F I N D I N G

Y O U

(A Hailey Rock Mystery—Book 15)

R y l i e   D a r k

Rylie Dark

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

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

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

SERIES BY RYLIE DARK

HANNAH MERCY

SLOANE RIDDLE

HAYDEN SMART

ARIA BRANDT

CASEY FAITH

BECCA THORN

JESSIE REACH

KELLY CRUZ

MAEVE SHARP

ALEX QUINN

TARA STRONG

HAILEY ROCK

SADIE PRICE

MIA NORTH

CARLY SEE

MORGAN STARK

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

The carnival had left behind phantoms.

Jake landed first, his sneakers crunching into scattered sequins glittering like fallen stars under the moonlight while the chain-link fence rattled at his back. Courtney dropped beside him, her dark hair catching the silver glow as she straightened up.

"I can't believe they cleared out so fast," she whispered.

The lot felt wrong now, empty. During the past week, it had pulsed with neon lights, screaming riders, and the thick scent of fried dough. Now only echoes remained. A single bulb flickered atop a distant utility pole, casting long shadows across the trampled earth.

Jake kicked at a discarded teddy bear, its stuffing spilling from a ripped seam. "They say carnival people can tear down an entire show in under three hours."

"Impressive," Courtney said, but her voice hitched. She hugged herself against the October chill.

They moved deeper into the abandoned grounds. Wind stirred paper cups into lazy circles. A torn banner flapped from a forgotten stake: STARLIGHT CARNIVAL - WHERE DREAMS COME TRUE.

"Over here," Jake called, pointing to something half-buried in the dirt.

Courtney hurried over, looking down as she followed his finger. It was a playing card: the Queen of Hearts. But the art was unlike any deck she'd seen—the queen's face was distorted, her eyes following Courtney as she picked it up and turned the card.

"That's creepy." She hesitated, wanting to drop it. But as she studied the creased features, something in the artifact’s unique character made her hesitate, and instead, she slowly slipped the item into her pocket.

Jake was already moving ahead, toward the center of the lot where the main tent had stood. His flashlight beam cut through rising mist—had there been mist before?

"Jake, wait…” Courtney felt a slow chill down her spine. It had seemed like a good idea when Jake had suggested it, but now—trespassing—she felt a slow knot forming in her stomach.

She cast her gaze back towards the gap in the rusted fence.

Rumors of the security guard who patrolled this area had spread through their high school like wildfire. Old man Grissom, with his limp and tarnished badge, supposedly meaner than a junkyard dog.

"Jake," she hissed again.

He didn't turn. His flashlight beam caught something metallic in the center of the clearing. Where the main tent's center pole had anchored into the earth, a small object protruded from the dirt.

"Check this out." His voice carried an edge of excitement that made Courtney's skin prickle.

She caught up to him reluctantly. The mist had thickened, curling around their ankles like spectral fingers. It didn't rise like normal fog. It crawled.

Jake crouched down, brushing soil away from the object: an old metal box.

“This is stupid, Jake. There’s nothing valuable here.”

Jake lifted the box, grinning. “I think this is steel. Do you know how much you can sell that for?” His grin widened, his cheeks stretching like taffy as he tried to pull the empty, metal box out of the ground.

Their flashlight beams sliced through the thickening mist, crisscrossing like swords in a duel. Courtney's light trembled slightly in her grip as they moved deeper into the abandoned carnival grounds.

"We shouldn't be here," she said, her voice barely audible above the wind's low moan. "If Grissom catches us—"

"Grissom's probably asleep in his truck," Jake replied, tapping the steel box against his thigh. "Besides, Tyler said he found that Rolex right after the carnival left last year. Just lying there in the dirt."

"Tyler also said he dated a model from Canada." Courtney swept her beam across a cluster of flattened grass where the fortune teller's tent had stood. Nothing but cigarette butts and an empty soda can.

The mist curled around a forgotten string of pennants, making them dance without wind. Jake's confident stride took him toward what had been the midway, his shadow stretching impossibly long behind him.

"Think about it," he called over his shoulder. "These carnival people pack up in a hurry. Rich folks walking around all week, pulling out cash, winning prizes." His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "Dropping things."

Courtney rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I?" Jake's grin flashed white in the darkness. "Then why are you here?"

