the road, past where the fence ends, and start for it. “Let’s go talk to the neighbor. Maybe they can clue us in.”

A truck screams by as we start walking along the verge and is soon followed by another vehicle. The wind created by their high speeds whips the grass around our legs and stirs our hair.

The adjacent property is well-cared for. A simple ranch-style house sits in the middle of a large, grassy yard. A concrete drive leads up to the front, where flower beds sit brightly beneath the windows. A wind chime hangs from a corner eave. Oaks and hickories punctuate the front yard, and far behind the house, the forest resumes again.

A man is standing just inside the open garage attending to a riding lawn mower. He wears pale blue overalls, a white T-shirt, and a trucker hat. He’s holding up a gas can and filling up the tank. His wide, open face greets us with suspicion.

Crossing the yard, I lift a hand in greeting.

He sets down the gas can and fixes us with a wary eye. “Help you?”

I nod. “I’m wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the property next door.”

He huffs, then removes his hat, wipes his brow, and sticks the hat back on. “You with that woman who was out here a couple weeks back?”

Skylar and I share a glance. “No, sir.” I flash my badge and ask for his name. “We’re actually with the FBI.”

“Well, hell. First a reporter and now the FBI? What’s going on? They burying dead bodies over there, or what? I’m Charles, by the way.”

“Can you tell us what you know about the property?”

“I can tell you that it has trees and a fence and a building. Had a building. That’s about it. Why don’t you just call the owner and ask him?”

Back at the office, I did look up the property records. But it’s in the name of a trust, and the lawyer who serves as the trustee has yet to respond to my request for a call back. “We have tried that,” I tell him. “Have you lived here a while?”

“Twenty-three years. Got tired of city life and being gone from the kids all the time with my job. So we bought this place and got out of Boston.”

“Has that fence behind us been there since you moved in?”

He looks over my shoulder at it. “Yeah, I suppose it has.”

“And have you ever met the owner?”

He shakes his head. “Never have. Don’t know who owns it. What’s with all the sudden interest in it?”

“To be honest? We’re not sure.”

He huffs and mutters to himself, “FBI comes out and they don’t even know why. No wonder this country is in the toilet.”

I managed to suppress a chuckle. From his perspective, I can see how this looks.

“The reporter that you said came out here. Did you catch her name?” Skylar asks.

“Camille, Carella…something like that.”

“Carmela?”

“That sounds right. She was with the Globe, if I recall.”

“Yes, sir. Do you mind if we ask what you spoke about?”

The gas can is sitting at his feet. He picks it up and resumes pouring gasoline into the mower. “She said she was curious about what was on the land and, like you, couldn’t find a way onto the property.” A truck drives by and honks, prompting him to raise a hand in greeting.

“And how do you get on it?” I ask. “We didn’t see a gate anywhere.”

He stops pouring and fastens the mower’s gas cap. “The access point is at the back of the property. Don’t know why they never put one up here. Must not have had a need for it until they added that structure last year. Not sure where the road leads or originates from. Probably Silthollow Road. It connects up to Route 8, a couple miles east of here.”

“Earlier, you referenced a building on it in past tense. Did something happen to the structure?” I ask.

Charles walks the gas can into the garage and sets it in the corner. He returns with his hat in one hand and a cloth in the other, which he uses to mop his brow. “It burned down last week.”

My brow furrows. “Burned down? What was the cause?”

“Wouldn’t know. I was out by the road early one morning making a fix to my mailbox. Then I look up to see a big plume of smoke rising into the sky. You can see the building from the back of my property. I hurried over to see it burning and no one around.”

“What did the fire chief conclude?”

That gets a short chuckle from him. “This far from anything, we only have a volunteer fire department. By the time they responded, the fire had mostly died down to embers. And they couldn’t find a way to get their trucks through, even if they cut the fence. Perry, he’s the chief, he was pissed. Said he was going to give the owner a piece of his mind.” Charles shrugs his big shoulders. “But now that I think about it, I don’t think he could track him down either.”

“You mentioned that you could see the building from the back of your property? Do mind if we cut through and go take a look?”

“Be my guest. Not too deep into the woods, the fence line turns into a flimsy welded wire fence—the chain link ends. That lot and mine are both large, about fifty acres a piece.” Charles lifts a hand and points behind his house. “About three hundred yards in, I’ve got a deer blind. I was out there replacing a few slats and heard voices. I never heard people out there before.”

“Did you check it out?” Skylar asks him.

“Check it out? Ain’t my property, ain’t my business.” He shrugs again. “But it was a few days before the fire. Whatever that building was, they either didn’t need it anymore and got rid of it the easiest way they knew how, or they were looking for some insurance money.”

“Charles, this has been very helpful. I appreciate your time. I think we will go back and have a look. You said there was an access road back there, right?”

“Yeah. It cuts past the very back of mine. I would go out there with you, but I have to get this yard cut before I head out to visit my mother at the nursing home. Just watch where you step. I found a copperhead out there last week.”

I see Skylar flinch out of the corner of my eye. “As in, a snake?” she asks.

A twinkle enters his eye. “Yes, a snake. You’ve got city written all over you.”

“Yes.” She says it with a mixture of pride and irritation. “Because there aren’t any snakes in the city.”

“Well, I relocated him into the woods across the street. He won’t bother you from over there.”

Her eyes bug out. “You didn’t kill it?”

He waves her off. “Course not. I don’t have little kids running around here anymore. Snakes are good for our ecosystem. He wasn’t hurting me, and I had no plans to hurt him. We just need to keep our distance from each other, is all.” Charles is wearing a large grin as he climbs onto the mower. “My mother’s gonna get a real kick out of hearing that I spoke with the FBI.”

Chapter Sixteen

U.S. Route 7

Berkshire County, Massachusetts

“Snakes,” Skylar mutters as we enter the woods behind Charles’s house. “I freaking hate snakes. And how are we even going to see if there is one in all this? I can barely see my feet through all this groundcover.”

“Settle down,” I laugh. “He said he relocated it.”

“Yeah. Okay, Darcy. Because you think it couldn’t cross the street again and come back? Maybe it likes it over here better.”

“Maybe it heard you were coming and wanted to show off its fangs.”

“This is not funny.”

I laugh as I push a reaching branch out of my way. “Au contraire, my dear.”

The woods back here are dense, and even with it being midday, it gets darker the farther in we go. High above, the trees’ branches interlock, forming a vivid green canopy. As Charles mentioned, the chain link eventually gives way to a wire fence that stands no higher than my chest. It too is rusty but still stands upright. The barbed wire is gone.

We cut around a sycamore and find the early makings of a path leading deeper in. “So what do you make of what he said about the property?” I ask Skylar.

“It’s weird. The whole investigation is weird. At this point, I don’t know what to make of anything.”

“Me neither.” As we keep trekking forward, I work to assimilate what we just learned into what we already know. “So Carmela came out here three weeks ago, and, like us, didn’t seem to have a clear idea what she was looking for. Or, at least, how to find it.”

“Then she goes back to Boston where both her boss and a coworker said she didn’t seem quite herself,” Skylar adds.

“And two weeks after that, whatever building was back here burned down.”

“Then a week after that, she was dead. Murdered. I don’t know about you, but I could sure go for some answers about right now.”

“Tell me about it.”

We continue for a long time. I’m starting to wonder just what we’re really looking for when Skylar stops and points across the fence line. “There,” she says. “I think there’s a clearing on the other side of those trees.”

I step up to the fence and peer out to where the sunlight pours into the woods. “I think you’re right.”

She looks at me. “So what do you want to do? We don’t exactly have a warrant. If we find anything, it won’t be admissible.”

A wicked grin curves across my lips. “If we find anything, I’ll get a warrant, trust me on that. I didn’t come all the way out here for nothing.”

“That’s my girl.” She looks morosely at the fence. “So how do we get over this thing? It looks flimsy enough to push down a little but strong enough to make me fall on my ass if I try.”

I step up and lean my body into it, checking the resistance. The fence is kept erect by metal stakes, also rusted, but which are surprisingly still sturdy, even with all the intervening years since they were installed. “I don’t think we’re pushing this down, even a little,” I tell her, looking down the fence line. “But let’s try this.” I move down to where a gray birch butts up against the wire. “We can use this as a guide.”

“Good idea. You go first.” She runs a finger along the rusty wire. “I can’t remember if I’m up to date on my tetanus shot or not.”

Reaching up, I grab onto a tree limb with one hand and Skylar’s extended hand with the other. Then I slip the toe of my boot into one of the lower fence squares and swing my leg over. “Don’t you let go.” On the other side of the fence, I find a toehold with my other foot and put my weight into it, then swing my free leg over and plant it on the ground slightly behind me. The backward momentum forces me to release my grip on the branch, but Skylar steadies me and I finally get both feet safely on the ground.

“See?” I say. “Piece of cake.”

“I swear, if I twist an ankle,” she gripes. “And I have that cycling event coming up.”

I deadpan her. “If you keep this up, I’m taking your badge and throwing it over. Come on already. I’ve seen you tackle men to the ground who are literally part of the Russian mafia. And you’re going to whine about a little fence?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.” Reaching for the tree branch, she follows my previous movement, gets a leg over, and balances precariously over the center. When her feet start to wobble on the flimsy wire, she curses and nearly topples back over to the other side.

But I keep hold of her hand and finally bring her over with me. “Look at you,” I tease. “Aren’t you glad you wore your big girl pants today?”

“Shut it.” She looks off toward the clearing. “Come on.”

We push through a dense patch of undergrowth and circumvent a thick stand of trees before finally stepping out into a large, open area. It’s probably fifty yards square. Any ground cover has been cleared away. A large pile of ash lies before us. In the rubble is the mangled sheet metal of what had once been the roof. I look to the east and see a dirt drive that leads away from the clearing.

“Let’s check out this road first,” I tell Skylar. “I don’t understand why they don’t use the old one over where we parked.”

We walk past the pile of burned remains and start down the narrow road. It leads back into a covering of trees and snakes around to the back perimeter of Charles’s property, which is marked by an old split rail fence. I stop and examine tread marks in the dirt.

“These were made by wide tires,” I say. “Maybe trucks?”

Skylar squats down and examines the tracks, where the drive is worn clean on either side of a line of grass. “Whatever used to come through here, it was often enough to wear the grass away. There was a lot of traffic coming and going.” She stands back up. “The question is, what was that building for?”

We start back to the blackened pile of debris and slowly make our way around it. Pieces of half-burned timber stick out at odd angles, and charred nails and screws litter the ground at my feet. As far as I can tell, there is nothing to indicate that the structure had electricity. I don’t see any wiring or electrical boxes or what might resemble a breaker box. All of it could be buried under the rubble, but it’s worth noting.

“What do you think?” Skylar asks.

“I wish I knew. This structure was used for something. From what I saw in the satellite photo and this footprint of rubble, it wasn’t small.”

“But it wasn’t built very sturdily either,” she says, and toes a piece of melted plastic. “I’m mostly seeing two-by-fours and plywood. And some of this plastic. There’s not even a basic skeleton left standing. Nothing made out of concrete or cinder blocks.”

“Why burn it down?” I muse out loud. “Were they hiding evidence?”

“Maybe. Charles said that Carmela came out here before it burned. Whatever was here seems to have initiated her pensiveness.”

“Well, it’s all gone now,” I sigh.

“If we can get a warrant, then we can get forensics out here to test this material. What’s that?”

I turn and follow her gaze. “What?”

“Over there. Something’s propped up on that pile.”

I tent a hand over my eyes. “Can’t tell. Looks like a piece of wood?

“Yeah, but it looks orange. I’m going to have a look.”

I pop my hands on my hips and put my head on a swivel. “What did you see out here that bothered you, Carmela? What am I supposed to be seeing right now?”

“Darcy. Come here.” Skylar’s grave tone gives me pause.

“What is it?” She doesn’t answer, just crosses her arms over her chest and frowns deeply at whatever she’s looking at.

I start toward her. She’s standing in front of a half-burned board. The top section has been sprayed with bright orange paint.

“What is it?” I ask her.

She gives a quick jut of her chin. “Right there. On the side.”

I blink hard, not believing my eyes. Hanging on a nail by a thin string is a black whistle.

Chapter Seventeen

Home of Darcy Hunt

Avondale Heights Neighborhood

Albany, NY

Abead of sweat trickles down my temple as I turn off the lawn mower and push it into the back shed. Not only is it more humid than normal, but the heat index is also higher than average for a mid-summer day. Every inch of my skin glistens with sweat, and my hair is trapping the heat on my scalp.

More than once, I’ve thought about hiring someone to take care of my yard. That would give me one less thing to worry about. But in the end, I always dismiss the idea. A part of me actually likes putting in the work.

On any given day of the week, a large portion of my time is spent at my desk, filling out paperwork, handling emails, and submitting case reports. I’ve said more than once that they don’t put any of that on the brochure. It’s definitely the least glamorous part of the job and something no one ever thinks about when they picture an FBI agent.

So getting out and pushing the mower across the grass a couple of times a month is good for me. It gets my heart rate up and helps me clear my mind. Plus, I like being able to look over a trimmed yard and enjoy a sense of satisfaction at a job well done.

With the mower put away, I lock up the shed and go inside through the back door. I take down a glass of cold water at the kitchen sink while relishing the coolness of the air conditioning on my skin. Then I head off to take a shower, keeping the water cold and enjoying the sensation of it whisking the heat off my skin.

After drying off and changing into a comfortable pair of shorts and a T-shirt, I heat up what’s left of the spaghetti I made last night and sit down at the kitchen table to eat. Living alone certainly has its advantages and disadvantages. On the negative side, it can get a little lonely at times. More than once, I’ve considered getting a roommate. The extra cash from the rental fee would be nice, as would having someone around to chat with from time to time.

But I’ve concluded that the positives far outweigh the negatives. I actually enjoy the solitude. At least, most days I do. Working for the Bureau can be mentally taxing to the extreme. Coming home to a quiet house and enjoying a silent stretch of hours goes a long way in helping me clear my mind.

Now, as I bite down on another forkful of noodles, my eyes drift over to the front of the refrigerator, where a piece of paper is held in place by a magnet. It’s yet another testament to the ghastly events of my past clawing their way back into my present.

Last month, I came home to find the letter taped to my doorknob. By now, I’ve read its contents at least a hundred times. Each and every letter is burned into my memory.

Dearest Darcy,

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? We should get together sometime, talk like old times. Or perhaps not.

I’m writing to let you know that I have been busy making big plans, and they are coming your way. Now that my dear old dad is dead, I have so many new ideas. So many incredible possibilities lie at my fingertips.

I love chaos. And soon, you will too.

Toby Parsons

The first time I read the letter, I nearly threw up. For well over a year, Parsons has formed a distant but omnipresent backdrop to my life. The man is the very definition of a psychopath. He has no conscience whatsoever and takes a kind of sickly pleasure in harming others.

When Parsons was a young boy, Marvin Hess murdered his parents and took the boy for his own. For over two decades, while Hess played the part of a kind and loyal medical examiner in Miller’s Grove, he was busy raising a killer that could one day step into his shoes and take his place.

He got half of his wish. Parsons did grow up to become a cold-blooded killer. But he failed to latch onto the cultish religious element that compelled Hess’s own killing sprees. Parsons kills because he enjoys it, not because he is driven by any kind of higher principle or deluded sense of calling.

The last time I saw Parsons, I was standing in the middle of a country barn. Marvin Hess lay dead at my feet, and Parsons fled out the back after a gunshot from Skylar wounded him. Then he vanished into the night.

Ever since, I’ve known that he was out there, biding his time and planning his next move. This letter was him putting me on notice. And not just me but the organization that I represent. Because of the attacks on Albany last year that left so many dead and so many wounded, Parsons is near the top of the Bureau’s Most Wanted list. He’s letting the FBI know that he is about to become active again. His quiet days of planning from inside the shadows are just about over.

I love chaos.

That is the line that still gives me chills.

Parsons is a master at creating disorder. For years, he lived in Albany, growing rich by playing the stock market and blending in as if he were just like everyone else.

Now, I can’t help but wonder what he might be planning. Parsons is brilliant. He’s always a step ahead and is a master at controlling what he wants people to know, and when. He never shows his cards unless he believes it to be in his best interest and unless he can predict our every move. Whatever he’s planning, part of me can’t help but wonder if I’ll even be alive at the end of it.

And because of that, I’m totally unable to think about recent revelations concerning my father. Not long ago, I was informed that he had actually worked for the CIA, that he had been murdered, and that it had been commissioned by someone deep in the Agency. Last month, I met with one of the men who have been entrenched in the scandal and tried to get some answers.

John McClane is one of the most competent and lethal operatives our country has ever produced. He’s been commissioned by some of the highest officials in our land to carry out executions against threats to our nation. But the more he has learned about the dark, political side of what he’s involved with, the more he has begun to doubt the righteousness of what he does.

He is out there somewhere trying to find answers for both of us. He knew my father—was trained by my father—but has come to believe that he is just a pawn in a geopolitical game that will toss him to the curb the moment he stops being their yes-man.

For now, I’ll keep waiting until he is able to pull back enough of the lies and find some semblance of the truth. I know that if McClane can stay alive, then the answers will come, so for the time being, I’m uncharacteristically happy to wait.

Finished with my dinner, I take my plate to the sink and rinse it off. I grab a bottle of beer and settle into a chair on the back porch. The sun is beginning to set, and the air is perfumed with the delicious scent of freshly cut grass.

I hope that one day I can enjoy this view with Lila. Speaking of roommates, I couldn’t think of a better one than my long-lost sister. Still though, I worry about her.

She isn’t the young girl who was ripped out of my arms all those years ago. Hess had so many years to poison her mind against reality, and against all that is right. She grew up sheltered and imprisoned in the carefully curated world that he kept her isolated in, so there is a fair chance she will have a great deal to learn about the outside world. Until now, her entire world was always seen through the tainted lens of Hess’s sinister and conspiratorial worldview.

Even so, I know she’s not fully bad. I know there is still good in her. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Last year, for the first time in almost two decades, I saw my sister. We were all grown up, and it was just her and me, standing face-to-face in an empty parking garage.

But instead of a joyful, tear-filled reunion, I was forced to relay the facts to her, all while she had a gun pointed straight at my face. Hess had planned all along for her to kill me and had prepared her for that very task. In his twisted mind, it would be right and proper for Lila to kill me and then for Parsons to kill Lila. Then he would murder Parsons, completing a cycle he had begun all those years ago.

But by some miracle, Lila let me talk. She listened as I hurried to explain who Hess—the man she called “Father”—was. A wicked man who had drawn her into his evil plans, of which she was only a disposable cog.

Slowly and miraculously, the light dawned in her eyes. She began to understand and, I think, remember who she really was. And who I was to her. At that moment, I was certain that I had saved her.

One of the very worst moments of my life was the instant Lila turned the gun on herself and pulled the trigger, shooting herself with the bullet that was meant for me.

Now, she continues to lie in a hospital bed, unaware of all that has transpired since, as Parsons is preparing for new schemes of chaos. We have to find him before he strikes. If he’s allowed to carry out his plans, then I fear I will end up in his crosshairs, and the sisterly reunion I long for will never happen.

Whatever the case, I’ll never stop believing that good will always win over evil in the end. Evil can have a good run, but its negative force can only unmake and undo. Only love is strong enough to build, to heal, and to unite two sisters who were so long ago torn apart.

Chapter Eighteen

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Okay,” I say, “Let’s run this back from the top.”

Skylar and I are in the Think Tank, a large, open room that has serious Silicon Valley vibes. Unlike the stuffy, functional feel of the floor’s main area with all of its bland cubicles and obnoxious fluorescent lighting, the Think Tank was designed by experts in the fields of psychology and neuroscience. The layout, furniture, color scheme, and ambience have all been curated to facilitate conversation and coordination, to allow the mind to relax as it works to unravel mental knots in what are often piles of case information. The soft lighting is easy on the eyes, and speakers in the corners play soft meditation music to assist in greater focus. Right now, we’re perched on ergonomic bar stools beside a high table in the back of the room.

This room is one of the things I missed about the AFO during the time it was shut down for repairs. It’s not that I couldn’t do my job without it, but I have found that it makes challenging mental work a little bit easier. Skylar and I have had more than one breakthrough in here.

And speaking of breakthroughs, we could totally use one right now. This case is getting twistier by the day. We’re feeling the pressure of so many people counting on us to get this right. Whoever it is that we’re chasing, they’ve remained several steps ahead of us the entire way. They’re methodical and strategic. On top of that, they’re skilled enough not to leave any trace behind. They haven’t been caught on camera, haven’t left any fingerprints, and have managed to leave us in the dark in regards to discerning any motive at all. By all accounts, they don’t exist at all.

It’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.

Skylar has written her notes across a glass dry-erase board. She stands back now and begins to orient her thoughts around them. “Okay, so we have a mass shooting event that leads to the deaths of four people and thirteen casualties.”

“Five deaths,” I correct her. “I got word right before we walked in here that someone succumbed to their wounds overnight.”

She grimaces and wipes the four away with her finger, replacing it with a five, then reduces the wounded number to twelve. “So five dead. Twelve wounded. Then, three days later, a reporter with the Boston Globe, who had been invited to the party but didn’t show, is murdered. Following her trail leads us to a secluded property where we discover another whistle, which apparently is our unsub’s signature of choice.”

“Good summary,” I tell her. “Let’s start with the signature.”

“Okay. Fire away.”

“We know that serial killers leave specific signatures at crime scenes to gain attention. They want the credit for the kill to go to them while remaining unknown.”

“Right, but?”