She had no good answer. Because he'd asked? Because saying no to Jake Mercer was like trying to stop a river with your hands? Or maybe because, despite everything, she wanted to believe in the possibility of finding something extraordinary.

A distant metallic clang made her freeze.

"What was that?" Her pulse quickened.

Jake paused, head cocked. "Probably just something falling over."

"Or Grissom," she hissed.

"Relax."

Easy for him to say. Jake lived for trouble—detention slips collected like trophies, parents who'd given up on groundings. For Courtney, getting caught meant disappointing her mother, who worked double shifts and believed her daughter was spending the night at Ellie's house.

Jake's flashlight illuminated something pink and fluffy caught on a nail.

"Cotton candy," he said, disappointment evident.

"What did you expect? Diamonds?"

"Better than nothing." He tugged it free, pocketing the steel box to examine the sticky pink fluff.

Courtney moved ahead, her beam bouncing across the ground. Something glinted—a quarter. She bent to retrieve it, wiping carnival dirt from its surface.

"Hey, I found twenty-five cents," she called, straightening.

But there was no answer.

"Jake?"

She turned, swinging her flashlight in a wide arc. The beam caught nothing but empty space and dancing mist. Jake had vanished.

"Not funny," she called, voice sharper than intended.

The silence pressed against her eardrums like that same old cotton candy, muffling even the sound of her own breathing. Courtney took three steps forward, then stopped.

"Jake, I swear to God—"

Her voice scattered into the darkness, returning nothing. The quarter dug into her palm, where she clutched it too tightly. The mist thickened, no longer merely ankle-deep but rising to her knees in ghostly tendrils.

"Hilarious. Real mature."

She knew what he was doing. Waiting for her to panic before jumping out with that stupid grin on his face. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Courtney forced herself forward, her flashlight beam cutting jagged paths through the fog.

Twenty yards ahead, the skeletal remains of a midway game booth hunched against the night. Most had been dismantled, but this one—THE LUCKY DUCK SHOOT, according to a half-attached sign—had been left behind, its plywood sides warped from years of assembly and disassembly.

Perfect hiding spot for an idiot, a seventeen-year-old boy.

"I know you're there," she called, advancing. "You've got three seconds before I leave you here."

The beam of her flashlight trembled across the booth's counter, illuminating faded yellow ducks with chipped paint. Something else caught the light—something dark and slumped against the booth's back wall…

Something that wasn’t Jake.

Her mind rejected the image even as her eyes processed it. A man's figure, sitting with his back against the plywood, head tilted at an unnatural angle. His face was swollen, skin stretched tight across bloated features like an overinflated balloon.

Courtney's feet rooted to the earth. The flashlight shook violently in her hand, the beam dancing across the corpse in a macabre light show.

The man wore a carnival worker's vest, patches sewn haphazardly across its surface. One hand lay palm-up beside him, fingers curled like he'd been reaching for something. The other clutched a playing card.

The air abandoned her lungs. The Queen of Hearts in her pocket suddenly felt impossibly heavy, as if it had transformed into solid lead.

Her scream built slowly, a pressure behind her ribs that expanded outward until it tore from her throat in a ragged, primal sound. The flashlight slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud and rolling to illuminate a pair of dead, glassy eyes that seemed to stare directly at her.

CHAPTER ONE

Hailey watched the commercial with the detachment of someone who'd been punched too many times to feel the next blow.

"Victor Drake didn't just save my boy." The mother's tearful face filled the screen, perfect in its sincerity. "He jumped into that river without thinking of himself."

The footage cuts to Victor—immaculate in a charcoal suit despite the "casual" interview setting of his lakeside property. His silver hair caught the sunlight. Distinguished. Trustworthy.

"I only did what anyone would do," he said, with a humble smile revealing perfect teeth. "When I saw that child struggling..."

Hailey's fingers tightened around her coffee mug. The ceramic burned against her skin.

Graham's apartment was too small for her restlessness. Three rooms. Clean lines. Minimal decoration. A safe house, not a home. She'd been sleeping on his couch for eleven days now—despite his gallant offers for her to take his bed while he slept on the couch—ever since the photos of her house's charred remains had appeared on the front page of the Pleasant Gazette.

The commercial shifted to solemn blue graphics: SUPPORT OUR COMMUNITY HEROES. NOT FBI AGENTS WHO ASSAULT THEM.

"Special Agent Hailey Rock attacked local businessman and philanthropist Victor Drake last month during what sources describe as an unprovoked confrontation..."

The announcer's voice dripped with practiced concern as Hailey's FBI ID photo appeared on screen. Not her best angle. They'd chosen it deliberately.

"Turn that crap off." Graham emerged from the bathroom, shower-damp hair sticking up in unruly spikes. His leg brace caught the morning light, a mechanical exoskeleton over his jeans.

Hailey didn't move. "It's the third different version this week."

"Paid political garbage." Graham limped to the kitchen counter, poured himself coffee. His movements were smoother now. Physical therapy was working. "Drake's spending his fortune trying to bury you."

"It's working."

On screen, Victor Drake stood at a podium, accepting an award from the Pleasant Chamber of Commerce. The camera panned across adoring faces.

Graham snatched the remote and killed the power. "We know what he is."

"Knowing isn't proving." Hailey set her mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim, staining the case files spread across his coffee table. She swore, grabbing tissues to blot the damage.

"Any word from Alice?" Graham asked, voice deliberately casual.

Hailey's hands stilled. "She called yesterday. Mom's having another anxiety attack. Doctors are adjusting her meds."

"And Mindy?"

"Still not speaking to me." The tissue disintegrated in her grip. "She blames me for the house—for all of it."

Graham's apartment felt suddenly airless. Three framed photographs on the wall: Graham at Quantico graduation. Graham with his parents in Montana. Graham and Hailey at the FBI shooting range, both grinning after she'd outscored him by three points.

"She'll come around," Graham said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Hailey pushed herself up from the couch. Paced the narrow strip between coffee table and television. Five steps one way. Five steps back. Her body hummed with restless energy that had nowhere to go.

"Mom's doctor says the anxiety attacks are getting worse." She stopped at the window, pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Outside, Pleasant lived up to its name—tree-lined streets, neighbors walking dogs, a postal worker whistling as she sorted mail into boxes. "They're keeping her another week at least."

Graham said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The explosion had been ruled ‘accidental gas leak’ by the Pleasant Fire Department. Which was too convenient as far as Hailey was concerned. She’d returned to find half the house gone, flames devouring what remained. Her mother had been in the backyard garden, walking with her husband, far enough away to survive.

Pure luck, the fire chief had said.

Pure bullshit, Hailey knew. Victor Drake had caused this, all of this.

"Alice called this morning," she continued, watching a cardinal land on the maple tree outside. Brilliant red against autumn gold. "She's stretched thin. Sheriff's department budget cuts, election year politics. Plus playing nursemaid to Mom and emotional support for Mindy. It’s crowded with Mom, Dad, and Mindy all sharing such a small space… She keeps vanishing and making Alice and… well everyone worry. She only admits it sometimes, but she’s spending more and more time with Drake. I’m sure. Alice is starting to get really worried about her."

"And you." Graham's voice was gentle.

Hailey's laugh held no humor. "I'm the last person Alice is worried about."

Her phone vibrated on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with ‘Unknown Caller’. She lunged for it.

"Rock," she answered, voice tight with hope.

"Agent Rock." Assistant Director Keller's voice sent ice through her veins. "I've been trying to reach you."

"Sir." She straightened instinctively, though he couldn't see her. Graham's eyes narrowed, reading her posture.

"I assume you've seen the latest," Keller said, his voice tight as a drum. It was not a question.

"Just finished watching number three this morning."

"This is becoming a problem, Rock." The words had edges sharp enough to draw blood. "Drake's media blitz is spreading beyond Pleasant. St. Louis affiliates picked it up. CNN mentioned it in their morning brief."

Hailey's throat constricted. Her reflection in the window looked hollow-eyed, a ghost version of herself.

"I understand, sir."

"No, I don't think you do." Papers rustled on Keller's end. "The Deputy Director received calls from two senators this morning. Senators, Rock. Both asking why we have an agent who assaults private citizens still on payroll."

The cardinal outside took flight, a streak of crimson against the pale sky. Hailey tracked its path until it disappeared beyond the rooftops.

"Drake has them convinced—"

"I don't give a damn what Drake has convinced them of!" Keller's voice cracked like a bullwhip. "What I care about is that my field office is being dragged through mud because one of my agents decided to go vigilante."