“But signatures are often left to send a message. They lead somewhere. I think that’s what’s happening now. He wants us to think.”

“So the whistles are breadcrumbs.”

“Exactly.”

“Good lord, he could have just written us a letter. People have been doing that for thousands of years. It works too. I just got a letter from my electric company, telling me that I forgot to pay them last month. A simple letter, see? And no one had to die.”

I laugh. “Right. You don’t have your electric on autopay?”

“Canceled it before I moved. Haven’t gotten it set back up yet.”

“Ah. You might want to do that.” I scan down a page of my notes. “Let’s get back to the breadcrumbs idea. Finding a whistle on that property makes me think that he wants us to connect the three scenes. What Carmela found on that property matters. He wants us to know that.”

“But why kill her?” Skylar asks. “If he wants our attention on that property, why kill Carmela? She was a reporter. Whatever she saw, she was probably going to write about it. The truth would have come out through proper channels.”

I heave a sigh. “Getting inside someone’s head is ridiculously hard sometimes. Especially when they’re not talking.”

“Which is why we get paid the big bucks,” Skylar retorts, flipping back a page in her notepad. “I’ve combed through all of Carmela’s phone calls and texts. Nothing concerning or odd stands out. Whatever or whoever prompted her to go out to that property in Massachusetts doesn’t appear to have done so through standard channels. She could have deleted emails out of her trash, but that feels like a stretch on my end.”

“And you checked again with her family and friends?”

“Yep. They only confirmed what they told us initially. Other than that one coworker at the Globe, none of them knew anything about her going out to the western part of their state. Just that she started being pensive around the time that coincided with her return from that trip. Where are we at with the warrant?”

After returning from the Massachusetts property, I immediately put in for a warrant. I want a forensic team to search every nook and cranny of that ash heap and run any test they can to see if we can pinpoint what was out there before the fire. The warrant is still in process, and there is a chance we won’t get it based on a lack of evidence. Finding a whistle at the scene certainly helped, and in my affidavit, I connected it to the mansion shootings.

“Kemper is working on getting it pushed through,” I answer Skylar. “I think we’ll be able to get it. For the moment, we have to move on without it. Let’s move on to Winsome Event Catering. Anything else from there?”

“Yay. Daryl’s cousin,” Skylar huffs. “I had to go over there and talk with that bozo this morning. He never sent me the email for the party’s catering request. I made him forward it to me while I stood there and watched, under threat of obstruction charges.”

“At the rate he’s going, he’ll be out of business in six months. Let that be a small consolation.”

A wily grin forms on her lips. “Trust me, girl, it totally is. I’ve got Cheetah looking into the details of the email as we speak. Not super optimistic that we’ll get anything from it, but due diligence and all that.” She tugs a piece of paper from a folder and sets it in front of me. “And here is the sketch his secretary came up with for the guy who dropped off the check.”

I can feel her watching me as I examine the pencil-drawn image. “Skylar? Why am I looking at a sketch of Tom Cruise?”

She throws up her hands and laughs. “Right? That’s what I thought too!”

I give a rueful shake of my head. “The secretary thinks she remembers what the guy looked like who dropped off a check, and this is what she comes back with? Tom Cruise wearing a black ball cap?” I push the sketch back to her. “What a waste of resources.”

“I’m pinning this to the wall of my cubicle,” she grins. “There is no way I’m tossing this out.”

“Be my guest.”

We spend the next hour reviewing additional details and trying to make sense of so many discordant pieces. More people responded to our requests to notify us if they received a party invitation but didn’t attend. We comb through each name and dig into their lives in hopes that something will stand out. Once again though, we come up short.

“There seems to be no rhyme or reason,” I finally say in frustration. “I know there’s something here we should be seeing. I just don’t know what it might be. Carmela was probably not his last victim, but how are we supposed to identify his next one if we don’t even have a motive?”

She holds up a finger and shakes it in the air. “Wait a minute…wait a minute.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “What?”

Her eyes have a fresh, animated sparkle to them. “What if—what if the victims killed at the mansion shooting weren’t random?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if our unsub had certain targets in mind that night? The rifle had a camera mounted on it. He would have been able to see everyone who was in the room, all the potential victims. What if he waited until the maximum number of targets he wanted dead were within range?”

I tap the end of a marker on my chin. “That could actually make sense.”

“And Carmela didn’t end up going to the party.”

I wag the marker at her. “But she ended up dead anyway.”

“Our guy does have a thing against successful people who inhabit the higher echelons of society. So I don’t think we get rid of that. But what if he specifically singled out certain people and won’t stop until everyone on his list is dead?”

“That could fly,” I nod. “That just might fly.”

She dips her head in a mock bow. “Why, thank you.”

The frosted glass door to the Think Tank opens, and Brooks pops his head in. “There you are. Been looking for you two. Should have known you would be in here.”

“Brooks, what’s up?” I ask as he comes over.

“Cheng and I have been working on the list Kemper gave us of all the victims from the party. We found something you might want to look at. Check your email.”

Skylar is the only one who brought her laptop in here. She navigates to her inbox while I stand up and peer over her shoulder.

“Click on that attachment,” Brooks says. “It will open an Excel file.”

“Okay, what are we looking at?”

“Obviously, we’re trying to find patterns within all the details. And other than everyone being famous or prosperous, nothing else has emerged.”

“We were just talking about that,” I tell him.

He points to the screen. “In that column, you’ll see the list of casualties. Cheng had an idea that we organize them by jobs and income. Nothing stood out. But when we looked at their places of residence, something interesting emerged. Skylar, sort column D by location.”

She slides her finger across the trackpad. “Whoa. Half of the victims are from the Boston area.”

He nods satisfactorily. “Exactly. You can tab over on the spreadsheet and see a list of all the attendees. Almost a hundred of them. Only nine of the guests—less than ten percent—are from the Boston metro area, which makes the odds that so many of them were actual victims of the shooting look⁠—”

“Targeted,” I finish for him, and feel a shot of adrenaline course through me.

“Exactly,” he says. “Based on this, I’m not certain that all the casualties at that party were random targets. Especially when you consider that Carmela Reynolds was from Boston as well.”

I look over at Skylar and give her a knowing smile. “It looks like your theory isn’t a theory anymore.”

Chapter Nineteen

John Howard Trauma Center

Albany, NY

“Agent Hunt? Please, follow me.”

I step in behind the nurse and follow her out of the main atrium and down a long, wide corridor. Reaching the end, we turn and push through a set of double doors.

The trauma center is fairly new, and everything looks fresh and clean. Even a faint scent of new construction material lingers in the air. It’s where patients are brought who need serious medical treatment. Before now, I’ve never had a reason to visit, but it’s obvious that the staff are highly trained and highly competent in nursing people back to health.

The nurse stops in front of a closed door and turns to look at me. “I should let you know that Ms. Sparrow was informed yesterday that she won’t be able to walk again. The bullet that entered her spine paralyzed her from the waist down. The doctor is optimistic that through rigorous physical therapy, she might be able to regain minimal movement in her feet. That said, she isn’t doing well, emotionally speaking. Later today, an air transport will be moving her to a spinal care injury center in Philadelphia. I know you’re trying to help her by finding who did this, but please make your visit as short as possible.”

I nod. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

She opens the door and leads me into the room. Elana Sparrow is beautiful, with dark hair, strong cheekbones, and full lips.

“Ms. Sparrow?” the nurse says, and her eyes flutter open. “Ms. Sparrow, I have an agent with the FBI here. She has a few questions for you about the other night. Are you feeling up to speaking with her?” Elana looks me over and gives the nurse a nod. “Okay, good. I’ll be right outside in the hallway.” She leaves us to speak in private.

I introduce myself and pull up a chair beside the bed. “I hear they’re moving you to Philadelphia today,” I begin, trying to ease my way into the conversation.

Her nostrils flare, and she looks away. I can’t imagine how difficult this ordeal has been for her. In many ways, it will never be over. She’ll have to live with the effects of the attack for the rest of her life. With the shooting only a week behind us, I’m sure that she hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface of all that she is feeling inside.

“Do you know who did it?” Her words come out as a harsh whisper.

“Not yet,” I admit. “That’s why I’m here.”

She huffs angrily. “You think I have any answers? Are you that desperate, Agent Hunt? I went to a party. I got shot. What more can I tell you?” Her voice is dripping with anger now. I can’t really blame her for that.

“Elana, we’re making progress in the investigation, but we need to look at the data from every possible angle. I understand that even when we find the person who did this to you, it still won’t undo what was done. But the perpetrator needs to be brought to account. For what they did to you, for the others who were injured, and for those who were killed.”

It’s a long time before she speaks again, but I can see that my words have had their desired effect. Her face relaxes. A tear slips down her cheek.

“I was supposed to test for my black belt in karate next month,” she said, her voice dropping again. “Now they say I’ll never walk again.” She swallows and sniffs back more tears. “What do you want to know?”

“We’ve spent time analyzing the guests from the party. In the ratio of guests to casualties, there was a strong concentration of victims who are from Boston. Now, we have yet to find any personal connections between them, but the data does stand out. You’re from Boston, so I just wanted to have a chat.”

“That’s it?” she says in an incredulous tone. “Someone shot me, shot over a dozen of us, and all you have is that some of us live in the same city? My god.”

I understand her dismay at our lack of results. Part of her healing journey will be knowing who did this to her, and why. To hear that the most powerful domestic law enforcement agency in the county is coming up short has to be a source of great frustration and despair.

“We’re doing our best,” I assure her. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but these things take time. The person responsible for shooting you has gone to great lengths to keep their identity hidden.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before staring at the foot of her bed. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me to say. I’m thankful for all the work you’re putting in.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“So what is it you think I can help with?”

As Skylar and I went back through the names of all the victims, we discovered that Elana doesn’t have a lot of money herself. We missed that on the first round because she comes from money, though none of it belongs to her yet. Her father holds several medical patents, and she lives in a second house on the back of her father’s estate.

“Another reason your name popped up is because everyone else—” I pause to make sure I don’t offend her with my next words. “Well, everyone else who attended seemed to have fairly high net worths. That, or they were famous or well-known on some level.”

She nods. “And I’m just a no-name paper pusher inside the cog of a major corporation. I know.”

“That’s not what I⁠—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know what you mean. I felt the same way. When I got the invitation, I thought it was some kind of a joke. That or a mistake. And then I especially thought that after I showed up. I recognized a few people who I knew were much higher up in the food chain than me, and between the clothes and jewelry everyone was wearing, I felt completely out of place.”

“Did you attend alone?”

“Yes.” Elana pushes down on the mattress and tries to reposition herself into a more comfortable position. “I wanted my best friend to go with me, but she’s an introvert. An event like that was not her idea of a good time. I was only there for less than an hour. After a couple drinks at the bar, I was going to leave. I didn’t know anyone, and the prince hadn’t shown up yet. It was just too awkward.”

“You mentioned that you recognized a few of the guests?” I ask.

“Just some celebrities. No one that I knew personally.”

“Can I read you the list of the victims from Boston and see if you recognize any of their names?”

“Sure.”

I start down the list, hoping she’ll recognize one. But she remains silent as I keep going. It’s only when I get to the very last name that she looks up.

“Wait,” she says. “Say the last one again.”

“Jack Fisher.”

Her eyes brighten. “I know that one. He was there? I don’t remember seeing him.”

I check my notes. “Mr. Fisher was critically wounded by two rounds. He’s still in a coma. Do you know him?”

She shakes her head. “Not personally. He was part of my company’s in-house counsel. He left last year to join a private law firm on the other side of the city.

“And you work for Montlake Industries, correct?”

“Yes. I’m an accounting manager.” She falls silent again. “Why would someone want to shoot up a room full of people? We didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t know, Elana. I wish I did. I hope we can find the answer to that question very soon.”

I continue to question her for the next few minutes until the nurse comes back in. She stays in the room fidgeting with the machines and reviewing the chart. It’s obvious that she doesn’t want me to overexert her patient, so I stand up and return the chair to its original place against the wall, then place my card on the nightstand. “If you think of anything else, even the slightest detail that you think might help, call me anytime.”

“Thank you for coming by,” Elana says. “I’m sorry I was snappy with you earlier.” Tears well in her eyes again, and I’m once again reminded why the work that I do matters. “Please find them, Agent Hunt. Find them and make them pay.”

Chapter Twenty

Interstate 87

Albany, NY

Outside the passenger window of my car, the city slides slowly by. Trucks and cars shoot past in a hurry, while I cruise along in the center lane at a leisurely speed.

After speaking with Elana and leaving the trauma center, I decided not to go straight back to the AFO. Instead, I jumped on the highway and started for nowhere in particular. Driving has always helped me to clear my head. Maybe it’s the relative quiet or the passive action of performing a physical task that requires minimal focus. Whatever the reason, I have found that getting behind the wheel and aimlessly cruising along relaxes my body and my mind.

My heart aches for Elana. Her days of sparring on the mat and achieving a black belt are behind her, stolen by someone with no regard for human life. I could see that she has a tenacious spirit. She’ll come out on the other side of this, choosing to make the best of her new reality. But even choosing joy and a positive attitude won’t give her back the use of her legs. It won’t brush away the trauma of that fateful night at the Gilded Gate.

Unlike so many of our efforts thus far, my meeting with Elana wasn’t completely fruitless, and for that, I’m thankful. It yielded two people in Boston who worked at the same company. It might not amount to anything, but hearing that Jack Fisher used to be a lawyer at Montlake Industries is a connection point and won’t be something that I easily dismiss.

Montlake is a multinational corporation with their headquarters in Boston. I don’t know much about them other than that they deal in oil and gas. Skylar and I will need to circle back and see if we can find an additional connection between the company and our victims. It could be a coincidence, but I’m going to bet that it’s not.

Back at the trauma center, I nearly expressed to Elana my theory that she might have been targeted directly by the shooter, that he waited until she was one of several people on his list in the line of fire before he opened up. Since she has been through so much trauma this week, I didn’t need to scare her with that possibility and give her yet another reason to stay fearful.

A picture is just now beginning to emerge. It’s still fuzzy and in black and white, but there is something there. The more we connect the few dots there are, I have no doubt that the image will grow clearer and we’ll gain a sense of just what is really going on.

In the center console, my phone rings. I leave it there, not wanting to talk at the moment but change my mind before it rings out. A smile crosses my lips when I see the caller’s name on the screen.

“Well, look who it is!” I answer, still wearing the smile. “How in the world are you, Agent?”

Allie Bishop laughs on the other end. “I’m great, Darcy. How are you?”

“Loving this job and hating this job all at the same time,” I chuckle.

“You too?” she groans. “Ugh, I thought it was just me.”

“Yeah? How long have you had that badge now, a month? You’re too new to hate parts of the job yet.”

“I have a serial killer going after people from my old high school. I had to go to the place where my own serial killer father used to teach.”

I grimace into the phone. “Oh, Allie. I’m so sorry.”

“If you look up ‘frying pan into the fire,’ you’ll find my name next to it. They ship me off to Tacoma, and the very first case they give me is this. Go figure.”

“Are you getting close to finding him?”

She gives a rueful laugh. “I have no idea, Darcy. Maybe? He seems to be a step ahead, no matter what I try.”

“Tell me about it. I’m in the same boat. Tackling a mass shooting event at a party.” I come up on an exit and slow down as I take the off-ramp.

“They gave that one to you? The one where they said a Saudi prince supposedly planned it?”

“That’s the one. Wanna come out and help me with it?”

“I wish,” she laughs. “I hear they opened your old building back up for business. Do you miss the old roach room in the basement yet?”

“Ugh, never. It’s nice having the team all back under one roof. Well, everyone except Daryl. Did you ever meet him?”

“Nope. And the way I heard you talk about him made me think I wasn’t missing anything.”

“Nothing but an ulcer,” I say. “So, tell me, how is life as an FBI agent? Are you settling in okay?”

“I think I am. My boss is an ex-Marine—correction—former Marine, as he says. Apparently, once a Marine, always a Marine.”

“So I hear. And your partner?”

“Jason? He’s great. He’s so good with people. Me, I put my foot in my mouth half the time. Especially when they’re crying. I have no idea what to do when they start crying.”

“Girl,” I laugh. “I know just what you mean.”

“I’ve spent some time with Jason’s wife. She is amazing—you would love her. She’s actually fighting breast cancer. Tough as nails. Jason has me taking all these vitamin water enhancers in solidarity with him being healthy for her.”

It does me good to hear that Allie is doing so well at her new post. A couple of months ago, the Bureau brought her to Albany for two weeks as part of her new agent training. Since Skylar was still in Rochester looking after Reuben, they paired her up with me.

Allie has an incredible mind and a tenacious drive. We made a great pair while she was here. I was proud to be her mentor, and it was hard to say goodbye. I’m happy to know that she is finding her footing in this new career and that she was able to live close to her grandmother.

On the other end of the line, I hear a voice in the background. “Okay, be right there,” she says. “Darcy, I need to get going. Sounds like we’ve got another victim.”

“Go get ’em, Allie. Sounds like you’re off to a great start.”

“Hey, and Darcy? Thanks for everything. I learned so much spending those two weeks with you. And it meant the world that you came down to Quantico for my graduation.”

“Keep in touch,” I tell her. “Maybe I can find time to come out and visit sometime.”

“Really? I would love that. And you could meet Grams. She would adore you. Okay…gotta go.”

We hang up. I set the phone down and point the car toward the AFO, recalling my days as a rookie. The sense that I had to prove myself to everyone, including myself, was an added pressure that I don’t miss. I know Allie is right in the middle of those exact pressures right now. Like me, she’ll use them to hone her focus and think through every step she makes, double and triple checking that it’s the right decision.

That kind of commitment will be what molds her into an experienced agent. I can’t wait to see how her career develops and how she matures as an agent.

In the meantime, I feel the burden of my own case, and of my own commitment to find concrete answers before it’s too late.

Chapter Twenty-One

Kinsdale Golf and Country Club

Peabody, Massachusetts

The head of the driver cracked loudly against the golf ball, sending it high into the air. It careened into a high arc before dropping into the center of the fairway two hundred yards away.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Steve Mattson leaned over and plucked his tee from the grass. “Now why couldn’t I do that on the other seventeen?”

“Because you’re getting old,” his friend said. “Sixty-seven isn’t exactly the new fifty.”

Steve huffed as he walked back to the golf cart beside the tee box. “You can say that again. Most days, I feel like a young man in an old man’s body. But you’re one to talk, Bob. You have four years on me.”

Bob grinned as he slipped his driver into his bag at the back of the cart. “True, but somehow I remain a better golfer than you.”

The late-morning sun beat down on them as they settled into the cart and cruised down the fairway. They spent the next several minutes getting their balls onto the green and finishing up their final hole of the day.

“Not bad,” Bob said as he tallied up the score. “Looks like I ended up with an eighty-four. You’re sitting pretty at eighty-six. Best round you’ve played in a while.”

Steve removed his hat and ran a hand over his mostly white hair. “Must be that new putter I got. It feels natural in my hand.”

Steve emptied his pockets of his ball and tees, then slipped them into a side pocket in his bag. “I could go for a Blood Mary right now. You game?”

“I’ll have to take a pass today. I need to get into the office.”

“You need to retire, Steve. I tell you, it’s even better than they say. All the time in the world to do whatever you want, and even some consulting on the side.”

“Another year or two,” he replied. “Right now, I’ve too many moving parts to manage. Far too many fires to put out.”

“But on a Saturday? You’re a VP, Steve. What’s so important that it can’t wait until Monday?”

Steve’s face clouded over. “A lot of loose ends and a possible PR nightmare, that’s what. And if I can’t get it under control, retirement might very well end up being a pipe dream.”

His friend arched an eyebrow. “That bad, huh? All right.” He patted his ample midsection, which had grown a good inch since he retired from the boardroom a few years ago. “Guess that means I’ll have to have your Bloody Mary on your behalf. And after two of those, I’ll be good and ready for a nap.”

“Come on. I’ll drop you off at the clubhouse. Then I need to get home.”

“Fair enough.”

Steve pulled around to the back of the impressive clubhouse and waited for Bob to pluck his bag out before speeding off in the cart. He pulled around the putting green, past the tennis courts, and across the parking lot before turning onto the main road that led through the wealthy neighborhood.

Hugging the side of the road, he navigated through two vacant intersections before turning onto his street. Strong, old oaks stood like sentinels, interspersed by tall firs and elms, providing much of the privacy that he had become accustomed to.

He clicked the remote that controlled one of the garage doors and pulled down his cobbled drive, the honeysuckle crawling up the east side of the house giving off a fragrant scent. Inside the garage, the cart slid comfortably into its own spot a full car length from his powder blue Bentley.

Steve got out and shut the garage door. He went inside and tossed his keys on the marble island. The air conditioning was a welcome reprieve after the muggy heat of the last few hours, and it made him think of the beer he had in his fridge. He didn’t have time for a Bloody Mary with Bob, but he could enjoy a crisp and refreshing beer while he was in the shower.

So, the golden liquid calling to him like a siren of old, Steve pulled a can from the fridge and popped the tab. “Oh, that’s good,” he said out loud after enjoying his first sip.

He glanced at his watch. The meeting he had scheduled was set for noon. Which meant he had to leave here in twenty minutes.

He continued his calculations. Sally, his girlfriend, was on a trip with her friends to the Caribbean, which meant that he had the place to himself. All six thousand feet of it. This meeting was shaping up to be one of the most important of his career.

Nothing like cleaning up a mess you didn’t make, he thought.

But if he could get things wrapped up and get everyone mobilized within a couple of hours, then he would have the rest of the day to himself. The entire rest of the day.

He thought he might invite Madison, the hot, young girl from accounting, over for a drink. With Sally out of the country, he was bored. And what better way to spend the night than with a tight-bodied young doe who just might do anything for a little career advancement?

The thought sent a pleasurable sensation coursing through his body. He tipped back another mouthful of beer and relished the sensation of the cold liquid going down.

As it turned out, that was the last pleasurable thought Steve Mattson would ever have.

His entire body stiffened as he caught a shift of movement over to his right. His head snapped around. Every muscle in his body froze.

“Whoa, what is this?” Instantly, he held up his hands, the beer can still clutched between his fingers.

The intruder wasn’t masked, but he was clad in all black and wore a black backpack. He held a pistol in his hand. It was pointed right at Steve, who immediately began to think that this was some kind of joke.

“Sally put you up to this?” he said wryly. “Come on. This is my house, man.”

The man did not blink. He did not smile. “Have a seat, Steve.”

“Seriously? Look, I know Sally and I have shared some fantasies lately, but she’s not even here, man. Lose the act.”

The next thing he was aware of were two flashes of light from the barrel of the gun, followed by the sound of the shots. He flinched, cursed in fear, and his face flushed crimson. Turning, he looked back to see a hole in the marble mantle in his living room and another in the flat-screen television.

“Who the hell is Sally?”

The tone of the question was so pointed, so precise, that Steve believed the genuineness of it. And when the moment of clarity hit, when he understood that this wasn’t a game, he nearly wet his shorts. “Look. You want money? I’ve got plenty.” He looked down at his waist. “My wallet is in my back pocket. I probably have a few hundred dollars in there.” When the man said nothing, he set the beer can on the counter, slowly reached for the wallet, and pulled out the cash.

“There’s two hundred and twenty dollars.”

“Set it on the counter,” the man said. Then he stepped closer and inspected the money.

“Let me walk you over to the safe. I’ll give you everything I have. Just, please. Don’t do anything rash.”

The intruder nodded his assent. Steve started for his office, his mind a frantic jumble of thoughts as he tried to think of the most efficient way to make this man leave. Who did this intruder think he was, walking into his house like this? A poor, miserable excuse for a man, who couldn’t make his own way in the world. Instead, he had to take pieces of what others had worked their entire lives to build.

He entered his office. It boasted a coffered ceiling, a regal fireplace, a sitting area, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were stuffed with first editions spanning the last century and worth over half a million dollars.

If this man wanted his money, it was in the books.

Steve walked over to the Monet hanging on the wall behind his desk and hesitated. There were so many valuables in the safe. Was he just going to let this punk take it all without a standoff?

With a newfound courage pulsing through his veins, Steve turned on his heel and pinned the other man with a hard stare. “You want money?” he said. “I get it. But this isn’t the way. How much do you want? I have some more cash in my desk. How about you take that and we call it a draw. It’s probably two thousand dollars. Not bad for a day’s work. What do you say?”

Before the words were fully out of his mouth, the gun rang out again, and again.

Steve flinched, then his eyes widened in horror as he turned around to see two round holes in the iconic painting. “You bastard!” he cried out. “Do you know how much that was worth?”

“You think I care?” The man’s voice was a mixture of indifference and absolute hatred.

“Two million dollars! That’s how much! You petty people don’t have any idea how much things in the real world cost, do you?”

“Open the safe, Steve.”

He blinked. The way the man had said his name conveyed some kind of familiarity. Steve assessed his face again. He was certain he had never seen him before. He wasn’t great with names, but faces he could remember.

“Look—” Steve paused, but then decided that doing what this man wanted was better than continuing to resist. Besides, everything was insured. It would be a pain to file and a long time to collect, but he would be made whole again.

He reached up for the now defiled painting, then plucked it off the wall. Moving with care, he placed it on the mahogany desk and turned to the wall safe that the missing painting had exposed.

His fingers moved slowly, reluctantly, as he punched in the code. Steve’s jaw tensed in anger as he pressed the final digit on the keyboard. It conceded, and the locking mechanism snapped back. The door popped open a few inches.

“Go on. Open it.”

Steve hesitated.

“Open. It.” Anger laced his tone.

Steve reached out and pulled it open.

“Put everything on the desk. Now. And hurry up.”

Steve was boiling with anger as he complied. Who did this man think he was? Just a petty thief.

Reaching into the wall cavity, Steve carefully pulled out the stacks of bills, the paperwork, and the folders filled with private information. He was most worried about the flash drives. Those had no backups. They were the backups.

As instructed, he placed it all on the desk. “Okay. There you go. Take whatever you want and leave. I don’t have anything else in the house. This is all I have here.”

His intruder seemed neither curious nor satisfied. He didn’t even look at the small stack of valuables on the desk, sitting beside the Monet with two holes in it. He motioned with his head to the sitting area on the other side of the room. “Have a seat.”

“Please, just⁠—”

“I said, have a seat!” His voice struck a fever pitch, jolting Steve out of his complacency.

Quickly, he moved around the desk and took a seat on one of the upholstered lounge chairs. The expansive doors looked out onto his Chinese water garden. His gaze found the small footbridge, and he looked longingly at it.

The intruder took a few steps toward him, keeping the gun trained on his chest. Steve studied him. “Please, take what you want and go.”

The man plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one from the pack, and lit up.

Once again, despite his current state of affairs, Steve bristled. “Hey, don’t—don’t smoke in here. Come on, man.”

No response. Nothing but a haze of smoke being blown up toward the ceiling.

Anger flared in Steve again, and he nodded to a camera up in the far corner of the room. “These cameras are a live feed to my security company. You have half a dozen people studying your face right now. The police will be here any moment. I would get going if I were you. Just take what you want and leave.”

Steve sat helplessly in the chair while the unwanted man calmly smoked down the cigarette, his gaze casually altering between the items on the desk and the calming features of the water garden. Finally, he dropped the cigarette onto the carpet. Steve winced as he mashed it out with the toe of his black work boot. Then he reached behind him and, to Steve’s surprise, pulled out a file folder from the small of his back. Gun still in hand, he walked over to the sitting area, opened the folder, and placed something on the glass coffee table in front of Steve.

It was a photo.

“Do you recognize that person?” the man asked.

Steve’s mind was racing, trying to make connections. “No—no. Why would I?”

“Right…why would you?”

Another photo. “What about this? Recognize it?”

“It suddenly occurred to Steve that this was more than a simple robbery.” He looked up. “What do you want?”

Another item, a document this time. “Is that your signature?”

The blood drained from the older man’s face.

“Steve. I asked if that was your signature.”

He nodded and felt his throat constrict. “Look, I can explain.”

For the first time, his guest chuckled. It soon rose into a whole-hearted laugh. “I don’t need you to explain.” He swept a hand across the incriminating evidence he had laid out. “This right here says it all. There is more, of course. So much more.”

“Like I said, I can explain.”

“I am not interested in explanations. Coming from you, an explanation is synonymous with a lie. And I am so very tired of lies, Mr. Mattson.”

He pulled something from the side pocket of his cargo pants. It was a small can of sorts. He stepped up to the desk and plucked the two flash drives from the small stack of cash and paperwork. Then he popped the cap open on the can and poured the contents out over everything.

“What are you doing?” Steve shouted, half rising from his seat. He watched in disbelief as the man subsequently lit a match and, with no hesitation at all, set the small pile ablaze.

“What are you doing?” he cried again. “That’s over fifty thousand dollars!”

The two hundred and twenty dollars he had pulled from his wallet was placed over the growing flames.

Then it hit him. The photos. The document. And now the burning of the cash.

This man wasn’t here to rob him at all.

“Look, please. I made some mistakes, okay? We all do. If I could go back, I would do things differently.”

The intruder pinned him with a steely, hateful gaze. “I am not a priest. I don’t need your confession. And no, you wouldn’t do things differently. You are a bad man, Steve. An evil man. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Look—”

“I sent you an invitation. You should have gone to the party. It would have ended much better for you.” He slipped off his backpack and unzipped it. “Because now…I can’t say that this won’t hurt. In fact, Steve, it is going to hurt a great deal.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Residence of Steve Mattson

Peabody, Massachusetts

The front perimeter of the home is choked with emergency response vehicles, forcing me to park fifty yards farther down the street. Concerned and curious neighbors in this greater Boston community have clustered under expansive oak trees, holding up their phones and chatting nervously amongst themselves.

I’ve had to respond to countless crime scenes throughout my career with the Bureau. Many of them are located in depressed urban environments and some in middle-class suburbs. This, however, is a heavily gated, upscale neighborhood where the least expensive house is probably three million dollars.

Hearing of a crime in any proximity to yourself is jarring and disconcerting. But having one occur in a cloistered place like this must be especially so. There is a real sense that gate guards, security systems, and high fences are supposed to insulate you from the violence that others experience. I don’t think that’s a bad sentiment. Everyone wants to go about their lives as safe and secure as possible. Unfortunately, no one is completely immune from the well-laid plans of those with their hearts set on doing evil.

Skylar and I approach the front of the cobbled drive and badge the officer tasked with keeping the perimeter. He nods and raises the yellow tape so we can pass beneath it. “My captain is inside,” he says. “He’s expecting you.”

The house itself is three stories, built in a Tudor Revival style, with a brick exterior featuring upper facades of white stucco that are lined with decorative half-timbering. The medieval vibe makes me think of something I would see in Europe.

The lawn is vivid and expertly cared for. Pink hibiscus grows under the front windows, and I catch the pleasant scent of honeysuckle as we step onto the front porch. But that is replaced by a faint, acidic odor as we cross the threshold.

“Ugh, what is that smell?” Skylar says. “And why wasn’t I told to bring a gas mask?”

We’re approached by a tall man with broad shoulders. He has a broad face, a strong nose, and a cleft chin. His black hair is flecked with gray. He extends a hand to us in turn. “Captain Lewis. Glad you could come on such short notice. We have a real mess on our hands.”

“Who called it in?” I ask him.

“Technically, the victim did. Steve Mattson. But I have reason to believe that whoever killed him might have been the one to dial 911. Come on. I’ll show you what we’re dealing with.” He hesitates. “It’s pretty bad. A couple of my officers lost their lunch. Just a fair warning.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Lead the way.”

We pass through the kitchen and down a wide hall, where the chemical smell grows more intense. Captain Lewis leads us into an office with a coffered ceiling, a massive fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A sitting area is at the other end of the room, close to a set of wide glass doors. They’ve been pushed open, giving us an unobstructed view of a beautiful Chinese water garden.

Several crime scene techs are processing the scene, taking measurements, samples, and photos. Seeing us, a couple of them stand back so we can have a look.

“Oh, god,” Skylar says beside me. Her stomach lurches, and she cups a hand over her mouth. A muffled cough comes through her fingers. “Oh, god. I think I need a minute.”

“We opened those doors to get some fresh air in here,” Captain Lewis says. “Take all the time you need. The garden is something to see.”

I give her a nod. “Go ahead.” She hurries off, and I survey the gruesome scene. It doesn’t take me long to wish that I had joined her.

In life, Steve Mattson was the vice president of Montlake Industries’ research and development division. In death, he is unrecognizable. Half of his body has been dissolved by some chemical. It’s lying on the carpet at the foot of an upholstered chair. The center of his throat and chest cavity have a melted trough running through the center, and his entire abdomen is gone. It’s nothing but a puddle of reddish-green liquid that has seeped deep into the carpet. His lower torso and legs are almost completely detached from what had been the top part of his body. His head is tilted backward, and his open eyes are staring at the ceiling as if he is still screaming out in terror.

A black plastic whistle lies on the carpet beside his head.

The culprit of the whole mess isn’t hard to miss. A plastic funnel, like you would use to change the oil in your car, is sticking out of his mouth. Whatever killed him was forced down his throat and wreaked havoc on his insides.

The scene is so disturbing that I have to go and stand closer to the open doors so I don’t pass out. Skylar is standing in the center of a small footbridge with her eyes closed. Her fingers are clinging to the railing as if for dear life.

We might see the worst of what humans can do to each other, but sometimes the depravity of it gets the better of us too.

I gather myself, step back into the room, and turn back to Captain Lewis. “What can you tell me about Mr. Mattson?”

He pulls out his notepad. “He’s lived here eight years. Been divorced from his second wife for over five years and has a girlfriend that we’re still trying to get in touch with. I interviewed a man at the front of the driveway before you got here. He said that he played golf with the victim not two hours ago.”

“Did any neighbors see anything?”

He shakes his head. “One neighbor a couple houses down saw him drive by on his golf cart. The timing seems to match when he was coming back from playing golf. But no one reported hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary.”

I look back at the disfigured corpse and address one of the CSI techs. “Any idea what was poured down the funnel? Was it some kind of acid?”

“Something to that effect,” she says. “We won’t know anything for certain until we get it analyzed.”

Captain Lewis points to a colorful painting of a landscape framed beneath a picture light. “We found two bullet holes in that.”

I follow him across the room and stand in front of the painting, then tilt my head to the side and examine it. “Is this a Monet?”

Lewis snorts. “I wouldn’t know. I think my eight-year-old nephew could paint a pasture better than that.”

I cringe at his comment but decide it’s best not to say anything. I’m here to investigate a brutal crime, after all, not to have a debate over the finer merits of Impressionist art.

Skylar returns with a little more color in her face. “You okay?” I ask her.

“Yep. Just needed a minute. It’s not every day that you see a half-dissolved body.”

“Tell me about it.”

She nods at the painting. “Are those bullet holes?”

“They sure look like it.” I lean in for a closer look. “They’re pretty wide. A .457 would be my guess.”

“There’s one more thing you should see,” Lewis says. “Right over here.” He steps over to a mahogany desk and shows where a small fire had been lit. It’s not difficult to spot the open safe in the wall. “As best as we can tell,” he says, “whatever the intruder didn’t want from that safe was burned right here.”

I slip a pen from my pocket and poke at the ash. “He burned money. This is a hundred-dollar bill. Looks like there were a few stacks of them.”

Skylar steps back and puts her head on a swivel as she slowly surveys the room. “He must have already been waiting for Mattson when he arrived from playing golf. They come into the office, and he forces Mattson to open the safe. The assailant gets angry and shoots something he knows will anger Mattson.” She looks back at the desk. “Then to add pain to pain, he burns the money right in front of him. And whatever else might have been in this pile.”

“Then he kills him,” I say with an air of finality.

We already know that whoever we’re chasing, they have money. They rented the Gilded Gate Estate for three nights and paid it all upfront using twenty-five thousand dollars of crypto. They also had the means to set up a remote firing system for the rifle, as well as tap into the security system. So it’s no surprise that weren’t interested in Steve Mattson’s money.

Skylar looks up and locates a camera in a corner of the room. “I doubt we’ll get anything off those,” she says. “Whoever is behind this managed to hack the security footage at the Gilded Gate mansion.”

I look back at what’s left of the body and pay special attention to the whistle lying beside it. This is the second post-party murder. Serial killers don’t generally stray very far from their preferred killing method. Carmela was killed by pages of newspaper forcefully wrapped around her face. Steve Mattson had some vicious chemical poured down his throat.

The changing methods point to what’s going on in the unsub’s head. His reasons for killing each victim are different, and the murder of Steve Mattson appears to be his most personal yet.

Chapter Twenty-Three

FBI Field Office

Albany, New York

“So you think this whole case revolves around Montlake Industries? Am I hearing you right?”

We’re sitting in Kemper’s office, briefing him on recent developments. The wheels have started to turn a little faster on this investigation. After days and days with nothing coming together, excitement is starting to build inside me. We have a long way to go before we know what we’re dealing with, and there are no clear answers yet. But we’ve found a common thread. Now I can tug on it and see if anything else comes with it.

“Yes, sir,” I answer. “I don’t know exactly how everything connects yet, but Montlake has moved to center stage in all this. Four of our victims have been associated with the company in some way or another.”

Kemper leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and gives me a nod. “Then let’s hear it.”

I glance down at the legal pad in my lap and order my thoughts. “Okay, so what really got the ball rolling was when Skylar floated the idea that the victims shot at the mansion weren’t completely random.”

“And prior to her suggestion, you did assume that they were random?”

Inside, I wince a little and accept his rebuke for what it is, a professional correction to tighten up my thinking. “I did assume that. And that’s my mistake. With as many guests as there were, I took it for granted that the shooter just opened up at a random time and began to fire.”

Skylar moves to draw the focus off my mishap. “After we considered that some of the mansion victims may have been specific targets, Brooks came through and found that half of those were from the Boston area.”

Kemper raises a finger. “You’re saying he’s targeting Bostonians?”

I shake my head. “Not necessarily. Boston happens to be where Montlake’s worldwide headquarters are. We’ve identified four victims from the party and now one post-party as having associations with the company.”

Kemper nods. “Go on.”

I flip back the top page of my legal pad. “Okay, first we have Elana Sparrow. Elana is an accounting manager for Montlake. She was wounded in the attack. She’ll survive, but she’s lost the use of both her legs. I spoke with her personally, and she identified another victim connected to her company, a Mr. Jack Fisher. Fisher was also shot at the mansion and remains in a coma. He worked at Montlake as in-house counsel for over five years. Last year, he left to go work at a major law firm in Boston. The thing is, he didn’t really leave Montlake as much as he took them with him.”

“I don’t follow,” Kemper says. “What do you mean, ‘took them with him’?”

“It looks like Montlake wanted him to continue representing the interests of the company but from an outside position. When he moved off staff to the law firm, Montlake immediately became his largest account.”

“Interesting. So, for all intents and purposes, he’s still with the company. That’s two people. You said you have four?”

“Right. I’ll let Skylar relay the details of the last two.”

Skylar sits up a little straighter in her chair. “So our third one is a guy named Trent Myers, killed in the attack. According to his LinkedIn profile, Myers was an outside consultant for Montlake.”

“Doing what exactly?” Kemper asks.

“I don’t know exactly. Consultant-y things? What do consultants even do?”

Kemper smiles. “A lot of them get paid big bucks to sound smart. Their expertise often serves as a means to establish credibility. Consultants advise their clients on marketplace conditions, social trends, operations—you name it. Find out more on Myers. See what his niche was. That might help you narrow down how he fits into all this.”

“On it.” She jots a note on her pad. “So both Myers and Fisher worked for Montlake from an outside position, which is why we didn’t see a connection to Montlake sooner.”

“And I assume your fourth is Steve Mattson.”

By the time we got back from Boston, the whole office was talking about Mattson’s death. Some were creeped out by the gruesome violence and conveyed how glad they were that this wasn’t their case. Others of the more gory persuasion thought it was awesome and wanted to see the crime scene photos as soon as I got them.

“That’s right,” Skylar says. “Mattson was a Montlake lifer. Started there right out of college and spent the next four decades climbing the ladder. Three years ago, he was promoted to Senior VP of research and development. His murder was unique for several reasons, not the least, of course, was his means of death.”

I pick the thread. “Mattson’s killer was especially angry at him. We don’t know what their conversation was, if any, but if I had to guess, Mattson probably tried to offer him money to back off. There were two bullet holes in a Monet, and a short pile of cash was burned on his desk.”

Kemper steeples his fingers and nods thoughtfully. “His murder especially shows intense anger. Any idea what this chemical was that killed him?”

I shake my head. “Forensics is running tests on it. They didn’t have an initial guess.”

“And what about Carmela Reynolds? Is she on Montlake’s payroll in some fashion?”

“No,” Skylar says. “She’s the fly in the ointment. We still aren’t certain how she fits in. We do know that both she and Steve Mattson had invitations to the party but did not attend.”

“That reinforces your theory that your unsub intended to kill certain individuals at that party,” he says. “Those he didn’t get there, or who didn’t attend, he’s going after them now.”

“He won’t stop until all the names are checked off,” I add. “For reasons still known only to him, each of his victims matters.”

Kemper picks up his phone. “I’ll have Brooks and Cheng call all the Boston names on your list. They may need to get some help from the Boston Field Office to go knock on doors and warn people of the potential dangers.” He sends off a quick text and sets the phone down. “Did you find any connections between these four victims? Inside their work or outside it?

“We have not,” I admit. “They may have had a falling out with someone in the company. Maybe a disgruntled employee. We’re looking into all that.”

Kemper leans forward and folds his hands on the desk. “This is good work, you two. I’m glad to see you making progress. I think you’ll be glad to hear that just before you walked in here, I got a call from Judge Steele. He signed off on that warrant for the rural property. The one with the burned-down building on it. Forensic techs will be out there today gathering samples. If they find anything, I’ll let you know.”

Skylar pumps a fist. “Yes.”

I’m totally feeling her energy. Things are starting to move in the right direction. We’re getting that much closer to understanding why our killer is doing what he is, and hopefully, that much closer to stopping him. “That’s great news,” I say, and look across the table to see a twinkle in Kemper’s eye, which tells me that he has more good news for us. “Okay,” I press. “Spit it out. What else are you not telling us?”

He chuckles. “I heard from the lawyer who manages the trust for that same property. He told me the name of the owner.”

“Really?” Skylar says. “Just like that? Isn’t that a breach of privacy?”

“Not if your client is dead. The property owner is Steve Mattson.”

His words fall like a hammer. Skylar and I exchange a glance.

“Whoa,” she says. “No kidding? That’s wild. What would the R&D VP of an oil and gas company have been storing on his property? What was he hiding?”

“Something that disturbed Carmela after she found it,” I say. “And whatever it was, they didn’t want to leave any trace of it.”

“Speaking of Carmela,” Kemper says, “did anything come of the newsprint wrapped around her face? Did the articles offer any direction?”

“No,” I tell him. “We were hoping the specific articles might have been selected by her killer to send a message, but if so, they were lost on us. I’ve got an analyst combing over them in case there was something we missed.” My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. “Sir?”