Graham moved closer, hovering at the edge of her peripheral vision. His face had hardened into the expression she recognized from interrogations—calculating, absorbing every detail.

"Sir, if you'd just look at the evidence we've compiled—"

"Evidence?" Keller laughed, a sound like gravel in a garbage disposal. "You mean the circumstantial connections you've drawn between Drake and three missing persons cases? Cases that span fifteen years and three different jurisdictions?"

Heat flushed Hailey's face. "The pattern is there if you—"

"The pattern is that you've become obsessed with a prominent businessman who funds half the political campaigns in your state." Keller's voice dropped, dangerous now. "A man whose lawyer has filed a formal complaint against you and the Bureau."

The room tilted slightly. Hailey steadied herself against the window frame.

"His lawyer. Marcus Denton." She spat the name. "Did you know Denton represented the couple who bought the riverside property where Eliza Weaver's body was found? The property Drake's company developed?"

Silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.

"I’m not calling just to bust you, Agent Rock.” A pause. A long, tired sigh. “I need you to be careful.”

“Careful?” she said, detecting something in his voice.

"Very." Keller's voice dropped to near-whisper. "Two of Victor's brothers were released last month."

The words hit Hailey like a physical blow. Her knees weakened, and she sank onto the arm of the sofa.

"Thomas and Marcus?" she managed.

"Along with their henchman, Raymond Voss." Keller's tone carried a rare note of genuine concern. "Mentioned to a guard at the prison they were heading to Pleasant."

Graham caught her eye, mouthing "What?" She held up a finger, pressing the phone closer to her ear.

"That's not possible," Hailey said, though she knew it was. "Thomas had three years left on his sentence. Marcus had five."

"Overcrowding. Good behavior." Keller's disgust traveled clearly through the connection. "And a series of well-timed character references from 'upstanding community leaders.'"

"Victor."

"Who else?" Papers shuffled again. "Three days after release, they closed their Chicago apartments. Credit card activity shows gas purchases tracking west across I-70. Toward you."

The room seemed to contract around her. Hailey's gaze drifted to the window, suddenly aware of how exposed they were. Three stories up, clear sightlines from the apartment building across the street.

"You understand what I'm saying, Rock?" Keller pressed.

"I understand." Her mouth had gone desert dry.

"The Drake brothers don't make idle threats. And they don't forget grudges."

Thomas Drake: the enforcer. He was six feet and four inches of raw muscle and barely contained rage, the man who'd beaten a witness into a coma with his bare hands then walked away whistling. The prosecutor had called him ‘pathologically detached from human suffering.’

Then there was Marcus. He was the strategist, a Harvard Law dropout who'd found his true calling manipulating the system from the wrong side of the law. The man who'd orchestrated the "accidents" that befell three key witnesses in Victor's 2016 fraud case.

And finally, Raymond Voss: their shadow… their weapon. Not much to say about a man who only appeared when he was needed and disappeared just as quickly, like a knife flicked out and returned to a pocket.

"I'm pulling you in," Keller said. "Effective immediately."

Hailey straightened. "Sir—"

"This isn't a discussion, Agent. I've arranged a temporary transfer to our Denver field office. You'll assist their financial crimes unit until this blows over."

"And the Drake investigation?"

"Is closed." The finality in his voice struck like a hammer. "Until you bring me something beyond circumstantial connections, we can't justify resources on a witch hunt against a man who's threatening legal action."

"Sir, please—"

"This is me protecting you, Rock. The Drakes are coming, and they're not subtle. I need you somewhere safe while I handle the political firestorm. This isn’t a suggestion. This conversation is over."

Through the window, Hailey watched a black SUV with tinted windows cruise slowly down Graham's street. It passed beneath them.

Hailey let the words linger until Keller released a sigh and hung up with a muttered good-bye. She didn’t reply, simply lowering the phone.

Graham was staring at her. “What… was that?”

“Nothing,” she muttered.

“Are you sure?”

She hesitated. “Is there anything available involving Pleasant’s sheriff department?”

“How’s that?”

“Any cases they’ve reached out for help on.”

Graham frowned. “The higher-ups are pulling you?”

“Trying to transfer me,” she grunted. “Not on my life.”

“Hailey…” Graham said hesitantly. “I mean… maybe it is your life we should both be worried about.”

Hailey let his words hang in the air for a moment then moved to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, stared blankly at its contents, then closed it without taking anything.