Kemper waves me on. “Take it. I don’t need you missing something important.”

Answering it, I’m greeted with a familiar voice. “Agent Hunt? This is Elana Sparrow. You came to the trauma center and spoke with me?”

“Yes, Elana. Did they get you moved to Philadelphia okay?”

“They did. The facility is nice. I have a lot more light in my room here.”

“I’m glad to hear that. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation—given my current state, I’ve had a lot of time to think about everything. But you said to reach back out if I thought of anything that might be helpful.”

“Yes. Did you think of something?”

“I did. It might not even be worth mentioning to you. I just learned that a senior vice president in my company was murdered. Steve Mattson?”

Word travels fast.

“That’s right.”

“Well, is that—I mean—do you think that’s just a coincidence?”

“Elana, in my line of work, there is no such thing.”

“Okay, good.” She sounds relieved. “Because I know that when you were here, I recognized Jack Fisher’s name. And now, hearing that Mr. Mattson was killed too, it made me wonder if someone is coming after people who work for our company.”

“It appears that might be the case,” I tell her.

“So, like I said, this could just be a waste of time, but all this violence has made me think of one of my co-workers. I can’t help but wonder if it started with her.”

My ears perk. “Go on.”

“Samantha Ridder. Are you familiar with that name?”

“No, I’m not,” and I jot it down.

“Then this is probably nothing,” Elana says. “I’m sure I’m just paranoid at this point hearing of Mr. Mattson’s murder. But I thought I should at least unload what’s been gnawing at the back of my mind the last twenty-four hours.” I hear a rueful chuckle come through the phone. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Please. I’m all ears.” Kemper and Skylar are watching intently as I listen.

“So as you know, I’m in our accounting division. Samantha and I handled paperwork mostly related to expenses and inventory. Samantha came to me a few months ago with concerns about some inventory discrepancies in our R&D division. She couldn’t get them reconciled, and when she went to a manager in R&D, he told her not to concern herself with it.”

My pen is hurrying across the paper. “What were the discrepancies?”

“Honestly, I don’t recall exactly. We’re an oil and gas company. I think it had to do with expenses related to a new product line they were developing. I’m a little embarrassed to say that I told her I wasn’t getting involved. After all, I’ve been at Montlake for ten years. It’s been a great job with great benefits. I didn’t want to go barking up the wrong tree and lose my job. The higher-ups in R&D told her not to worry about it, so that was good enough for me.”

“Is she still actively pursuing a solution to the discrepancy?” I ask.

The line goes quiet for several long moments. “Samantha is dead, Agent Hunt.”

My fingers tighten their grip on the phone. “And what was her cause of death?”

“The police concluded that it was a home invasion robbery. But I learned later that they didn’t mark anything of value that was stolen. Samantha was shot twice and died on the way to the hospital. I was devastated to learn that—all of us in the office were. Samantha was such a good person. We all went to her memorial service. It wasn’t until I heard about Mr. Mattson, and then others of us working at Montlake…” She trails off. “I don’t know what Samantha may or may not have found, and I at least wanted to get that on your radar. It’s probably nothing.”

My mind is spinning with the implications of what I’m hearing. This opens far more questions right now than answers, but they are questions that I am more than prepared to ask.

“Elana, are you suggesting that Samantha found something in the books that they were trying to hide?”

“Maybe? I want to say yes, but I can’t be certain. I do think Samantha was onto something initially. But the further in she went, the more she got stonewalled. After a while, she stopped bringing anything to me.” The line grows quiet again. “But exactly what she found, something specific, I don’t know. She left her notes on her desk once, and I flipped through briefly. There were pictures of people I didn’t recognize. It looked like she had interviewed a lot of people. The only name I remember is… Carpenter. I’m pretty sure that’s right. They own a farm in southern Vermont.”

“Okay, we’ll look into that,” I tell her.

Her voice began to get choked. “I didn’t ask any questions, Agent Hunt. I’ve heard all the stories of what big corporations can do to people who try to expose their wrongs. A lot of times, the companies destroy their lives. I didn’t have the spine to join her in it.” She sniffs loudly into the phone. “And that’s ironic, isn’t it? Seeing that part of my spine doesn’t even work now?”

“I’m sorry, Elana. Really.”

“After I learned that she had died—or was killed—I was terrified,” she continues. “I should have helped her. I shouldn’t have turned a blind eye.”

“Can you recall anything else you saw in her notes? Or maybe she spoke with another co-worker about all this?”

“No. I shut her down early on. I think she felt like she couldn’t trust any of us after that. As far as I know, she kept quiet about what she was looking into. She had pages and pages of notes. None of the names meant anything to me out of context.” She sniffs loudly into the phone. “I was scared that she would discover something bad, and I just didn’t have the courage to be a whistleblower.”

That word makes me stiffen in my chair. “Whistleblower? Is that what you said?”

“Yes. In my mind, that’s what she was. She found something, Agent Hunt. And I left her out to dry.”

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins now. “Elana, this has been incredibly helpful. If you remember anything else, please reach out.”

“I will, Agent Hunt. Thank you for listening.”

When I hang up, Kemper is looking at me with an amused expression.

“What?” I ask him, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

“I’ve seen that look on my agents dozens of times. And I always like it when I do.”

“What look?”

“The one that says a big piece of the puzzle just slid into place.”

Skylar shrugs. “It’s true. I mean, whatever she told you, your jaw hit the floor. Care to enlighten us?”

A grin spreads across my face. I’m so excited that my fingers are starting to tremble. “I know why our killer’s signature is a whistle.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Residence of Mary Carpenter

Manchester County, NY

Not long after crossing the state line from New York into Vermont, a narrow valley opens up before us. It’s a beautiful day. Fluffy white clouds drift lazily in the bright blue sky, contrasting with the green pastures that cover the ground. Eventually, the road cuts through a wooded area and brings us to our destination.

A cattle guard is set into the front entrance of Notchwind Farms. The car rattles over it as we pass the barbed wire fence lining the road, and I make for the main farmhouse that lies a quarter mile down the rutted dirt lane.

Reaching the two-story farmhouse, I pull in behind an old truck, and we step out into the sunshine. Only a few trees stand in this area of the property. Most of the land seems to be used for grazing. Beyond the house is a cluster of barns and outbuildings. I see tractors, bails of hay, and cattle pens.

I don’t know the first thing about running a farm, but I get the impression that this one has recently fallen into neglect. Weeds have sprouted in the cattle pen, the two tractors I see are covered in a film of dust, and the bails of hay are gray with mildew. The fields look wild and untended, and the outbuildings need a few boards tacked up.

When Skylar and I reach the front porch, I pull back the screen door and knock loudly. When we don’t get an answer, I try a second time. Eventually, I hear something inside. The door creaks open a few inches, and a woman’s tired face fills in the gap. My initial guess is that she’s in her late forties, but brittle gray hair and heavy bags under her eyes make her look at least ten years older.

“Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Agent Hunt, and this is my partner, Agent Mills, with the FBI. I was hoping we could have a few minutes of your time.”

Anger flares in her eyes. “So now they’ve sent the FBI, have they? They think I’m still a threat? Y’all can go to hell.”

She goes to shut the door, but I quickly place my hand on it. “Please, I don’t know what you mean. No one sent us. We’re spearheading an investigation, and your name came up. We’re just hoping for a few minutes of your time to ask some questions.”

Her eyes narrow into slits. “Are you lying to me? Who sent you?”

“No, ma’am. We’re not lying. And like I said, no one told us to come out here.”

“We have some questions that we’re hoping you can answer,” Skylar interjects. “If it makes you feel any better, if you’re uncomfortable at any time, then you have our word that we’ll leave. We’re not here to harass you in any way. In fact, we’re trying to help.”

She continues to eye us suspiciously. “I’ve been lied to and bullied so much, I don’t know who to believe anymore. I sure hope you’re telling the truth.”

We’re invited inside. She shuts the door and leads us into a living room with worn shag carpet and distressed furniture. The curtains are drawn tight and the light dimmed low, the room cluttered with knickknacks, open storage bins, and stacks of farming magazines. Whatever cheer may have lived here at one time is gone now.

“Now,” she says once we’re all seated, “what is it I can do for you?” She pulls her cardigan close to her chest.

I pull up a photo of Samantha Ridder on my phone, then turn it so she can see. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Before she answers, I see recognition dawn in her eyes. “Yes. Of course. Why are you asking about Samantha?” Her voice is still thick with skepticism.

“We have reason to believe that she was looking into some possible corruption related to Montlake Industries?”

The older woman huffs. “Possible corruption? That would be the politically correct way to put it. Why is it that the people who are supposed to know what’s going on, and should be the ones putting a stop to it, are always the last to know?”

I press a small smile across my lips in an effort to disarm her. “I totally understand your frustration, Mrs. Carpenter. But we’re here now and are trying to get as many answers as we can. What Samantha was looking into might be connected to another series of crimes we’ve been investigating.”

Slowly, she nods. “What do you need to know?”

“Honestly, we aren’t clear on what brought Samantha to your house to begin with. Are you comfortable sharing the details of that conversation?”

She responds with a shrug and mutters under her breath. “Samantha came out here and met with me on several occasions. But she’s dead now, so what’s it matter?” Mrs. Carpenter reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the end table. She taps one out and lights it up, closing her eyes on the inhale before blowing out a thin, hazy line. “Those people over at Montlake are monsters. Evil and heartless monsters. For at least two years, they’ve been poisoning our river.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Skylar glance at me. “Your river?” I ask.

“Yes. The Stonehead River.” She flicks her hand over her shoulder. “It cuts through the valley two miles east of here. Filters into the groundwater, which is what we all bathe in, drink, and irrigate our crops with.”

I wasn’t sure what I would hear coming here today. Based on my conversation with Elana, I suspected it would be something sinister. But the poisoning of a local water supply? That was definitely not on my list. I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees. “Mrs. Carpenter, may I ask you how you know Montlake is poisoning the river?”

“That was all Samantha’s doing. She’s the one who got all the evidence. That’s why she came to see me.”

“And what evidence is that? Have you seen them doing it?”

She takes another drag on her cigarette. “Seen them? No, hon. They’re too smart for that. But Samantha did. We all knew something was off two years ago. We just couldn’t understand what it was.”

“How did you know something was off?” Skylar asks.

Mrs. Carpenter’s face drops, and she stares into her lap. “Let’s see. When Davy, my husband, started bleeding from his nose on a regular basis. When he found blood in his stool and his hair started falling out. When the dairy cows started to lose patches of fur and grew softball-sized tumors on their bellies. The fish in the pond were going belly up. My teeth started falling out. Had to get dentures at forty-seven years old. And Davy died six months ago. I could keep going.”

I can feel Skylar’s disbelief on pace with mine. If this is true, if we really are talking about a multi-billion-dollar corporation illegally dumping toxic waste, then we have a whole new set of problems on our hands.

“And we’re not the only ones,” Mrs. Carpenter continues. “There are half a dozen full-time farms in our little valley. All but one of them have been afflicted too. And further down toward the next county, I’ve heard of more people getting sick.”

“Has anyone tested the water?”

She nods. “We finally got the county to come out and take samples of the water. When I call them to find out the results of the testing, all they ever say is that it was inconclusive. The last time Samantha was here, she took samples of her own. She was going to send them to an independent lab and pay for it herself. But a week later, she was dead.” She frowns at us. “You’re going to tell me that you didn’t know any of this?”

“No ma’am, we honestly didn’t.”

“Figures. No one stands up for the little man anymore.” She taps her ash into an empty Coke can. “Davy and I bought this farm nearly twenty-five years ago. We were newly married, and between a loan and some inheritance I received from my grandmother, we made something of this place. Raised our kids here. Built a life. But now the soil is tainted from the irrigation water. What few cows I have left produce poisoned milk. I had to sell heirlooms and furniture just to help pay for the doctor’s bills.” She motions to the furniture in the room. “A friend of mine got these items from the thrift store for me. I drink distilled water now and use it to bathe with, but I’ve got untreatable abdominal and breast cancer. I’ll be dead in three months myself.”

Her words have me stunned. My mind is racing to comprehend it all. “Have you and the other farmers done anything to sound the alarm?”

“Hon, we’ve tried it all. We sent letters to our local and state officials. I personally went to the county newspaper and sat down with a columnist. He couldn’t believe it. By the time I walked out of there, I’m certain he thought that he had the story of his career.”

“But it didn’t run, did it?” Skylar says, starting to catch on.

“That’s correct. I never could get him to return my calls. Even went down there again and confronted him. Wagged my finger in his face and called him a coward. But I could see that someone else had already gotten to him. Whatever they said made him turn a blind eye to all our suffering.” She huffs. “The Gladdens’ farm is a mile east of here. They’ve already lost two children to this affair. Brain tumors. Both under the age of five. I’ve had police officers come here to intimidate me. Can you believe that they had the gall to try and convince me that Davy probably spread the wrong kind of fertilizer?” She waves a hand. “We don’t even use chemical fertilizer! We’re an organic dairy farm. Were,” she adds ruefully.

“I’m so sorry to hear about this,” I tell her. “This really is the first we’re hearing about it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she smirks. “I can see that the two of you care about your jobs. I can see that you care about my plight. But it won’t do any good. When you have billions of dollars to throw around, you can buy law enforcement, politicians, and the media. Then who’s going to stop you?”

I ask her if she’s considered hiring a lawyer.

“That’s another thing,” she says. “The farms all pooled our resources together and hired a lawyer out of Boston. But he keeps dragging his feet. I swear, the whole system is corrupt. People don’t have values and standards anymore. People are dying because of it. Dying, and no one gives a damn.” Her chin begins to tremble, and she sobs quietly in her chair.

“Mrs. Carpenter, we’re going to do everything in our power to make sure the right people know what’s happening in this valley. I assure you that something is going to change.”

Her expression remains unchanged, weary and untrusting. “I’ve heard those exact words more than once, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just don’t trust the people far above you. No one will help us. Not until some politician gets wind of it and makes our story something he can turn into his platform. And by then, it will be too late. Greedy people run this world, and they’re addicted to money. It’s their heroin.”

I pull up the notes app on my phone and hand it to her. “Mrs. Carpenter, would you mind giving me the names of the other people affected by the water? And the name of the attorney you said you hired.”

She huffs in frustration as she takes the phone. “That lawyer came highly recommended. Small practice, but he’s won some big cases. I went all the way out there just before Davy died and told him everything. Showed him pictures and medical reports. Had to pay him an enormous retainer that we all pitched in for. The next week, he came out and looked around, promised he was going to get us our due.” She shakes her head. “He hasn’t done a damn thing. Won’t even return my calls. I would go out there myself and demand our money back, but as you can see, I’m not fit to go anywhere these days.”

Half an hour later, Skylar and I are back in the car. I don’t bother to start it. We both sit in silence and stare out the windshield. Anger turns to fury as I process what I just learned. My fingers curl into fists on my knees.

“That poor woman.” Skylar blurts out a loud curse. “Elana Sparrow said that Samantha Ridder initially found some inconsistencies with the paperwork in the R&D division. Do you think she dug too deep and discovered that her company was pouring chemical waste into Stonehead River?”

I nod. “That seems to be the case. Companies incur a lot of costs maintaining proper disposal practices and submitting to EPA guidelines. If their research department was working on, say, a new chemical, it wouldn’t be beyond belief that they took the waste from their experiments or testing and improperly disposed of it.”

“Steve Mattson was in charge of their R&D division,” Skylar says. “He was killed by a chemical. What if the same stuff he had poured in the river was what his killer poured down his throat?”

My eyes widen as her words register. “You might have just nailed it.” My body is humming now with a concoction of fury and excitement. “Which would mean that someone is getting revenge for the poisoning of this valley.”

Skylar puffs out a long breath. “That could be anyone. Even someone on that list of names Mrs. Carpenter just gave you. Maybe another farmer in the valley. People who suddenly lose family members and their livelihoods are prone to rash behavior.” The car grows quiet again as we both think through all the implications of this new revelation.

Finally, I start the car and pull down the dirt drive. “This is nuts. It’s like Erin Brockovich level stuff.”

“We can’t let these people down, Darcy. They need a voice.”

“I know.” My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “And we’re going to give them one.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

FBI Field Office

Albany, NY

“Great work, you two. This is huge.”

We’re in the conference room down the hall from our office, sharing what we learned during our visit with Mary Carpenter. Kemper brought Brooks and Cheng into the room as well. Now that this case has blown up to such large proportions, we’re going to need extra manpower to split up the work.

I’m still digesting the extent of the scandal and the precious lives that have been so terribly affected. There is still a lot of work to be done to determine whether the accusation against Montlake is true. But if Samantha was right in her discoveries, then the implications are deep and far-reaching.

“I want to loop back to Carmela Reynolds for a minute,” Kemper says. “I know we’ve already covered some of this, but do we understand what her involvement is yet?”

I shake my head. “No sir, we do not. We know that she went out to Mattson’s rural property.”

“How she learned of that property, we don’t know,” Skylar adds. “But maybe they got to her? Montlake’s people could have gotten wind that she was working on a story about it. From the sounds of it, the Boston lawyer who’s supposed to be representing the farmers hasn’t been doing his job. They probably got to him.”

I twist my lips as I think. “No, I’m not sure if I buy it. The Carmela piece. I definitely buy the part about the lawyer being incentivized to step back.”

“Why not the Carmela piece?” Cheng asks.

“Because she was tight-lipped about it. Her boss didn’t even know about it. I don’t see how Montlake would have picked up on it?”

“Don’t forget that she went out to Mattson’s property,” Kemper says. “Someone could have been out there and seen her, could have scared her into staying quiet. Like you said, she wasn’t the same when she came back from there.”

“Hold on a minute,” Skylar says, and a revelatory expression passes over her face. “Didn’t her boss tell you that she wrote a great article for the Globe earlier this year? A big piece exposing corporate fraud?”

I nod. “It was on a Boston-based manufacturing company if I remember right. They were misreporting costs to prop up their share price—something like that.”

Skylar slides to the edge of her seat and leans over the table. “Right, so what if Samantha Ridder had discovered a cover-up within her own company and went to Carmela with the story? And to Kemper’s point, what if Carmela got scared off and decided not to run it?”

A hush falls over the room. “That could fly,” I tell her, and everyone nods in agreement. “Mary Carpenter did say that Samantha was planning on speaking with a reporter.”

“It explains why a whistle was found at her crime scene,” Brooks adds. “Carmela didn’t blow the whistle. Which would also explain how she got wind of Mattson’s property if Samantha knew about it and gave her the address.”

Something akin to an electric charge passes through my body. It really is a beautiful thing to watch the pieces finally click into place.

Kemper slips his glasses on the end of his nose and tugs out a page from a case file. “Speaking of Mattson’s property, I received the initial forensic report from the samples taken out there. According to this, two plastic barrels were melted in the fire. In the area surrounding them, they found traces of the same chemical that was used to kill Steve Mattson.”

Skylar lets out a low whistle. “So Mattson was storing the chemicals they were dumping on that property?”

“I got this report about an hour ago, and I’ve been asking that same question,” Kemper states.

“It would be hidden and out of the way,” I say. “They even had a back entrance. Not much risk of being seen, coming or going.”

Kemper removes his glasses and places them on the table, then passes a hand down his face. “I’ll tell you what I think. Steve Mattson was the head of Montlake’s research and development. They may have been working on a new product—synthetic oil, fracking compound, demulsifier—who knows what? It could have been a new kind of product entirely. If they were developing a new product, there would be multiple test runs until they got it right. This chemical could be what they were producing or simply production waste. But instead of spending millions in disposal fees, Mattson beefs up his division’s bottom line by clandestinely dumping the waste. I’m sure once we get the water properly tested in that valley, we’re going to get a match between the samples and what’s in this report.”

We’ll still need to get back out in the field and do the work that will prove these theories correct. There might be aspects we’ve gotten wrong. But for the most part, I’m convinced that we’re finally on the right track.

“Help me understand how the mansion murders fit into all this?” Cheng asks, and looks down at his notes. “Are we saying that these other victims connected to Montlake—the lawyer, the consultant, even Elana Sparrow—all knew something about this chemical dumping?”

I nod. “Something to that effect would be my guess. The lawyer and the consultant may have been complicit in it. Elana Sparrow didn’t know about it, but by her own admission, she turned a blind eye. She admitted that she didn’t have the courage to help Samantha, that she didn’t…” I trail off.

“What is it?” Skylar asks.

I lift a finger. “Hold on. There are a lot of people in that valley who could be retaliating for the wrong done to them. But what if we back up even further? All this started with Samantha Ridder. She was the one who stumbled on the discrepancies in the company’s books. She’s the one who went and personally interviewed families in that valley. And there is a strong chance that she discovered where Mattson was storing the chemicals before he dumped them and that she passed that information on to Carmela.” Every one of my mental cylinders is firing at top speed now. “Elana Sparrow thinks that Samantha was murdered. Her death was papered over as a robbery gone wrong.” One by one, I look at each member of my team. “What if someone is in fact getting revenge, not for the valley being poisoned, but for Samantha Ridder’s murder?”

Kemper leans back in his chair and strokes his chin.

Skylar slowly nods. “I buy it.”

“It’s a good theory. I like it,” our boss says. “The two of you pursue it. Brooks and Cheng, I’m going to set you up in that valley. You’re going to spearhead the interviews with the citizens and those directly affected. I’ll create a task force to analyze all the connections. Darcy, I want you to get back in touch with Mrs. Carpenter and prepare her for two new agents coming to speak with her. She should be able to direct them to everyone affected.”

Skylar raises her hand off the table. “Sir, is that not something we can do? We’ve come this far. I would like to continue interviewing people in the valley and see where it all leads.”

He shakes his head. “You’re working a murder case. I don’t need you diverting from that to chase an entirely different investigation. Especially after what Darcy just said.”

She nods, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes. I love that about her. Meeting with Mary Carpenter really affected her. She wants to help that community get the justice they deserve. In that, I’m right there with her.

“The way I see it,” Kemper continues, “this investigation has split into two prongs. One is the actual murders we’ve already been working on. The other is the poisoning of this river. It’s all connected. Learning about one might help us understand the other. Brooks and Cheng, your directive is to discover if our killer originated out of that valley. I’m going to personally call the deputy director and inform him of the poisoning out there. That will require an entirely separate investigation.” He looks back at me. “What do we know about Samantha Ridder’s relationships, anything? Who was close enough to her that might seek revenge for her murder?”

I shuffle some pages in front of me until I find the one I’m looking for. “Here it is. Looks like her father is dead. Has a mother in California.” I shrug. “That’s it. This is just preliminary information. If I’m honest, we don’t know much about her. We’ll need to dig deeper and see what we can come up with.”

Kemper sits back again and blows out a long puff of air. “Listen, going forward, all of you need to watch your backs. And I’m not talking about our unsub.”

A frown pulls on my lips. “Sir?”

“It’s been a while now—over a decade—but a good friend of mine was an ASAC in the Salt Lake City Field Office. She was running an investigation into corporate environmental fraud in Utah. It had something to do with runoff from a copper mine. The mining company redirected the runoff to save money. The locals had similar symptoms to what you discovered—cancer, hair falling out, and bones becoming brittle. My friend was murdered because she was getting too close.”

My eyes widen. “They killed a federal agent?”

He nods solemnly. “Needless to say, that brought down the wrath of the Bureau on their heads. The mine was shut down completely for two years until the investigation was complete. But don’t think the right people won’t hesitate to protect their interests at any cost. The people making the money off these kinds of decisions are typically the ones at the top. Men like Steve Mattson. Executives like him are several degrees removed from the people actually committing the crimes. There’s nothing traceable back to them. Even Mattson could claim ignorance of them using his land. Anything you would want to take to court would be no more than speculation. But they’re often ruthless. Just watch your backs, all of you.”

My phone rings as he dismisses us. I quickly gather up my papers and start from the conference room. “Hey Buzz,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“Okay…where are you?” He doesn’t answer, but I can hear him speaking to someone in a low tone. “Hello, Buzz?”

“Hold on,” he says. “Here.”

The next words that come through the phone cause my entire body to go rigid.

“Hi, Darcy. It’s me.”

My hand flies to my mouth. I choke back a sob as the realization of all my hopes and dreams cascade over me. Tears well behind my eyes. I try to speak, but the words get tangled in my throat, having finally heard the sound of my sister’s voice.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Capitol Hills Memorial Hospital

Albany, NY

Iwould be lying if I said that I obeyed all the posted speed limits on the way to the hospital. The fact is, I turned a twenty-minute commute into about twelve, squealing into the parking as if hell itself were chasing me.

Now, I shuffle back and forth in the elevator, waiting impatiently while it seems to move slower than ever. Finally, the doors open, and I dart into the corridor, rushing past the nurses’ station and stopping in front of Lila’s door.

A nurse intercepts me before I can enter. I know her well, along with most of the staff on this floor. She’s an older woman, with cropped gray hair and a round face. “Darcy,” she says, “your uncle is in there. But before you go in, I need to tell you that the doctor is asking you to limit your time to no more than ten minutes. As soon as you’re done speaking to her, he’s going to have her moved downstairs for testing. Due to the nature of her injuries, she can’t be overstimulated right now. I’m sure you have many questions, but try and restrict them as much as possible. We don’t want to overtax her mind.”

I nod. “But she’s okay? From what you can tell?”

The nurse smiles. “There is a lot we don’t know. The doctors will be working hard to examine her cognitive ability. For now, go on in.”

She steps aside, and I place my hand on the doorknob. My heart is thumping hard in my chest as I step into the room. Buzz is sitting on the other side of the bed, holding Lila’s hand. Tears stand in his eyes.

As if I’m in a dream, I step up to the bed and look down at my sister. Her face is turned away from me, toward Buzz. He whispers something to her, and I watch as her head slowly turns to me.

A smile breaks across my tear-stained face. “Hey, sis.”

Her eyes are bleary, but she’s as beautiful as ever. Her high cheekbones, upturned nose, and sharp jawline are all framed in a limp cascade of golden blonde locks.

“Darcy.”

I reach out and grab her clammy hand. “Lila. You’ve come back to us.”

Slowly, she licks her lips. “I was…was going to kill you.” A tear appears in the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry.”

I squeeze her hand. “No apologies. I’m just so glad you’re here. I’ve waited so long for this moment.”

“My father. Where is he?”

Her question feels like a punch in the face. She’s not referring to our father but to Marvin Hess, the man who abducted and raised her.

I fire a glance at a Buzz. He shrugs. “I told her you could answer her questions. I didn’t think it was my place.”

The nurse’s warning about not overtaxing her flashes through my mind. “There will be plenty of time for questions later on. Okay?”

Her brow lowers. “Where is he?”

I could try to brush her off again, but somehow I don’t think that is going to satisfy her. “He’s dead, Lila. He was killed the day of the attacks.”

She blinks and stares off somewhere I cannot see. “Good.”

Her answer is a relief. She’s still going to have to unwind so much of what he taught her. I’m just glad to know that, to at least some degree, she understands what kind of man he really was.

“He loved me,” she finally says. “I don’t think he loved anyone else. He told me to kill you.”

“Yes,” I nod, “I know. But you didn’t. None of that matters now.”

She blinks again. I can see a mixture of pain and confusion in her eyes. “I did things… I didn’t want to live anymore. I’m so confused, Darcy.” Tears slip freely down her cheeks.

The shame that is evident on her face prompts tears of my own. “It’s not your fault, Lila. In the end, you saw what was true. You saw the right path, and you stepped down it. That’s what matters.”

“What about Toby? Where is my brother? Is he dead too?”

Again, I’m jarred by the directness of her question and the familiar term that she uses for such a heinous man.

“Maybe we should let you rest,” Buzz interrupts. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. The doctors want to make sure you rest. Your body has been through a lot.”

She nods and grows quiet. After a full minute ticks by, she speaks again. “Where is Toby?”

I can’t tell if she’s being persistent or if she forgot that she already asked. Either way, it looks like we’re not evading this question either. “We don’t know where Toby is,” I tell her honestly. “He managed to get away. We’ve been looking for him for a long time.”

Buzz and I receive no response to that. It isn’t surprising. As it is, she’s probably getting tired from speaking. I’m just relishing in the miracle that she is cognizant, that she can speak and work her way through a conversation at all.

“I can’t move my feet,” she finally says. “I can’t feel them.”

I smile at her. “That doesn’t matter. You’ve been lying here in this bed for a long time. It will take time for the doctors to understand what your recovery will look like.”

As if a bolt of lightning strikes me from out of the past, I see an image of Lila and me in that snowstorm on the side of the mountain. I can see us huddled under a bush for warmth, having discarded our bicycles for the relative shelter of the trees.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Longer, actually. Two young girls who should have spent all their formative years growing up together, living and laughing under the safe and loving roof of their parents’ home. Looking into the face of my adult sister, I’m struck by how the bent will of a single man could wreak so much havoc across so many years.

The last thing I want to do right now is leave. But Lila’s recovery is the top priority. There will be more time for us to talk later. For now, I want to respect the wishes of her doctors.

As if reading my thoughts, Buzz stands up. “Lila, listen. We’re going to go now,” I tell her. “You need to get some rest. The doctors are going to make sure you’re getting all the help you need. We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

She frowns again. “You said that Toby is still alive? He’s not dead?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.” All of a sudden, her eyes widen into two fear-filled saucers. “No!” she yells. “Danger. You’re in danger! All of you.”

Buzz and I exchange a look. “Lila, what do you mean?”

Her entire body goes rigid. She stares past me. All I can see is dark fear pooled in her eyes. “I know him. My brother will not stop until he has completed his mission.”

Her words chill me. “His mission? What mission, Lila?”

“He will fulfill his plan. He won’t stop until it’s done.” Her breathing grows labored and ragged.

“Lila, what plan?” I ask again. “Did he tell you what it is?”

Her body seizes, and her face contorts in pain. The monitors begin to blare. “Father’s book. He was using Father’s book.”

The next thing I know, nurses are streaming into the room. Buzz and I back up against the wall and watch helplessly as they assess her condition. Finally, the decision is made to sedate her. A nurse rushes out of the room. When she returns, she’s holding a vial and a syringe.

They stick the needle into Lila’s arm and soothe her as it takes effect. Her body relaxes into the mattress. A nurse turns to me and Buzz. “She must have gotten overstimulated. She’ll be all right.”

I start to thank her but am interrupted by Lila’s voice. It’s weak as she grows tired, but I manage to catch her final words before she sinks deep into sleep.

“Darcy, you’re not safe. No one—no one is safe.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Johnny Ray’s Tavern

Albany, NY

“It was so awful. I thought she was having a seizure.” I say. “But the doctor met us in the hall a while later, and after conferring with the nurses, he agreed that she had just been overstimulated.”

“That’s a relief,” Skylar says. “How is Buzz doing?”

“Poor Buzz. He was so rattled. I had to drive him home. We left his car in the parking lot for now.”

“You’re lucky to have him,” she says. “He loves you so much. Both of you.”

I nod. She’s right. We are lucky to have him. And after all our losses, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t feel immeasurable gratitude for him being in our lives.

After dropping him off at home, I called up Skylar and had her join me here for a drink. Johnny Ray’s is the kind of place you can go if you need to get away from the hustle and bustle and give yourself time to think. The atmosphere is dark, and it’s a little seedy, but it’s never so loud that I can’t hear myself think or hear a friend speak. Which is precisely what I need right now.

We’re almost hidden away at a small table in the corner. An old jukebox is playing a song from George Jones or Waylon Jennings—which one, I can’t remember. Buzz would probably be disappointed in me for not knowing that. Sturdy nails cover much of the walls and wooden support beams. Whenever someone downs ten drinks in a visit, the bartender hands them a hammer and a nail, which they can put anywhere they like. As an added perk, the bar pays for a taxi to get them home if they don’t have a designated driver. Over the years, thousands of nails have accumulated all over the place. Not exactly the most prudent tradition for a bar, especially when a good portion of your patrons come here to get inebriated. I’ve seen more than one tipsy person snag a shirt sleeve or scrape the side of their arm on a nail head. Despite those kinds of occasional mishaps, people love coming here and letting the stress of the day fall off their shoulders.

Skylar shakes her head in disbelief and takes a sip of her beer. “I can’t believe she’s awake, Darcy. After all this time. It’s a miracle.”

I nod. “It really is. I just hope her healing moves in a stable direction.” My chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “She said she can’t move her legs, Sky. She can’t feel her feet.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Okay. Maybe she loses some function. So what? It will add some extra challenges to her life. But she’s awake and talking. That in itself is unbelievable, given what happened. And she’ll have you. And Buzz. Neither of you are going anywhere.”

“Not yet, anyway,” I huff. “That could change at any moment.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she asked about Hess. Actually called him ‘Father.’”

“Eww. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I told her he was dead but didn’t offer any details surrounding his death. But then she asked about Parsons. Not long after she heard that he was still alive, still on the loose, she looked terrified. I think that’s the reason she got overstimulated. She said that Parsons won’t stop until he’s completed his mission. The last thing she said was that none of us are safe.”

“Oh, Darcy. You think she knows something specific?”

I nod. “Probably. He’s a good ten years older than she is, but they grew up in the same house together for a few years. She was part of planning the attacks with both of them. So she’ll know how he thinks.”

Skylar lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “It fits what his most recent letter said. He loves chaos. Obviously, he’s not done.”

“Yeah.”

After coming off the high of finally speaking with my sister but then experiencing her outburst of fear, I’m beginning to feel defeated. Lila knows Parsons better than anyone alive. And if she’s that terrified, then the rest of us probably should be as well.

“Did you tell Scott?” Skylar asks.

“I did. His team is going to comb back through Hess’s book again. They’ve already dissected it every way to Sunday, trying to use it to find where Parsons might be. But no luck so far.”

Scott Chapman leads one of Quantico’s specialized Criminal Investigative Units. He’s also a personal mentor and friend. After an investigation in Miller’s Grove revealed that Marvin Hess was the man who had kidnapped us, the Bureau tasked him and his team with finding the monster. Now that Marvin Hess is lying six feet under, Scott’s team has been doing their best to zero in on Parsons.

The night that I finally caught up to Hess, I stumbled upon a thick, black, leather-bound sketchbook. Every page was filled with drawings, ancient verses from pagan scriptures, runes, and countless symbols I didn’t recognize. The book contained the most tangible expression of what went on inside his mind. All his plans were right there, his inane reasonings, and the divine messages he thought he was the receptacle for.

There were illustrations of murder weapons, the faces of his gods—that look like angry demons to me, and the names of all his victims across three decades. That book might be the only true way to get inside Toby Parsons’s head.

“Scott wants to speak with Lila,” I tell her. “Since an unknown number of lives are at stake, he’s asked her doctors for a few minutes of her time. It’s going to take them a couple days to run all of their initial tests on her cognitive and physical functions, but I’m somewhat hopeful that it might help.”

“What a mess,” she says, and eyes my glass. “You’re almost done. I’m getting another. You want one?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She stands up. “Be right back.”

Several men eye her lithe figure as she makes her way to the bar. They seem to be noticing her, rather than leering, which is a nice change. I’ve already got two drinks in me, and all this angst has me feeling a little feisty. I don’t think it would take too much for me to jump up and get in their faces if needed.

Skylar returns with drinks and sits back down again. Like the good friend she is, she steers the conversation away from all my personal drama and anything having to do with work. For a long time, we just shoot the breeze and talk about normal things for once, from movies to fashion to music.

“I decided to enter a large cycling event next month,” she says, her face lighting up. “It’s down in South Carolina. Travelers Rest. You should come. We can totally make it a girls’ trip.”

“Maybe,” I say, wishing that I felt more enthusiastic about the idea.

“Oh, come on. It would be good for both of us. The race is three days through the mountains. You could cheer for me at the rest stops and spend the rest of the time enjoying nature or chilling out at the hotel.” Her eyes are almost pleading, and it makes me laugh.

“I’ll think about it, okay? I do agree that it would be good to have a change of scenery for a little bit. But let me chew on it for a couple days.”

“Sure,” she says, and a twinkle enters her eyes. “Take all the time you need. As long as you come back with a yes.”

We close out our tab and file out the door to her car, and I realize that coming here tonight has been good for me. I needed to talk through the day’s events with someone I trust. Earlier, Sky said that I was lucky to have Buzz. And she couldn’t be more right about that.

But I’m lucky to have her too. Not only as my partner in fighting crime but as my best friend. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her in my life. She is always there for me. Whether I just need someone to process or laugh with, I can always count on her to be there when I need her, day or night.

And it’s on that note that I stop with my hand on the door handle and look at her over the top of the car. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay…what?”

“Okay, South Carolina sounds great. Let’s do it.”

“Really?” she squeals. “Yes! It is totally going to be the best. Fresh air, no work, no worries. Eek, I can’t wait! It will be the best.”

“Yeah,” I say, catching some of her excitement, “it will be.”

I look out at the city as it passes by. I really love this place, and I love the work that we do to help keep it safe. It can be exhausting some days, but my head hits the pillow every night knowing that I’ve played some role in keeping our citizens safe from harm.

I switch on the radio and stop on an upbeat song by Maroon 5. Skylar rolls down the windows, and we laugh together as we sing at the top of our lungs. It feels good to let go, to relax and enjoy life with some measure of abandon. Because lord only knows that tomorrow will surely bring enough challenges of its own.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Law Office of Jared Fesser

Boston, Massachusetts

Jared Fesser’s office is on the ground floor of an older, five-story building downtown. The worn green marble floors, stone walls of the lobby, and tin tile ceiling make it feel like we’ve bounced back in time a hundred years. But as soon as we step into the reception area of his office, we’re brought back to the present day.

The carpeted space is quiet and decorated in a modern flare. There’s a white leather couch and two bright blue stuffed chairs in the waiting area. The walls are painted a bright, but not obnoxious, yellow. It’s obvious that the space was designed to give off a lot of energy.

We check in with the secretary, and she directs us to have a seat. She’s a pretty redhead, wearing a black ruffle strap blouse and a red pencil skirt that shows off her slim figure when she stands up.

It’s a small office, as far as law firms go. Fesser is the only lawyer. A secretary and two paralegals round out the operation. Based on what I could find out about him online, Fesser has closed some pretty impressive cases, including a lawsuit against the state for overcharging for parking fines and one against a major corporation for mislabeling ingredients in foods that made consumers sick.

I’ve just gotten comfortable on the couch when a text comes through. I swipe over to it, and a smile crosses my lips.

“What is it?” Skylar asks. “Good news?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

“Later? Really?”

“Trust me, this one will be worth it.”

“Fine. I have secrets too, you know. Secrets that I keep from you.”

“Keep going,” I chuckle. “It won’t work.”

“Darn it.”

The secretary returns and clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fesser is unavailable at this time. Would you like to schedule a meeting with him later in the week?”

I glance over at the double doors leading to his office. “You told him we were with the FBI?”

“I did. Unfortunately, his schedule is full today. I would be happy to book you another time with him.”

I stand up. There’s no need to look at Skylar. I know her well enough to know that we’re both thinking the same thing. We start for his door, the secretary urging us back as she trails behind us.

The office looks nothing like the reception area. As you might expect, it has a darker ambience that speaks to the gravity of the kind of business that occurs here. The carpet is dark green, and the walls are some version of burgundy.

A man of about fifty sits behind a dark wooden desk. He’s handsome by my standards. He has a smooth face, and hawkish eyes sit behind thin-framed glasses. His brown hair is showing signs of gray and is combed off to one side. He looks up with a start as we enter his office, unannounced and uninvited.

I present my creds. “Mr. Fesser, I’m Agent Hunt. This is my partner, Agents Mills. We would like a few minutes of your time.”

He doesn’t look fazed in the least and slowly removes his glasses. “I believe Wendy told you that I don’t currently have time to give you, Agents.”

From behind us: “I did, sir. They—they didn’t listen.”

“She did tell us,” I say. “That doesn’t change the fact that we need to speak with you.” Skylar follows my lead as we drop into the chairs in front of his desk.

“Please, don’t sit.” He rises from his chair and plucks a jacket off a coat tree. “Actually, I was just leaving.”

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “We’re not.”

For an instant, he completely freezes, then eyes us with irritation. “This is most inappropriate. Just because you’re law enforcement, that doesn’t mean that you can just waltz into someone’s office and throw your weight around.”

“Why not? Plenty of law enforcement officials have done that to Mary Carpenter. You haven’t seemed to care anything about that.”

At the mention of Mary’s name, the blood drains from his face. “Wendy,” he says to his secretary, “I think I will take this meeting.”

“But sir, I thought⁠—”

“And shut the door behind you. Thank you.”

By the time she’s gone, Fesser has returned to his chair. He speaks slowly and thoughtfully. “What is this? What is your interest in my client?”

“Your client?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “You keep a massive retainer that you took from her but stop returning her calls and lose any interest in fighting for her?”

“I’m not certain what it is you think I can do for you. My relationships with my clients are outside your purview. Surely you’re aware of that.”

“Which is why I’m not here to ask you to disclose personal information regarding your clients. Though I’m not certain that in this particular case, any of them would want anything less than for you to scream everything they’ve told you from the rooftops.” I cross my legs and get comfortable. “But I am going to ask you a question that will require you to be honest with me. You get to decide how this conversation goes today. Heads is truth—you win. Tails is lying to me—you lose.”

“Can we get on with this?”

“The farmers in that valley banded together and hired you to bring a case against Montlake Industries. It’s been months now, and you’ve done nothing. By all accounts, you’ve gone dark on them. I want to know why you’ve been dragging your feet. Especially when actual lives are involved.”

A haughty smile enters his face. “I’m not dragging my feet, Agents. These things take time. And this is a very personal case for me. It matters a great deal.”

“Bull,” I say. “What takes time, Mr. Fesser? What exactly are you waiting on that you can’t even call a client back, who is dying of two different types of cancer, I might add.”

His icy eyes bore into mine. For a while, it appears that we’re at a stalemate. Fesser isn’t going to budge. It’s time to play hardball.

“You’re a disgrace,” I begin. “Good, innocent people hired you to be their voice, to fight for them because they can’t do it themselves. They pooled together their hard-earned money and handed it over to you.” I wag a finger at him. “You know what I think? I think someone got to you. Someone pulled you aside, or maybe even sat right where I am and made you a proposition—an offer you couldn’t refuse. As a result, you conveniently put your obligation to your client to the side⁠—”

“How dare⁠—”

“I’m not done. You sit there in front of all your pretty law books and act like you’re above what’s in them. Keep stonewalling us, and within the next two hours, I’ll have a warrant secured. My people will go through every hard drive, folder, drawer, and piece of lint in this office. After that, they’ll move into your bank account and check for any unusual payments to you from anyone that smacks of Montlake Industries or their subsidiaries. And in the meantime, I’ll be parked right here waiting for my team to arrive.”

“You can’t blackmail me. You raid my office under these conditions and nothing you find will be admissible in court.”