"My sister Alice is drowning." Her voice was calm, deliberate. "Two of her deputies quit last month. Budget cuts. Election year politics. She's handling everything from domestic disputes to traffic accidents with a skeleton crew."

Graham's expression shifted as understanding dawned. "Hailey..."

"The FBI has a local assistance program." She crossed to his laptop, flipped it open. Typed rapidly. "Established in 1995 after the Oklahoma City bombing. Allows field agents to provide technical support to local law enforcement without formal case adoption."

"I know the program." Graham leaned against the counter, watching her. "But that's not—"

"Consultative role." Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Advisory capacity. No official FBI investigation opened. Just a helping hand to an overwhelmed rural sheriff's department."

"That's stretching the intent of the program."

"Is it?" She spun the laptop toward him. The screen displayed the Bureau's internal memo on the Local Law Enforcement Assistance Initiative. "Page two, paragraph four. 'Field agents may, with verbal approval from their immediate supervisor, provide technical expertise to local jurisdictions facing resource constraints.'"

Graham scanned the text, his brow furrowed. "Keller would never—"

"Keller doesn't need to approve it." The excitement in her voice was building now, like water finding cracks in a dam. "The program was specifically designed to bypass bureaucracy in emergencies. SAC authorization is sufficient."

Graham's shoulders slumped slightly. "So your plan is to stay in Pleasant—where three violent criminals with a vendetta are heading—by attaching yourself to your sister's department?"

"Exactly." She was already dialing Alice's number. "Advisory role. Limited oversight. No reports crossing Keller's desk until the assistance is concluded."

"And when does it conclude?"

Hailey's eyes met his, hard as flint. "When I have enough to nail Victor Drake to the wall."

Graham crossed the room in three uneven strides. He took the phone from her hand before she could protest.

"Think this through," he said, voice low. "Thomas Drake once beat a man unconscious for accidentally bumping into Victor at a restaurant. Marcus orchestrated 'accidents' for witnesses that put them in the ground. And now they're coming here—for you."

The silence between them throbbed like a wound.

"I'm not running." She reclaimed her phone. "The Drakes took everything from me. My reputation. My home." She shrugged. “You can stay or you can leave. But I’m calling Alice.”

As if on cue, Hailey’s own phone began to ring. She frowned, staring down.

“Hello?”

"Hailey? It's Deputy Gaffney." The voice on the other end was gruff, cautious. "From your sister's department."

Her spine straightened automatically. Elmer Gaffney—Alice's new hand, career lawman with a mustache like a wire brush and about as much personality. She'd known him since childhood, when he'd caught her and Alice swimming in the quarry after hours during a private security post. He'd marched them home instead of writing tickets.

"Deputy. What can I do for you?"

Graham watched her face, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"Got something." Gaffney's words came clipped, efficient. "Two kids found a body at the old fairgrounds last night. Carnival pulled out yesterday morning, left this behind."

Hailey looked at Graham, raising an eyebrow. “As it is… we were just talking about coming over. Send me the coordinates. We’re on our way.”

CHAPTER TWO

Mid-afternoon sunlight slanted through oak trees, casting long shadows across the abandoned fairgrounds. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, incongruously bright against the faded remnants of carnival magic. Hailey ducked beneath it, badge already extended toward the deputy standing guard.

"Agent Rock," she said, though the introduction was unnecessary. In Pleasant, everyone knew everyone.

"Sheriff's by the midway," the deputy replied, nodding toward a cluster of figures near the center of the grounds.

Hailey moved rapidly—not quite trying to outrun Graham, who’d been stony silent on the drive over. Her boots crushed sequins and trampled popcorn into the earth. Each step released the ghosts of cotton candy and caramel apples—scents that hung in the air like faces from a memory she could no longer put names to. Graham followed three paces behind, his limp more pronounced on the uneven ground. She could feel him frowning.

She’d dodged his prying questions on the drive over.

She wasn’t leaving. It was as simple as that. He could either accept it, or they’d just continue in silence.

Even as this thought crossed her mind, she felt a flush of frustration with herself. She swallowed back the rising irritation, closing her eyes and attempting to refocus.

He hadn't spoken since they'd left his apartment—not in the car, not when they'd stopped for coffee. He’d just given that look—that disappointed, worried look that made her stomach clench. She could handle his anger. His silence felt worse.