That sparks a laugh from me. “I may be not a lawyer, but I know how the process works. So stop trying to make me second-guess myself. It’s not going to happen.” I toss up my hands and let them fall back into my lap. “So here I am. Parked in your office with the emergency brake on.”

When a pitiful excuse for a human being glares at me with absolute hatred like Fesser is now, I know I’m doing my job right. I actually get a great amount of pleasure from moments like this.

Skylar gives him a mock grimace. “So, Mr. Fesser, how does it feel to have your balls in a vice? Or is it hemorrhoids? It’s hemorrhoids, isn’t it? Because right now, you are looking super uncomfortable in that chair.”

A crimson flush creeps up his neck and into his face. Despite his anger, his next words are conciliatory. “What do you want?”

“I’ve already told you. I want to know why you failed to represent the interests of your clients. What stopped you from finding the truth about their water supply and exposing it?”

He looks away. A muscle flexes in his jaw. “All right,” he finally says. “Someone came to me a few weeks after I took the case.” He reaches up and slowly drags the palm of his hand across his jaw. “They said that they wanted a chance to make it right, and would I give them a little time to do that? They wanted to make everyone whole without going to court.”

“So you bailed on your fiduciary duty?”

“I didn’t say that, and you didn’t hear me say that,” he snaps. “Let’s not confuse words here.”

“Who was it that had this conversation with you?”

“I didn’t get their name, and I didn’t ask.”

“Did they pay you, Mr. Fesser?”

“I think I’ve said enough. You need to leave.”

I nod and scoot to the edge of my seat. “I’ll tell you what. Here’s what I want you to do. You have forty-eight hours to return every dime Mary Carpenter gave to you. Every dime, do you understand?”

“Look, I⁠—”

“And then you’re going to tell her that you are unable to represent her. The people in that valley deserve better. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Quite clear.”

We stand up. “Have a good day.”

“So we’re good? We’re okay?”

“Fine, Mr. Fesser. You won’t see me again.”

We show ourselves out, and his concerned secretary rushes in behind us. A text comes through as we walk through the lobby.

“Girl, nice work back there,” Skylar says. “Threatening a warrant to get him talking. That is too bad though. I kinda like the idea of a scumbag like him getting his office raided. You know they paid him something.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a threat,” I tell her, and glance at my watch.

She studies me. “Darcy…what did you do?”

“Based on all the factors of this investigation, I already put in for a warrant this morning. Kemper texted when we got here and told me we were a go. A team from the BFO should be coming around the corner right about…now.” I’m off by a few seconds, but I watch with great satisfaction as three blacked out SUVs pull to the curb and a dozen agents from the Boston Field Office flood out.

“You sly dog, you.”

“I know.” A grin easily finds its way to my lips. “At the very least, they’ll find a transaction that points to him being paid off. He’ll get debarred and do time.”

“Amazing how quickly some people can get bought out,” she says. “How quickly they’ll turn a blind eye for a little cash.”

“Come on, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.” We start toward the intersection, but I’m stopped by the ringing of my phone. “Hang on.”

“Agent Hunt?”

I immediately recognize the voice of Carmela’s boss at the Globe. “Ms. Porter, good to hear from you.”

“Do you have a minute?” Rose asks.

“I do.”

“I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that my team and I have been doing some digging of our own into Carmela’s murder.”

“I would expect nothing less from someone such as yourself.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m sure you know that last week, two agents from your Boston office came in and picked through her desk and removed her work computer.”

“That’s right. They forwarded everything to our office. Our analysts have been receiving that data.”

“Good. I’m calling because we located a file that Carmela created on one of our internal servers. I’m not one to pass on information that could leak or compromise a good story, but I do feel an obligation to pass this information along. The file is entitled ‘Ridder.’ Does that name have any significance to your investigation?”

Samantha Ridder.

“Yes, it does.”

“Then perhaps Carmela was working a story on the side, though I’m not clear what angle she was investigating. The files we found don’t furnish a complete picture. I’m going to send you a Dropbox link. I hope it’s useful.”

“Thank you, Ms. Porter. While I have you on the phone, did she ever mention anything about Montlake Industries?”

“The oil and gas company? No, she never did.”

“Are you certain?”

She’s quiet for a few moments. “Yes, I’m certain. I would remember something like that.”

I know that bringing up Montlake will prompt Rose to take a close look at the company. It’s an extremely large organization, so without possessing the details I’m privy to, I don’t think she’ll get very far. That said, I do want her to know what my aim is.

“I need some more time to unravel everything,” I tell her. “We need to make some arrests and understand the full scope of what we’re dealing with. But I have a story, a good story that needs to be told. And as soon as I have the right people in custody, I’ll sit down with you and give you all the details I can. I just need your promise that you’re going to blow the doors off it.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Agent Hunt. You loop me in when you’re ready, and I’ll blow it to the moon.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A-Z Rentals

Boston, MA

“Come on. We can talk in here.”

We’re led into a cramped office with wood-paneled walls and thin carpet that is patched over in areas with duct tape. The room reeks of stale smoke. The chair behind the desk creaks as James Walton presses his hefty frame into it.

He wears an Iron Maiden T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off a network of tattoos down his shoulders and arms. It wouldn’t surprise me if he spent his weekends cruising with a biker gang.

He gestures to a plastic chair in front of his cluttered desk. An ashtray beside his computer is running over with ash and cigarette butts. “Have a seat. Sorry, I’ve only got the one.”

“No problem,” I tell him, and Skylar nods at me to take the chair and takes up a spot in the doorway.

“Now, what can I do for you? This has gotta be the first time I’ve never had the FBI in my fine establishment. Glad they decided to send their prettiest.”

I place my iPad on his desk and nudge it toward him. “I show this panel truck registered to your company. Is that right?”

He leans forward and squints at the photo. “Looks like one of mine. Hang on.” James sets his hand on his computer mouse and clicks around, then his fingers click along the keyboard. “Yes. That’s mine. What’s your interest in it?”

I pull back the iPad. “I need to know who rented it on April 16th.”

“Okay…can I ask why? I’m not running a shady business here.”

“I don’t think you are,” I tell him. “Your truck was involved in illegal activity on that particular evening. I need to locate the person who rented it from you.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Illegal activity. That’s cryptic. You’re supposed to have a warrant or something, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re not willing to cooperate. Do you have something to hide?”

He smiles. “You’re a little feisty. No, I don’t have anything to hide. Just curious, is all. Like I said, I’ve never had the authorities up in here. Hang on.” He clicks around some more. “Guy’s name was Randy Fillmore. Have his license on file.”

“Can you print that out?” I ask. “Along with the rental agreement.”

“Sure can.” A printer on top of the filing cabinet whirs to life.

“Do you remember him?” I ask.

He lights up a cigarette. Inside, I groan. Now I’m going to smell like smoke for the rest of the day.

“I remember him. He’s rented from me a few times. Always gets the truck with a tailgate lift.” James looks back at the screen. “Last time he came in was…three weeks ago.” He stands up, grabs the pages off the printer, and hands them over before turning to his chair.

It’s a law of the universe that driver’s license pictures are not flattering. But Randy Fillmore looks like he downed a fifth of whiskey and didn’t sleep for three days before going to the DMV.

“How long does he usually keep the truck for?” I ask.

“Just a day. Usually comes by late afternoon and has it back before we open. Sticks the keys in the drop off slot.”

After leaving Jared Fesser’s office, Skylar and I found a coffee shop and dug through the files Rose Porter sent over. It turns out that Samantha had provided Carmela with dozens of photos from her clandestine invitation into what Montlake was doing.

There were photos of a truck being loaded with blue plastic barrels and the barrels being unloaded in a rural location. Additional photos showed us what the structure looked like on Steve Mattson’s property before it burned down. It was a three-sided building that provided easy access for loading and unloading. In one picture, I counted over a dozen barrels. No doubt all of their contents ended up in a serene Vermont valley before permanently lodging in the bodies of dozens, if not hundreds, of innocent people.

The photos were a gold mine, exactly what we needed to keep this investigation going full steam. In the long term, they’ll be the evidence that the prosecution needs to hold Montlake accountable. But in the short term, they’re providing crucial details into the identities of some of the players who carried out these atrocities.

“How does he pay for the rental?” Skylar asks.

“Cash. Always cash.”

“Do you require a credit card on file?”

He nods. “I do. It should be listed there on the rental agreement.”

I scan down the pages and find that the card is in Fillmore’s name.

“What’d he do?” James asks. “Transport drugs or something?”

“Or something,” Skylar mutters over my shoulder. “Have you ever had any problems with him?”

“Nope. He always returns the truck like I gave it to him.”

I stand up and thank James for his time.

A line of concern appears on his brow. “What do I do if he comes back? Do I rent him a truck?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I tell him. “He won’t be coming back.”

Back in the car, Skylar uses the iPad to look up Fillmore in our system. “Other than a citation for a domestic disturbance five years ago, he’s clean,” she says.

“Where does he work?”

“Let’s see…here it is. Appears to be out of work at the moment. Last job was a day laborer at the steelyard. As for his residence…looks like he still lives with his mother on the other side of the city.”

I start the car and tap my finger on the wheel.

Skylar slips the iPad into my bag. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that we need more personal connections to Samantha. I still haven’t heard anything else from Cheetah.”

She glances at her watch. “We have two hours before we meet with her best friend.”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to come up short. Locating someone close enough to Samantha to go on a killing spree on her behalf has been slim pickings so far.”

She shrugs. “It might not be someone in her corner. Some details point to that, but the odds are that someone in the valley is getting their pound of flesh.”

Cheetah has been hard at work trying to find as many of Samantha’s friends and relatives as he can. From everything he can see, she was a pretty private person. Her mother lives in California, and they had a falling out a number of years ago. Other than a local friend that she knew since high school, we have nothing else, not even a boyfriend.

If I’m honest, that concerns me a little. We just started to pick up momentum. I don’t want to lose it now because I’ve put too much stock into a theory that dries up. If our guy is from the valley, finding him will be a needle in a haystack. So far, he hasn’t made any mistakes. He’s smart and has stayed a step ahead this entire way.

For once, I would love to turn the tables and get out ahead of him.

Chapter Thirty

Jeb’s All-Star Bar

Boston, MA

The bar is basically empty this time of day, so it’s not hard to find Randy Fillmore. He’s at a corner table with his back to me. The only other patron is an older gentleman perched on a barstool, talking to the bartender about a ball game on the television.

I wave the bartender off as I start for the table and slip onto the seat across from Randy. He’s staring mindlessly into his beer. It takes him a few seconds to even register that someone is sitting at his table. When he looks up and eyes me with confusion, I quickly conclude that his driver’s license photo is much more flattering than what’s in front of me right now.

His graying brown hair hangs past his face in greasy tendrils. His face hasn’t seen a razor in days, and his sagging skin looks like it’s about to drip right off his face.

“Well, hey, good lookin’.” His eyes brighten, grotesquely popping out of his skull. “This must be my lucky day.”

I give him a bright smile. “I think you’re exactly right.”

Skylar decided to let me fly solo on this one. Between the two of us, she is usually the spunkier one and is amazing at interviews like this. But I think the lack of sleep is catching up to her. She really has put everything she’s got into this case, and I can’t blame her for tagging me to pinch hit for her this time around. So I thought it might be nice to channel the energy she would have given to this interview had she been up for it.

“You, uh, you lonely?” I ask him, speaking in a low, seductive drawl.

His eyes pop even more. I half expect them to fall into his drink. “Yeah,” he says excitedly, and his rancid exhalation almost knocks me out of my chair.

“Great,” I cough, “because I’m ready to play.”

“Yeah…let’s play.”

“I know a great game, Randy.”

His brow crinkles. “How do you know my name?”

I reach behind me and grab a letter-sized photo from the small of my back, then place it on the table. “Let’s play name that truck.”

He looks down at the photo, then back at me. “I don’t understand.”

“No? That’s the truck you rented from A-Z Rental.”

“Yeah? So?”

I wag my brows at him. “So…you wanna tell me why you needed the truck? I’ve got something special planned for you if you do.”

“Something special?” His mouth turns up into a drunken smile. “Sure…I had to move things for some people.”

I lean in a little closer. “What kind of things?”

“Don’t know.” He frowns and looks at me afresh. “Why? How do you know about that?”

“Is that really important? You were moving some blue barrels, right? Where did you take them?” I lock eyes with him and smile.

He takes another swig of his beer and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Some river in Vermont—hey, what is this? Who are you?” Despite the fresh intake of alcohol, he seems to sober up. He sits back in his chair. “I don’t even know who you are.”

My gig appears to be up. I reach back, slip out my badge, and place it on the table.

Randy’s body tenses. He scoots back in his chair, but I grab his forearm before he can stand up. “Sit down, Randy.” My eyes bore into his. His body relaxes. I take my hand off him and wipe my palm down the side of my pant leg, ridding it of the sweat and grime.

“You’re FBI.” He’s completely sober now.

“I am.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, and pick up my badge. “What were in those barrels?”

He gives a rueful shake of his head. “I already told you, I don’t know.”

“But you poured their contents into a river?”

“No. Not me. Vic and Dillon did.”

“How did you get the job?”

He looks away.

“Randy, who came to you with the job?”

“I don’t want to get into trouble. I just needed the extra cash.”

I nod. “Listen, some things are going on that are way above you. Honestly, I’m far more interested in those. I can make life super hard for you, Randy. Why don’t you just tell me who gave you the job?”

His brows knit together. He looks into his lap. “How did you find me here?”

“Your aging mother pointed us in your direction.” I grimace. “I don’t think she’s very happy with you right now. Said you owe her like four months of back rent.”

He nods. “She’s a little angry with me right now. I keep meaning to pay her.”

“The job, Randy. Who gave it to you?”

He sighs, and I hold my breath as it passes. “Kyle Lewis.”

“And how did the job offer come about?”

He lifts his glass and holds it up over his mouth, letting the last few drops fall in. The glass returns to the table with a thud. “Vic told me about it. Kyle is his uncle. I heard Kyle bragging to some of the guys that he was doing the job for an old high school friend of his. Was saying how the friend is some crazy rich big wig.”

“What does Kyle do for a living?”

“Owns a local chain of used dealerships, I think.”

I nod.

Randy huffs. “Kyle likes to make money. We all like to make money. His friend knew he was good for the favor. So Kyle went and hired us three to make some runs in the truck for him.”

“And Kyle’s wealthy friend? What was his name?”

Randy sets a hand on his stomach, and a loud belch rolls out of him. It’s a good thing I forgot to eat lunch, otherwise it would be all over the table right now.

“Him? Why is that important?”

“It just is,” I say through gritted teeth. “What is it?”

He scratches the stubble on his face as he mutters to himself. “Uh, William…William…William—Moreland. William Moreland. Yeah, I think that’s it. Made all his money in real estate? Maybe?”

I recall what Kemper said about Steve Mattson yesterday, how people like him often keep their distance from crimes they give approval to. Hiring an old friend who he knew would do some dirty work would sound like the right MO from someone else high up in this corrupt food chain.

I lean back in my chair. “Randy, how much did they pay you every time you took those barrels out to Vermont?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

Four hundred dollars. Unbelievable.

All of a sudden, my patience is gone. I don’t feel like playing nice anymore. “I hope you know how many lives you destroyed over a measly amount of money,” I growl. “You’re going to pay for what you did. I hope you know that.”

His eyes bulge out again. “But wait—I told you what you wanted. And I—I didn’t even know what was in them!”

“You didn’t want to.” I stand up and start for the door. Outside, I give a nod to a captain of the Boston PD. “He’s in there. Make sure those bracelets are good and tight.”

Once we located Randy, Skylar called BPD and got them ready to make the arrest. Montlake will lawyer him up, I have no doubt about that. And the lawyer will play his part well. He’ll say Randy’s admission to me was done while he was in an inebriated state, and they’ll use that to invalidate what I just heard in there. I’ll leave all that to the DA’s office. For now, I got exactly what I wanted. I’m going full steam in the opposite direction.

Skylar and I return to the car. I start it up and pause before pulling out of the parking lot. “Why does the name William Moreland ring a bell?”

“Hmm…that does ring a bell. Not sure. Maybe he was on the list of party invitees?” She pulls out her phone and swipes at the screen. “Yep. Here he is. He responded to our request last week when we asked anyone who received a party invitation but didn’t attend to let us know. Wow. He’s actually on Montlake’s board of directors. He’s big time.”

“Call Brooks,” I tell her. “Ask him to get in touch with Mr. Moreland. Make sure he advises him on a high threat level. Moreland needs to let us take him into protective custody until we put this thing to rest.”

“On it.”

We’re getting closer. I can feel it. I only hope we can put the lid on it before any more blood is shed.

Chapter Thirty-One

Champions Tower

Boston, Massachusetts

“Iam so sorry I’m late. We have a big product launch coming up this weekend, and I had a meeting I couldn’t get out of.”

“No worries,” I say and invite her to have a seat.

We’re in the ground floor lobby of a tall office building downtown. Skylar and I have been waiting on a couch in the corner, away from all the hustle and bustle of people moving in and out of the space, allowing us time to think as we continue to pursue data relevant to this case.

Faith Sterling is in her late twenties. Her black hair is cut in a tapered bob, her eyebrows are gently arched, which frames her eyes with a natural elegance, and she wears a light pink pantsuit that makes me feel a little drab in my plain ponytail, black jeans, and agency polo. But since we’re not here to partake in a fashion competition, I easily brush it off.

“You said over the phone that you had questions about Samantha?” she says, lowering herself into a plush chair that’s angled toward the couch.

I nod. “We do.”

“I don’t understand, Agents. Samantha has been dead for three months now. Surely you don’t think that she was involved with something that would require the FBI to be involved?”

“We think she was,” I tell her. “But not in the way you might think. Samantha didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, we’re looking into the circumstances surrounding her death.”

Faith’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh my god. I knew it. It wasn’t a robbery, was it?”

I shoot a glance at Skylar. “What makes you think that?”

“Who wouldn’t think that? She lived in an apartment in a decent part of town. Nothing was stolen, and she wasn’t sexually assaulted. I’m sure it does happen, but shooting someone during a robbery and not taking anything, not disturbing anything in the house, that’s fishy to me.”

“Did you take your concerns to the police?”

She looks at me incredulously. “Of course I did. Samantha was my best friend. I’ve left probably a dozen messages over there. I even went over to the station a couple times. They finally let me sit down with a detective. All he did was assure me that they were looking into it.”

“What’s the detective’s name?” Skylar asks her.

“Um, Victoriano. Samuel Victoriano.”

Faith’s sentiment about her friend’s death echoes that of Elana Sparrow, who was the first one to alert me that Samantha’s death may not have been what the official reporting suggested. Cops and agents are supposed to be above the law. Sadly, some of us are not. Just like the people we are supposed to be locking away, law enforcement is also susceptible to the temptations of money, power, and influence.

“Faith,” I say, “how long did you know Samantha?”

“Since high school. We met on the cheer team. We stayed in touch through college—I went to Duke, but she stayed here and attended Boston College. When I moved back, we picked up where we left off.”

“And when was the last time you saw her?”

“We went to see a movie that Saturday afternoon. The next morning, I got a call from her mother saying she was dead.” Faith looks away and touches the edge of a finger beneath her eye to blot away a growing tear. “I couldn’t believe it. Not her, you know? She was so great. The best.”

“Did Samantha mention anything to you about a side project she might have been working on?” I ask her. “Maybe something that had recently caught her interest?”

Faith shakes her head. “She was preoccupied. I asked her if something was wrong, but she kept swearing that everything was fine. Said she was just busy with a lot of stuff at work.” Faith’s eyes narrow. “Why? What am I missing? The FBI is here asking about her. What do I not know?”

“I can’t explain right now,” I tell her. “As soon as I’m able, I’ll give you a full explanation. For now, it’s important that we understand the contours of her life. Especially her relationships. You knew her better than anyone. Do you know who else she was close to?”

“Samantha was a jewel. And an introvert. Her idea of a good time was curling up with a book at home or going for a run on the Charles River Path. You couldn’t get that girl into a nightclub for anything in the world. She had acquaintances at work, and I think she still kept up with a couple friends from college who live out west. But she didn’t have a lot of friends here. She was content with that.”

“Do you know the friends’ names out west?”

“I’m sorry. One is Merinda, I think? I don’t know a last name.” Faith frowns. “You said you wanted to know the contours of her life? Why?”

“We don’t think her death was an accident, Ms. Sterling. We have reason to believe that she was trying to do the right thing by exposing some wrongdoing. That’s all I can say at the moment, and I’m sure it will elicit additional questions that I can’t currently answer. But you can rest assured that your friend was a good person. An incredible person, in fact.”

She nods. “Thank you. She really was.”

“What about a boyfriend?” I continue. “Maybe an office fling?”

“No boyfriend. And Samantha wasn’t the kind to go for office flings. She was a serious person and longed for a serious relationship. I’m content with my career, but Samantha, she hoped to get married and have kids.” Faith smiles. “Seven, she always said. ‘I’m going to have seven kids. Just you watch.’” Grief presses her eyes tightly shut. When she opens them again, they’re glistening with tears.

We’re running short on answers, but I’m still convinced that the person behind all this is connected to Samantha in some way. They’re systematically picking off each person directly or indirectly for her murder. “Okay, so no boyfriend,” I say, and glance at the notes on my phone. “Her father passed several years ago, her mother lives in California, and no siblings. Did she ever mention any uncles or cousins?”

Faith huffs. “Wanda—that’s her mother—she’s a piece of work. Selfish, entitled. She only called Samantha when she wanted something. I don’t know anything about uncles or cousins. Just that she and her brother finally connected after all those years.”

I straightened. “I’m sorry? You said a brother?”

“Well, yeah. Benjamin. He’s Samantha’s twin brother. Wanda gave him up at birth. Stephanie didn’t even know about him until about six months ago. Somehow he found her, and they reconnected.”

Skylar jumps up and walks away with her phone to her ear.

Adrenaline is coursing through me now as I continue the interview. “Did you ever meet him?”

She nods. “Once. Super nice guy. But I think he had a hard go of it. Samantha said he was struggling with some things. She was so happy to find out she had a sibling. They both were.”

“Have you talked with him since her death?”

“No.” Faith’s expression falters a little. “I don’t know how to get in touch with him. I even called Wanda, but she didn’t even seem aware that her children had reconnected.”

“Benjamin didn’t come to the funeral?”

“There wasn’t a funeral. I gathered some of her friends from work, and we had a memorial service for her. Wanda didn’t even bother to come,” she says with some disgust.

My mind is humming with the possibilities, but I force it to stay on track. “In the months leading up to her death, you said she was preoccupied. Did she share her thoughts with you?”

She shakes her head. “Like I said, she chalked it up to stuff at work. I figured it was more than that but wanted to respect her desire not to say anything. I mean, come on. Samantha was an accountant. How crazy can work get so that you get unusually quiet when you’re not even there?”

Oh, you have no idea.

I stand up and extend my hand. “Faith, this has been very helpful. Thank you for giving us your time. Know that we’re trying to understand the events surrounding Samantha’s death. As soon as I’m able, I’ll tell you more.”

“Thank you, Agent Hunt.” She reaches out and shakes my hand. “I hope to hear from you soon. Have a good day.”

As soon as she strides off for the elevators, I start pacing the waiting area, waiting anxiously for Skylar to finish her phone call. Finally, she hangs up and comes back over.

“Okay,” she says, “I just spoke with Cheetah and Brooks. Told him about Samantha’s brother. After he knew what to look for, he found him.” The look in her eyes tells me everything I need to know.

“Military experience?”

“Two tours in Afghanistan. Bronze medal for bravery in action, but an honorable discharge three years ago for depression and symptoms related to PTSD. Inherited a small fortune from his adopted father, who passed around the time he was discharged. Last year, he did a stint in a mental hospital for schizophrenia. They had to move him to a secure wing because he started getting violent with the staff. Want to guess what he invested a lot of his inheritance in? And won big?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Honestly? I’m so tired of making guesses right now.”

“Crypto, Darcy. He made a ton of money in crypto. That’s how he paid for the Gilded Gate rental. And listen, there’s more. I just hung up with Brooks. He can’t get in touch with William Moreland. His wife said he was due back at the house an hour ago. They were supposed to go to a fundraiser together. And Cheetah says his phone is turned off.”

“Oh no,” I groan. “We’re too late.” I rub my temples. “Okay, think. Carmela and Mattson were killed based on what the killer thinks they did wrong. She didn’t report the story, his division produced the chemical. Moreland—what did he do?”

“Set up the logistics that took the barrels to the river?”

“Ugh, that’s not helpful. We don’t know a thing about Moreland.” I’m starting to feel frantic. Another life is on the line, and we have no idea where to turn. “He owns real estate, right? That’s what he made his money in?”

“Yes, and I’ve already got Cheetah looking into potential places he could have been taken.” She shrugs. “It’s a shot in the dark, but better than nothing.”

Frustration crawls through my muscles, tightening my neck and shoulders. I need my laptop and enough time to dig into who William Moreland is. Without that, we have no way of knowing where he was taken.

On our way across the lobby, Skylar’s phone dings. “One sec.” When she looks up, her eyes are dancing. “Cheetah found Moreland’s Mercedes. It has LoJack on it.”

“Where is it?”

“At the port. Moreland just bought an old warehouse down there. He said the LoJack stopped transmitting a few minutes ago, but that was the last location.”

“How far from here?”

Her thumbs dance across her phone. “Hold on…five minutes.”

“Let’s go. That might be five minutes we don’t have.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Port of Boston

Boston, Massachusetts

“You want me to call in backup?”

I nod as I survey the scene out of my windshield. “Call the Port Authority. They’ll have the fastest response time. Have them bring BPD in. But tell them to wait near that abandoned weigh-in station behind us and to keep their sirens off. We don’t need them screaming onto the scene.”

Two high, chain link gates stand open in front of us, a heavy chain lying on the asphalt. Beyond it is a large warehouse that sits along the water’s edge. The building, once bustling with activity, now stands quiet. Weathered by years of exposure to sea salt and sun, rust stains crawl from the metal roof and down the sides like dirty tears.

Skylar finishes the call and pulls out her sidearm. Slowly, I drive through the gates and pull to the side. We’re still a good thirty yards from the warehouse, but I don’t need the crunch of my tires on any loose gravel to give us away. We both perform press checks on our weapons, making sure they’re hot with a round in the chamber.

My heart is pounding in my chest as I look over at Skylar. “Ready?”

She inhales a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

We exit the car, gently press our doors shut, and quickly start across the wide stretch of open asphalt, guns in hand. A rusted metal door is cracked open on the side of the building. Reaching it, I put my face up to it, the smell of tidewater and creosote mingling in my nostrils as I peer through.

Inside is nothing but a cavernous space. An empty concrete floor bears the old scars of heavy machinery and traffic. It’s nearly as long as a football field but half as wide. High exposed beams serve as the structure’s skeleton. The opposite side of the building has no outer wall. The seawater runs right up to it, stopped by a shallow seawall, where concrete columns about a few feet high are mounted with rusted booms. No doubt they were used to load and unload shipping cargo back when this place was operational.

I catch a flicker of movement near the other end, though from this angle I can’t make anything out. The last thing I want to do is give our presence away by the door creaking open. I step back. “Someone’s down there. We need to find a closer door.”

We hurry down the side of the building, with tufts of grass poking up through the asphalt and swishing against our ankles. Locating another door, we find it slightly ajar like the last one. I peer through and take in the sight before me.

On the other side of the empty floor is a single blue barrel, perched precariously on the edge of the water. A man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt is leaning over it, fitting a network of chains around it. I watch his intense, deliberate movements with interest. He crouches, pushes his shoulder into the barrel, and slides a chain beneath it. Then he stands erect and examines his work.

Suddenly, an urgent, muffled cry echoes across the empty space. A hole, maybe three inches in diameter, has been cut into the side of the barrel. Inside, something is moving.

Skyler whispers a curse. “He’s got Moreland in that barrel.”

Samantha Ridder’s twin bears a strong resemblance to her. His icy blue eyes are framed by dark eyebrows, lending him an intense, penetrating gaze. A grizzled beard stands out from his face. His right arm is covered in tattoos.

He begins to work again, pulling up the chains around the barrel and connecting them all with a large D-ring at the top. That prompts more desperate cries for mercy from inside the barrel.

Behind him is a rusted boom about fifteen feet long. A heavy chain is attached to its cable, a large hook on the end. A hand crank is mounted on the side of the boom. He’s going to lift that barrel above the water. What he plans to do before or after is anyone’s guess.

I step back from the door. “How do we play this?” Skylar asks in a low voice.

“We can’t sneak up on him. Our only option is to take him by surprise.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either. But Moreland could be dead in the next sixty seconds if we don’t do something.”

She grimaces. “Full steam ahead it is.”

A fresh wave of adrenaline buzzes through my veins as we position ourselves at the door. Skylar grabs the door handle and nods at me. “Three…two…one…”

The door flies open, and I charge into the warehouse, my gun raised high. “Benjamin Olson, freeze!” My voice echoes across the bare floor and walls like I’m in a canyon.

His head whips toward me. An angry, feral look enters his eyes, and he glances back and forth around him, trying to decide how to handle this unexpected intrusion.

“Freeze!” I yell again, and close the distance. “FBI!”

Olson slides in front of the barrel and holds his hands up high. “Ah-ah. Hold it right there. You come a step closer, I push this barrel…and in he goes.” He takes a step back and presses his backside against the hard plastic.

I stop dead in my tracks. Skylar does the same, pulling up beside me. Now that we’re closer, I can see the barrel’s position more clearly. Half of it hangs over the outer edge of the floor, not two feet above the water. Olson isn’t wrong. One good nudge and it splashes in.

“You’re too late,” he says, his wild, penetrating gaze alternating between us.

I take a deep breath and steady my nerves. Moreland continues to yell from his confined position. Olson snaps at him to be quiet.

“Mr. Olson,” I say. “You’re under arrest. I need you to step away from there and put your hands behind your head.”

“Under arrest?” he yells. “It’s Moreland who should be under arrest. Not me!”

“Let me get him out of there, and I promise you, he will have his day in court.”

He shakes his head violently. “It’s too late. He’ll get off. Men like him, they don’t go to jail. So they pay in other ways.” He looks savagely down at the small hole near his knees. “You hear that, Moreland? You’re going to pay!”

“We know,” Skylar says gently. “We know about Samantha. What happened to her was wrong. What they all did. She did the right thing.”

“You’re damn right she did.” Tears well in his eyes. “She cared about all those people. All those kids and mothers and fathers. They killed her for it.”

“Benjamin,” Skylar says. “Why go through all this? You could have just gotten your revenge. Why go through such an elaborate setup with planning that party, and then leaving all the clues?”

She isn’t asking out of curiosity. We have most of the answers now. The few we don’t have will most likely get answered as we pieced everything together in the coming days. But right now, the longer we can keep him talking, the better chance we have of figuring a way out of this that saves both his and William Moreland’s lives.

“What Samantha discovered needs to be told,” he says. “Those people in the valley, their stories need to be told. And people need to hear them. The party was how I was going to do that. I’ve seen the headlines. Half the country is talking about what I did. And now you’ve followed my trail and you care about those people in the valley, don’t you?”

“Yes. We do. We really do.”

“If I hadn’t led you on this trail, you would never have been as personally invested. And the news outlets wouldn’t be following my trail of chaos. When I heard that the Saudis were coming for a visit, I had my golden key to the whole thing. The rest was easy.”

My shoulders are burning now, but I keep my gun trained on his heart. “Why invite and kill random people at that party, Benjamin? I understand the desire to get back at the people who hurt your sister. But some of those people have nothing to do with it. They were sisters and brothers too. They were innocent.”

His eye twitches. A scowl contorts his features. “They were not innocent!” he screams. “All the rich do is amass more power for themselves. They put their feet on the necks of everyone else. And every one of them lives above the law.” He glances back down. “Isn’t that right, Moreland?”

Another pleading cry from inside the barrel.

I slide my foot forward a few inches. “I think you’ve made a categorical error, Benjamin. I know many rich people who do a great amount of good. Money doesn’t corrupt you if you’re a good person. Look at you, you have a lot of money. Did your inheritance automatically corrupt you?”

He blinks, and a frown forms on his lips as he comes face-to-face with his faulty reasoning.

“You know what I think, Benjamin? I think you’re a good person. You served our country in wartime. You’re a decorated veteran for bravery. Whatever happened over there made you see the world differently. And you know, if our roles were reversed, if I had been deployed and saw what you did, I might feel the same way.”

His shoulders sag. “It was awful. What they did to all those people. I—” His fingers clenched into fists. “It makes me so angry.”

“Step away from the barrel,” I say gently. “Let’s talk about this outside. Can we do that?”

He shakes his head. “No. I—I can’t think straight sometimes. Samantha was helping me through it. She was really good at helping me see things the right way.” A vein pops out along his forehead. “But then they took her from me. My sister! I hadn’t seen her for most of my life, didn’t even know she existed, and they took her from me!”

“Did she tell you, Benjamin? Did she tell you about her investigation?”

“She told me everything. I wanted her to be careful. I’ve seen what powerful men can do.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “But it didn’t matter. They got her anyway. Got the local cops to write it up as a robbery, and that was that. No one knew and no one cared.” He huffs. “Not even our damn birth mother. What a waste of a human being she is.”

I reset my grip on my gun. “Elana Sparrow is paralyzed, Benjamin. She’s not a bad person. Her only crime was being scared. And Carmela Reynolds? She was scared too, wasn’t she? When Samantha brought her the story, she was too scared to run it. Does that make them bad people?”

“They didn’t do what was right. They left my sister all alone.”

“Carmela may have at first,” I rebut, “but after Samantha’s murder, she picked it back up. You know that. She went and visited Steve Mattson’s property.”

“Too late. It’s all too late.”

I edge forward a little more as he wipes sweat from his brow. When he looks back at me, it’s as if I’m not there. “If I let you arrest me, Moreland walks. I’m the one who goes to jail. He’ll be back on the golf course by tomorrow morning and never see the inside of a courtroom.” His tone has changed. Resolve has entered his face.

“No, that’s not true, Benjamin. You had us follow a trail. And you’re right, we’ve been made to care because of that. We want to see the truth come to light. And if Moreland is guilty, I swear to you, he will be held to account.”

He huffs. “You’re just an agent. You don’t control the DA. People like this bastard do.” His eyes refocus, and he looks me straight on. “You do what you have to do. Moreland pays.”

“No!” I yell as he clenches his jaw and rears back on his heels. Skylar fires two shots in perfect synchrony with mine. All four rounds hit him in the chest, but it’s not enough to stop his momentum. The barrel rears up, sways precipitously on the end of the floor, and tips into the water, Olson’s body flipping over the top of it.

Reaching the edge, I holster my weapon and quickly survey the dire situation. “Grab the boom,” I yell to Skylar. “We have to get the hook on!” Then I dive into the water and draw up against the barrel. It spins, and I see a second hole on the other side. Water is pouring freely into both of them.

Moreland is screaming from inside, begging me to help.

Skylar swings the boom around as I try to push the barrel closer to the seawall. “I…can’t move it,” I growl, pushing and flailing my legs with everything I’ve got. “It’s too heavy. I need the hook.”

“Hold on.” She’s busy fighting with the handle. “It’s stuck…I can’t get it to turn.”

Inside the barrel, Moreland is gurgling. “Come on, we’re losing him!” It starts to sink beneath the water.

“I’m trying—there!” The sprocket snaps loose, freeing the cable. It unravels, and the hook plummets into the water with a splash. But it’s too far away.

“Swing it around, Sky. I need it over my head. Hurry.” I’m treading water, trying to stay afloat myself as I wait for a literal lifeline. Beside me, the barrel plummets downward.

“I’m trying…” She heaves her body against the rusted boom. It grinds angrily as it swivels.

“Got it!” I yell. Then taking a deep breath, I dive.

Kicking my legs, I descend as fast as my body is able. The water is murky, the salt water stings my eyes, but my fingers manage to grasp the chains drifting at the top of the barrel. Grabbing them, I’m yanked down deeper into the water as my other arm pulls the hook as hard as I can.

I summon every ounce of energy I can, forcing the hook toward the chains, not concerning myself with locating the D-ring. I just need the hook to grab onto some— Suddenly, the hook stops its descent, and I’m jerked backward. The hook is out of cable.

The chains are torn from my grasp, rendering me helpless to save William Moreland from his descent into a watery grave.

My lungs are burning when I break the surface. My mouth opens wide, and I take in a greedy breath of air.

“Did you get it?” Skylar asks. “Did you hook it?” She looks into my eyes, and her body sags. “Dammit.”

I swim over to the edge. Skylar reaches out and pulls me onto solid ground. Slowly, I get to my feet, my chest heaving as water drips off me from head to toe.

“I tried. The cable stopped.”

“You did what you could. It’s not your fault, Darcy. It’s his.”

I follow her gaze to the body of Benjamin Olson. He’s lying face up, bobbing in the water. His eyes stare vacantly at the blue sky above.

Hanging out of his pocket, floating beside him, is a whistle.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Capitol Hills Memorial Hospital

Albany, NY

Astunning blend of orange and purple streaks across the evening sky as the sun sinks into the horizon. My car windows are down as I breathe in the fresh air and take the familiar route to the hospital.

For the first time in a while, I feel relaxed. Over the last two weeks, we uncovered a conspiracy of epic proportions, and we stopped a killer. It didn’t turn out the way everyone would have hoped, but then most cases never do. I think I’ve finally learned to put what I can’t control behind me.

There are so many things that I wish I could go back and change, but I can’t. I can’t save Samantha, can’t prevent those chemicals from being dumped, and am unable to turn the clock back for all those families in the valley. But good was still done. The truth is widely known now.

My heart breaks for Samantha Ridder. She did the right thing, bravely risking her life to protect an entire community of innocent people. I think it was Edmund Burke who said that the only thing needed for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing. It’s true, and because Samantha did something, a dark corner of evil can flourish no more.

I never take joy in anyone’s death, especially those whose lives were violently taken away at someone else’s hand. I can honestly say with a pure conscience that I did everything in my power to save William Moreland. But I won’t be shedding any tears for his or Steve Mattson’s deaths. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. In some ways, Benjamin Olson’s action toward them feels like poetic justice.

But the others, especially people like Elana Sparrow and Carmela Reynolds, didn’t deserve what Olson did to them. In the end, he was unable to distinguish the wrong inherent in his own actions. He was so focused on the wrongs of others that his moral categories went awry.

But he did get his wish. National headlines are putting the story front and center right now. At least, that’s the story this week. Next week, it will be something else. But it’s enough to have gotten the right eyes on it, for decent people to take charge and start making that valley whole.

Before I left the office, I handed Kemper a request to take off the next few days. He signed it, no questions asked. After this case, I really need a break. Even more, I need time with my sister.

Since she woke up, I have only spoken to her a handful of times. I plan on sitting beside her and holding her hand for as long as the doctors will let me. Based on her previous response, Buzz and I have been cautious not to ask too many questions or answer hers in too much detail. We have plenty of time to learn and understand. Building a new life together isn’t going to happen overnight. A day at a time is just fine with me.

I’m still pinching myself that any of this is real. Not only did Lila effectively come back from the dead, she woke from a coma talking. Even remembering snippets of her old life before she was taken.

She has a lot to learn and unlearn. Her life with Hess was anything but normal. He kept her insulated from the world and brainwashed her into his maniacal and wicked view of life. So I’m not expecting any kind of normal for some time yet.

All said, I’m excited for the chance to introduce her to Friends, Parks and Rec, and an entire world of music she’s never heard before. Given what she’s been through, I’ll probably have to keep her clear of Game of Thrones and Dexter for a while.

I slide my car into a parking spot and step out into a beautiful summer evening. My phone chimes with a text as I start across the parking lot. I don’t recognize the number, but as I open it, my body freezes. A chill of absolute terror passes through me. I read the short message again, just to make certain I didn’t get it wrong.

Boom.

Much love to our sister.

Toby

My mind races to interpret the meaning. I know that it’s nothing less than a promise of violence. A bitter taste forms in my mouth as I contemplate that tiny word, “our.” Parsons considers Lila his little sister too. The very thought makes me want to gouge his eyes out.

But it’s the very first word that concerns me most. Boom. The sinister implication prompts a visceral urge within me, a desperate need to be at her bedside, to make sure that she’s all right. Before I know it, my legs are pumping hard, and I’m tearing across the asphalt.

But I’m too late. The next thing I know, the ground is shaking beneath my feet, the air above me hot with flame, and glass and shrapnel raining down on me. The wave from the blast throws me down beside the fountain.

Screams sound all around. My vision is spinning as I try to sit up. Something wet stings my eye. Wiping it away, I pull my hand back to find it smeared in blood.

I try to blink away the confusion and reach out for the edge of the fountain to steady me. I look up at the third floor, and a mournful scream tears from my chest as I watch my sister’s room blaze in a hot ball of fire.

Thank you so much for reading The Girl Who Woke Up!

Keep reading for a Sneak Peek of the first book in Eva’s new series, The Devil’s Daughter…

Darcy and crew will return in The Lost Witness. Don’t miss the next nail-biting installment.

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Sneak Peek of The Devil’s Daughter

“It’s your move, sweetheart.”

The young girl sat on the living room floor, her arms folded along the top edge of the coffee table, her chin resting on her forearms as she studied the chessboard with a grave intensity.

This was not good. Not good at all.

She only had two of her father’s pawns and a bishop. He had taken five of her pawns, both knights, and her queen. How was she supposed to beat him without her queen?

He gave his ten-year-old another verbal nudge. “You know, at this rate, summer will be over before we finish the game.”

The tip of her tongue jutted out from between her lips as she thought. “Fine,” she sighed wanly, then slid her bishop to the end of the board, swapping it proudly for his rook.

“Good one. Didn’t see that one coming.” He tapped a solitary finger on the lip of the board. “Let’s see. Why don’t I put you out of your misery and”—he touched his queen and moved it down the board—“put you in checkmate.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “No, I’m not.” She rose up on her knees and looked down on the board. “No, see, I can move my king right…well, here…or… Oh, fine. You got me.”

Her father extended his hand across the board. She gave it a weak shake. “You’re getting better,” he said. “You’re learning to think past the move that’s right in front of you.”

“I still can’t beat you,” she grumbled.

“I’ve been playing a lot longer. Stay at it and don’t get discouraged.” He rose from his place on the couch and shot a grin at her. “Loser puts the game away.”

“I know, I know.” She gathered the wooden pieces together, flipped the board over, and inserted each piece into its felt-lined cutout. After returning the game to a basket near the fireplace, she found her father in the kitchen. He was stirring a wooden spoon into a ceramic bowl.

“Whatcha making?” she asked.

“Waffle batter. I thought we’d have breakfast for dinner.”

“Yummy!” she cheered. “Do we have bacon?”

“Sure do. It’s in a drawer in the fridge. Want to get it out?”