"Took you long enough," Alice said as they approached. Her sheriff's uniform looked crisp despite the heat, her posture military-straight. Only the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.

"Traffic on Route 16," Hailey fibbed. They both knew there was never traffic in Pleasant.

Alice's gaze flicked to Graham, noting his silence. Something passed between them—an unspoken acknowledgment of Hailey's state of mind. It irritated her, being discussed without words.

"What have we got?" Hailey asked, pulling on latex gloves with sharp snaps.

Her sister gestured toward the abandoned game booth. "Male, mid-forties. Carnival worker, according to his vest. Teenagers found him last night around eleven."

"Cause of death?"

"Not immediately apparent. No visible trauma except some bruising on the neck. ME's initial thought was heart attack, but..." Alice trailed off, leading them toward the booth. Hailey noticed the bandage was now gone from her sister’s head. And the scar from the gunshot graze had healed nicely.

Also Victor Drake’s doing. Though not even Alice believed this.

Hailey’s attention moved to the carnival exhibit.

The Lucky Duck Shoot stood like a forgotten stage set, paint peeling from its wooden frame. Someone had erected a pop-up tent over the body, creating a makeshift examination space. The new medical examiner, Dr. Patel, crouched beside the corpse, making notes on a tablet. An elderly man with a rigid, stoic posture and cotton-white tufts of hair behind his ears. The top of his head glowed it was so smooth.

"The position is odd," Alice continued. "If it was a heart attack, why sit down in an abandoned booth? After confirming he was dead, EMTs had us out immediately. Didn’t even move the body, minimal contact. And look at his expression."

Hailey stepped under the tent. The smell hit her immediately—the unmistakable sweetness of early decomposition.

The man sat propped against the back wall, head tilted at an unnatural angle. His face was frozen in an expression of such profound terror that Hailey felt her own heart stutter. Eyes bulging. Mouth stretched in a silent scream. Skin pulled taut across bloated features.

“Do we know his name?”

Alice leaned in, grim. “Found his wallet.” She pulled out an evidence bag. “Money still in it.”

“So not a robbery?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Still had his watch too. Nothing too fancy, but a thief would’ve taken it.”

"Richard Winters," Graham said, finally breaking his silence as he studied the ID through the evidence bag. "Local entrepreneur."

Hailey's head snapped up. "Winters? The real estate developer?"

Alice nodded. "Owner of Riverside Properties. Was developing that new shopping center by the highway."

The name triggered something in Hailey's memory—a connection forming, pieces sliding together with an almost audible click. She crouched beside Dr. Patel, studying the corpse more carefully. Richard Winters had been a heavyset man with a neatly trimmed beard, now grotesquely distorted in death. His carnival worker's vest was too small for his frame, the patches sewn with clumsy, uneven stitches.

"This isn't his clothing," she said, pointing to the vest. "Look at the fit."

Dr. Patel nodded, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. "I concur. The garment appears to have been placed on the victim post-mortem. There's no natural settling of the fabric consistent with regular wear."

"Given who he is, that makes sense. It’s a costume," Graham murmured. "He was dressed up."

Hailey carefully lifted the man's right hand. Rigor mortis had set in, fixing his fingers in a loose curl. A playing card was wedged between them—the Jack of Spades.

"Did the teenagers mention this?" she asked, pointing to the card.

Alice frowned. "No. The girl—Courtney—mentioned finding a Queen of Hearts in the trash left behind, but nothing about this one."

A chill rippled through the tent.

"Time of death?" Hailey asked Dr. Patel.

"Based on liver temperature and decomposition, between thirty-six and forty-eight hours ago." He gestured to discoloration along the victim's back. "Lividity indicates he died elsewhere and was positioned here after death. The blood pooled inconsistently with his current posture."

Hailey's mind raced. "So he was killed while the carnival was still here, then placed after they departed."

"Killed elsewhere entirely," Graham muttered, "and brought here specifically."

Hailey straightened, stepping back to take in the full scene. The abandoned carnival grounds suddenly seemed less like the sad aftermath of festivity and more like a deliberately chosen stage.

"Alice," she said, keeping her voice even, "does this remind you of anything?"

Her sister's expression darkened. "Martin Donaldson. Found a week ago at Lakeside Park."