She hurried over and found her favorite food in the drawer on the right. Shutting the refrigerator, she plopped the package of bacon on the counter, got out the iron skillet, and placed it over an unlit gas burner.

Outside, the sun was beginning its slow crawl down through the trees, the shadows drawing out across the leaf-strewn carpet of the forest.

She loved it here. The two-bedroom cabin, with its raw pine floors, wraparound porch, and unpainted lap siding, felt more like home than anywhere else in the world. Ten weeks of fishing and swimming in the creek, grilling hotdogs at the stone-hemmed fire pit, and hunting squirrels and rabbits with her father’s .22 rifle.

The first summer they came here, she absolutely hated it. With no television, she didn’t know how to entertain herself in the outdoors. And the bugs…she hated the bugs. The isolation too. But over time, she had made local friends when they would go to the lake or rafting down the river. Now, a few days each week, a friend could be found roaming the woods with her or hanging out in the little treehouse her father had built.

It was their fourth summer at the cabin. She wished she could live here for good. City life was too busy, too loud, and she was quite certain that she could do without the boring rhythm of elementary school and report cards.

What did she need school for, anyway? Her father had always told her that if she wanted to be successful in life, she had to learn to think. It’s why he taught her to play chess and how to find the biases in the newspaper headlines. Sometimes, the headlines were a little over her head, but she did her best to understand. Lately, it had been getting easier. He was a good teacher.

She looked over at him now. Her father was a handsome man. More than once, she heard women at the grocery store lower their voices and murmur gossip-like about his looks. He had a strong, smooth jaw and bright, welcoming eyes.

Stepping away from the mixing bowl, he squatted and opened a cabinet door, coming away with the waffle maker. He set it on the counter, then reached up and pawed at his shirt pocket, a frustrated grunt passing his lips when he realized the pack of cigarettes contained only a solitary smoke. He drew it out and slipped it into the corner of his mouth.

“Listen,” he told his daughter. “I’d better go get some more cigarettes before I start to cook everything. You want to come with me?”

Instinctively, her eyes went back to the window above the sink, then over to the cuckoo clock hanging above the table. It was only a few minutes after seven. Still a good hour of daylight left. She shook her head. “I’ll keep working on my fort.”

“Good idea. We only have a few days left. Just be careful that it doesn’t cave in. Do you have enough timber?”

She nodded. “I think so. Can you get me some Twizzlers?”

“Sure. They’ll rot your teeth out.” He winked at her.

She winked back and scrunched up her face. “Better than the cancer your cigarettes will give you.”

He stepped up to her and planted a kiss in her brown hair. “Be back soon.”

They took their exits from the house at the same time—he out the front door, she out the back. His car started up as she wove her way through the hemlocks and firs. A quick jaunt down a worn path and a turn around a mossy boulder and she was there.

Her “fort,” as she had designated it, was more like a small cave that she had dug into the ground. It all started a couple of weeks ago when she was toying around with the shovel. It had rained two nights prior, and the ground was soft but not muddy. So she had filled the spade and tossed the dirt to the side, then did it again, and again. Before long, she had a small hole, and not long after that, she was cutting in at an angle, using her foot to really get the spade into the soil.

What she ended up with that first day was the wide mouth of an angled hole that was three or four feet deep. At the ground level, an overhang had begun to emerge, and she had the idea that the next day she would keep at it.

Now, it sloped into the earth about fifteen feet, and a huge mound of dirt loomed behind her. Reaching down for the flashlight that she kept out here, she clicked it on and slipped easily into the hole. It smelled richly of damp, clean earth. Every few feet, a sturdy two-by-four stood against the sides, propping up another that was pressed up against the dirt ceiling where tree roots dangled limply in the air.

Her father had insisted that she find a way to support the ceiling. If it caved in, he wouldn’t be able to hear her cry for help. So she proudly performed all the measurements herself and provided the cut lengths to her father so he could get her the boards at the proper sizes. He even slipped into the fort with her and installed them. When he felt that everything was properly supported, they drove down the hill, picked up her friend, Danielle, and brought her back here, where they played until the sun was almost gone.

Now she was intent on extending the tunnel another ten feet or so. She would widen it into a small room and place a couple of chairs inside and maybe even a camp stove if her father let her. It was going to take a lot of work though. She only had one bucket, which she could only fill halfway. Then she would carry it to the front, make her way up the remaining incline, and empty it onto the ever-growing pile of dirt.

She hoped it would be here next year. Sometimes, they came in the fall for a weekend, but it could be another nine months before summer would bring her back for an extended time. Anything could happen between now and⁠—

She froze.

Turning her head, she listened more intently as a chill crept down her arms and settled into her hands. There it was again. An urgent, muffled voice coming from far away, followed by a series of hollow thuds.

The shovel fell from her hands. Feeling exposed, she turned toward the cabin and ran as fast as her feet would carry her. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest as she emerged from the woods, dashed up the back porch steps, and ran inside before slamming the door and twisting the lock. She stood there with her chest heaving and her fingers tightly gripping the knob.

Had she imagined it? Over the last few summers, she had spent hundreds of hours in these woods. Not once had she heard anything remotely close to a person screaming. The howl of a distant coyote or raccoons fighting, sure. But not a person.

Her chest tightened again. There it was again…a hollow thudding accompanied by faraway screams. But in spite of her returning back here to the house, it sounded even closer now. How was that possible?

She wished her father were here.

Forcing her feet to move, she hurried across the cabin to the front door and peered out through the glass. It seemed to be coming from the barn on the other side of the gravel drive.

Clamping her hands over her ears, she slunk down to the floor. She didn’t want to hear it anymore. The pounding came faster, the cries more urgent. Someone was desperate to raise attention.

She glanced up at the clock mounted over the fireplace. Two minutes went by, then three. Slowly, she pried her hands away from her head and immediately clamped them down again. The cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, the person was getting more frantic. She couldn’t ignore it. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach, and the hair stood up on her arms. Her small body understood, yet her innocent mind was struggling with the implications.

Had someone been hiking up this way and hurt themselves? There was a steep, rocky ravine not far from the barn. Maybe they had fallen down there and broken their ankle or leg. But then what was that thudding sound?

She waited another minute, and when her father still hadn’t come through the door, she knew she had to do something. At the least, she had to see who was hurt. Then, when her father got back, she could show him where they were and he could help.

She stood back up. A chill edged down her spine, rooting her in place. “Come on,” she said out loud, trying to convince herself to go back outside. “Someone is hurt.” Before she knew it, she had opened the front door and her legs were carrying her down the front steps. She had to find the sound, had to help.

The barn’s boards, which were tattooed with splotches of lichen, had long ago changed to a silvery-green patina. They rose high above her, the sagging eaves extending a few feet away from the main structure. She made her way around the barn and stopped.

Looking both ways, she couldn’t see anyone. Just leaves and sticks. The desperate cries had stopped.

A gust of wind stirred the leaves at her feet. She crossed her arms over her chest and cupped her elbows, wishing she had just stayed inside the cabin.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The cries started again. Louder now.

Turning, she stared at the barn. Someone was…inside?

Forcing her legs to move, she went over and stood timidly at the barn’s double doors. They suddenly felt like two menacing giants preparing to strike her. Her mind was screaming at her to run back inside to the safety of the cabin.

But she could make out individual words now, “please” and “help” between anguished sobs, and that was what kept her at the barn, debating whether she should go inside. Reaching out, her fingers grazed the door latch and then quickly drew back as though she had been shocked.

She was shaking like a leaf, indecision anchoring her in place.

The sobs continued to throb in her ears, running through her body like a lubricant and compelling her to action once more. It didn’t make any sense. Did someone sneak inside and hurt themselves on one of her father’s tools? Flipping up the latch, she pulled on the heavy door. It opened with a loud, familiar creak. She felt for the light switch and flipped it up. The bright halogens blinked on above her.

The inside of the barn resembled nothing of its old skeleton. It smelled like engine lubricants and fresh sawdust. The concrete floor was shiny. Everything was clean and in its proper place.

The sobs had quieted at the creak of the door. They seemed to be coming from somewhere in the back. Quietly, with her eyes wide and her heart thumping overtime, she crept past her father’s ’69 Chevelle SS.

He had spent the last two summers fixing it up. She had even helped him rebuild the carburetor and install the choke kit. Now, hundreds of hours later, all it needed was a fresh coat of paint. When they returned home, he would have someone tow it back, where he would keep working on it until it was finished. Then he would sell it for a handsome price and start over with another model.

She reached the back end of the barn where he kept his woodworking equipment—a table saw, lathe, jointer, and planer. A whole pile of neatly organized pine and oak boards lay on metal racks against the side wall. Opposite them were double-stacked cabinets and a high capacity rolling tool chest. An unfinished bookcase sat in the center of the floor. It still needed another sanding pass and then paint. When it was done, it would go into Mrs. Holland’s general store, her father’s gift to her before they left. Mrs. Holland had been wanting another display for the candles she had become fond of making.

Everything looked as it should—the car, the tools, the lumber. No one was in here.

Thump…thump.

Her body jolted as she spun to face the noise. It was weaker this time, as if someone was losing heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

It was coming from…the trunk of the car?

She took a series of startled steps backward, but then she drew up short when the thumping sounded again. This time, the voice was weaker but still pleading.

“Hello…anyone?”

Her hands trembling, the girl drew closer to the trunk.

How was someone stuck in her father’s car?

Her thoughts were jumbled in confusion. None of this made any sense. Surely she was hearing things that weren’t really there. That had happened three years ago, after her mother had disappeared. The doctors said it was how her mind was choosing to deal with the tragedy and that it would eventually pass. They were right. After a few months, the voices disappeared, and she and her father learned how to start anew without the most important person in their lives.

She had spent dozens of hours in this barn watching her father build a new piece of furniture or tinker with the Chevelle. Now she stared at the classic car with fear and perplexity writ large across her face. Then her lips formed a single word. “H-hello?”

“Hello?” A woman’s voice was hoarse but charged with fresh hope. “Oh my god. Is someone there? You have to get me out of here. Please. Oh god.” Another thump on the trunk made the young girl jump back in fright. “Is someone there? Help me!”

Her eyes were saucers, her brain was telling her to run, but some other voice, one that was calm and quiet, was telling her to help.

“I’m here,” she said to the back of the car.

“Oh my god.” Behind the door, the woman started to cry. “Please, can you get me out?”

“It’s locked. I don’t have the key.”

More crying. “Honey, what’s your name?”

She moved closer to the door and sat back down. “My daddy will be home in a few minutes. He can help you get out.”

“Your daddy? No…no. Listen, please. I’m hurt. Really bad. I don’t think I can wait a few minutes. Please, just…is there any way you can get it open?”

She panned her gaze around the space. Her father kept the keys to the Chevelle on his keyring. And right now, that was with him. But she thought she remembered him putting a spare key next to his toolbox. Her father kept a hacksaw in the toolbox, but that wouldn’t work on a lock like this one.

“Hello?” the woman pleaded.

“Hold on.” Hurrying to the plywood countertop, she searched the space around his toolbox. There, half hidden by the angle grinder, was a rusted coffee can filled with screws and nails. She dug down, pricking her finger a couple of times, and came away with a shiny key.

But when she got back to the Chevelle and slid the key into the lock, fear once again took hold of her. She froze, unwilling to turn it.

“My daddy will be home soon. It won’t be long. He can help you.”

The answer was instantaneous, still muted and hollow coming from inside the enclosed space. “No—no, listen, please! We can’t wait for your daddy. I can’t explain, but you have to trust me. It has to be you. You have to get me out. You found the key, right? Is that what I heard?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, listen. My name’s Natalie. I’m in a lot of pain. Just give it a little turn. Can you do that for me? I’m—I need your help.”

It still didn’t make sense why the woman had been out here near their cabin and how she got herself stuck inside the car.

Panic charged through Natalie’s voice. “Just a quick turn, okay? That’s all. I just need you to help me.” Quiet sobs echoed from the car.

It was enough to compel a decision. Reaching out, she took a step forward and pinched the key. No sooner had she turned it and heard the click of the lock than the trunk lid swept up and caught her beneath the nose.

Pain shot through her face as she stumbled backward and fell to the floor. Over her cries, she heard movement as the woman scrambled out of the car.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Slowly, she pushed herself up. A patch of blood and tears stained the concrete where her face had been. Reaching up, she touched her mouth and winced at the pain. Her hand came away bloody.

“Yes.” The word slipped past her swelling lips as “Yesh.” She wanted her father. The fear and the pain coursing through her body were too much. Wiping her eyes clean, she looked over at the woman and gave a small cry of surprise.

She was naked. Her entire body was grimy with dirt, her hair hanging in filthy, greasy tangles. A terrible smell clung to the woman. One of her arms was raised to shield her eyes from the bright light of the halogens.

“Thank you,” the woman gasped. “I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

And that’s when the girl heard the crunch of a car’s tires on the front drive. Relief flooded her.

“My daddy ish back,” she slurred. “He can help now.”

Panic rushed into the woman’s face. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed shut. “Daddy!” she cried out.

“No!” the woman hissed. “No, don’t do that, honey. Please.”

She’d had enough. She was still scared, and her face was throbbing with pain. Now that her father was home, he would know what to do. So she ran.

Past the woman, past the car, and stopped in the doorway of the barn. Her father was halfway between his car and the house, clutching a brown grocery sack. He had stopped short at the sound of his daughter’s voice and was looking around for her.

“Daddy!”

His head whipped around. He dropped the sack and called her name as he ran to her. She stumbled forward and fell sobbing into his arms. “What is it? What happened?” He pulled back and cupped her face in his hands. “God, what happened, sweetheart? Your face is all bloody. Did you…did you break your nose?”

“I got hit in the face.”

“Hit how?”

“With your car.”

Her face was buried in his chest, and he was looking down at her. So neither one of them saw the woman emerge from the barn swinging a pair of bolt cutters. They caught him just above his brow. His head whipped back, and he toppled, dazed, onto the leaf-strewn gravel.

The girl screamed and locked eyes with the woman.

“Don’t you see?” the woman cried. “He did this to me. He locked me in there and…” she trailed off. “Call the police. Call them now.” Then she turned and ran into the woods.

The girl didn’t move. It was all too much for her to take in, to understand. On the ground in front of her, her father groaned. Then he cursed.

“Daddy! Are you okay? Daddy?”

“Fine…” He winced. “What were you doing in the barn?” He brought himself up on his hands and knees. Blood was dripping from his head.

“After you left, I heard someone yelling for help. It was coming from the barn. Daddy, that woman was in the Chevelle. Why did she hit you?”

He cursed again, and she watched as every muscle in his body tensed. A deep, ferocious growl escaped him. He struggled to his feet, wobbling in place. “Wait here.” He pressed his palm against his forehead and staggered off toward the woods.

“But—”

He whirled and jammed an accusing finger at her. “Wait here, I said! Did you not hear me? You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

She cowered, crossing her arms over her chest. He’d never yelled at her before. She had never seen this side of him.

After he staggered into the woods and vanished from view, she plopped into the dirt and started to cry. What was happening? Half an hour ago, they were playing chess and getting ready to make breakfast for dinner. Now her father was chasing a naked woman through the woods. A woman who had been locked in his car.

Don’t you see? He did this to me.

In the driveway, the groceries lay strewn on the ground, a package of sausage peeking out of the bag and her Twizzlers lying alone a couple of feet away. She kicked the candy across the drive in frustration and desperate confusion.

He locked me in there. Her mind replayed the words.

Daddy had locked her in there? That made no sense. But then why did he seem angry when he saw the woman instead of showing kindness? It would explain why she had hit him with the bolt cutters.

Behind her, her father’s footfalls crunched deeper into the woods, then faded altogether. The woman sent up a feral scream. It seemed to rattle the very trees. Moments later, she was sobbing again. Now she was screaming. Cursing. Pleading. Begging.

Before she knew what she was doing, the girl had jumped to her feet and was running after them, weaving through the trees as she followed the pleading cries, until she found herself standing at the top of a steep ravine.

The woman lay at the bottom. One of her feet was twisted at a strange angle. Her father was standing over her, yelling violently. Then he kicked her in the ribs. Bile burned in the back of the young girl’s throat. A primal, vice-like fear flooded her body, keeping her from crying out. It made her chest tighten so that it became hard to breathe. When he kicked the woman again, his daughter’s body flinched as if his boot had landed in her own ribs.

Crouching behind a small boulder, she hid herself. For the first in her life, she was scared of him. In her experience, her father was always funny and kind. He had only ever gotten really mad at her twice before. Once, after she had been playing in his truck and left all the windows down right before a rainstorm hit. And the time she had accidentally burned up the shower curtain because she was playing with matches in the bathroom. Even then, he hadn’t gotten angry like he was now. He wasn’t the kind of person who would yell at a woman or kick her.

Or lock one naked in the trunk of his car.

That man at the bottom of the ravine was somebody else. And she was scared of him, down to her very core. Fear rippled up her spine and made her whole body vibrate with adrenaline. Her eyes locked onto a muscle in her father’s jaw. It twitched as he stood over the helpless woman. There was no compassion in his stance. He loomed over her and snarled. Why was he treating anyone like that?

The truth dawned on her as she stood above him, observing a man she did not know.

A stranger.

The thought made her knees grow weak, and she slumped against the boulder, dislodging a small stone that tumbled down into the ravine. Her breath caught in her throat as her father lifted his head in alarm and scanned the edges of the ravine. As if he could sense another person nearby.

From her perch behind the boulder, she froze, not even breathing for fear of what would happen in this evil moment.

That man below her wasn’t her daddy anymore.

“Shut up!” he barked at the woman, listening to the wind. His voice was guttural, raspy, strange, not her father’s gentle voice. His shoulders hunched, his head moved hawklike, and his fingers extended like angry claws.

He stood above the woman, his back to his daughter. He paused to scan his surroundings again, then he bent his body and crouched. She thought for a split second he was about to scoop the woman up, to take her in his arms, and help her. The flicker of hope died when he lifted a weighty black stone high above his head and thrust it down on the woman’s skull. Blood splattered the yellow stones of the ravine, and a scream split the air.

The little girl didn’t know who was screaming until the monster looked right at her. Then she realized the sound was coming from her own mouth.

Natalie. The woman’s name was Natalie, and she had touched her hand, asked for help. She screamed and screamed, filling the empty air with her horror.

But then he was scrambling toward her, up the ravine.

The little girl silenced herself, her mouth clamping shut as she watched him move like an animal on all fours up the mossy boulders. He was coming straight at her. She was powerless again. Fifty feet from her, he struggled to cross the distance between them. He said her name.

“Allie.”

She froze and whimpered.

“Shhhh…it’s okay, darling.” The voice was her daddy’s, gentle and soothing. She stared at him, trying to find her father in the shape of the monster that moved toward her. Fear and confusion tore her insides apart. She was desperate for comfort, tears streaking down her face as she cried. But the choking sobs pulsed through her small frame, and the gasps and tears were her body’s proof that the nightmare was real.

He continued grappling up the ravine. The roots and shrubs below her rustled and moved. He was close. She shuddered again with indecision. She listened for his movement just below her, out of sight for a moment behind the dense undergrowth.

“Daddy?” she called between sobs.

A hand crested the ridge and grabbed her foot. She screamed. The earsplitting noise tore the air.

The hand was covered with blood. His face was splattered with blood. Natalie’s blood. His glasses were gone. It wasn’t her daddy. He grabbed for her other foot, but she saw it in time to react. Pulling back her foot, she kicked the top of his head with all her might. The force launched him away, back down the ravine.

The impact put her off balance. She wobbled and fell back, landing with a crack on the boulder behind her, a terrible pain slicing through the top of her wrist. She struggled to her feet, cradled her hand in her shirt, and scanned the ravine. A loud groan echoed from far below. She finally saw the outline of the man at the bottom of the ravine. One single instinct dominated her now.

Run.

Wrapping her thin flannel around her hand, her legs pumped her farther and farther away from the monster and the broken body of the woman. She ran past every familiar tree, avoiding trails and footpaths, scrambling on until darkness fell like a welcome blanket swallowing her tracks.

Finally, when she could not move her limbs any longer, she reached a break in the trees and stumbled onto an asphalt road. If there was a road, eventually there would be help.

Help.

Her mind returned to the lady with the blue eyes. The lady who had asked her for help. She pressed on, one foot in front of the other. She didn’t even notice when the road behind her filled with light, didn’t flinch when the vehicle slowed and a car door opened. One foot in front of the other. She needed help. She just focused on moving her feet down the two yellow lines of the road.

“Hello?” a gentle voice called in the darkness. The voice was soft, like her mother’s. It pulled at her, and she stopped and turned toward the sound. The face was in dark silhouette, its details lost to the glare of the headlights. She heard a gasp as the person took in the sight of her.

She was scraped and bloody, her hair matted with sweat, her face bruised. A muddy, shredded T-shirt clung to her small frame, and she cradled her hand in the blood-soaked flannel.

“Do you need help?” the gentle voice asked.

“Help.” She nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you alone?” The question overwhelmed the little girl. Wild eyes looked to the woods as she heard the woman’s voice in her head, pleading for help.

“He killed her. He killed Natalie.”

“Oh my word.” Footsteps hurried toward her, but she was too tired to react. The sky began to spin above her, and she started to topple. Arms gently wrapped themselves around her.

“Who killed her, baby?” the voice asked as the world went dark. Her eyelids flickered. She had to help, to help Natalie.

“My daddy.”

Her voice was a whisper as she slipped deep into the relief of oblivion.

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Also by Eva Sparks

Allie Bishop FBI Mystery Thriller Series

The Devil’s Daughter

The Face of Evil

The Candidate - Coming Soon