"Where the carnival had just been," Hailey finished. “I remember seeing that in the news… I thought this sounded familiar.”

“Martin Donaldson?” Graham cut in.

Hailey noticed the way he directed the question at Alice rather than her. She felt a sting at this, but didn’t comment on it.

"Local bank manager," Alice said, her voice tight. "Found sitting on a park bench, dressed in a clown costume. Same expression on his face—terror frozen in place. But..." She trailed off, glancing at Dr. Patel.

"But Mr. Donaldson’s heart was crushed," the doctor finished, rising with a soft grunt. "Blunt trauma to the sternum and rib cage. Possibly a sledgehammer or similar mallet."

Hailey knelt beside the body again, studying the Jack of Spades. The card's face was peculiar—distorted, almost grotesque. The eyes seemed to follow her movement.

"Was there a card with Donaldson?" she asked.

Alice nodded. "Ten of Diamonds. Thought it might be coincidence, maybe something from the carnival left behind."

"Two bodies, two cards," Graham said. "Both men found where the carnival had been. Both dressed up."

Hailey's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. "Did Donaldson have any connection to Winters?"

“Nothing leaps to mind, but we’ll look into it.”

Hailey frowned, turning to examine the rest of the carnival-scape. Graham was asking Alice a question, but Hailey didn’t listen, frowning as she studied the residue of festivities.

She stepped away from the tent, leaving Alice and Graham deep in discussion with Dr. Patel. She needed space—room to think without Graham's concerned glances or Alice's intensity pressing against her.

The abandoned fairgrounds stretched before her like the skeleton of a once-living thing. Ghostly rectangles of flattened grass marked where tents had stood. Circles of churned earth showed where rides had been anchored. The midday sun cast everything in harsh relief, stripping away the forgiving darkness that had hidden the carnival's seedier aspects from its patrons.

She moved methodically, eyes scanning the ground. Debris crunched beneath her boots—a sea of discarded memories: plastic cups with lipstick stains; ticket stubs turned soggy from morning dew; a child's hair ribbon, trampled into mud. Each item was a fragment of someone's carnival experience, now abandoned to rot.

Near what must have been the Ferris wheel's base, metal stakes protruded from the earth like broken teeth. Hailey crouched, running her gloved finger along one stake's rusted surface. The ground here was different—disturbed more recently than the carnival's departure. She dug her fingers into the soil, feeling its consistency.

Twenty yards away, a fortune teller's tent had partially collapsed, its purple fabric billowing like a deflated lung with each gust of wind. Hailey approached it carefully, noting how the stakes had been pulled but not completely removed. It was hasty work—unprofessional.

The carnival had departed in a hurry—another, nearby location, perhaps? A schedule they had to keep?

Inside the half-fallen fortune-teller’s tent, a small wooden table remained, its surface covered in spilled wax from cheap candles. Three tarot cards lay face-down, abandoned mid-reading. They seemed to have been sheltered from the wind by the half-fallen tent walls, and Hailey flipped them with her pen.

The Hanged Man. The Tower. Death.

"How fitting," she muttered, photographing the arrangement with her phone.

More cards.

Did cards have something to do with it? They were found at both crime scenes. She considered what she knew about the ten of diamonds and the Jack of Spades. She'd never been much for cards—that was her father's vice—but she knew enough about poker to recognize them and start to form a theory. The ten and then the jack… Ten and Jack… Diamonds and Spades… Not a Royal Flush then… maybe a straight?

That was an unsettling thought. Because if the pattern held, they could be looking at three more victims… if it didn’t, then who knew how many more? Was someone playing a game with them? Dealing them a hand of cards with a dead body to go with it?

The wind shifted, bringing a sickly-sweet scent from somewhere nearby.

Hailey wrinkled her nose, turning away and moving back towards Graham.

Her partner was frowning in her direction. One of his arms extended, waving in her direction as if trying to draw her attention.

He was pointing to another tent—this one white and recently set up judging by the paramedics milling about it.

Sitting on two chairs under the open flap, Hailey spotted two young faces. Both the teenagers were clad in a warm blanket.

The witnesses, she realized. The ones who’d found the body.

Reluctantly, she flashed a thumbs up in Graham’s direction and marched towards him.

They’d have to speak to the kids eventually.

Maybe they’d seen something they hadn’t reported yet.

CHAPTER THREE

Hailey approached the teens with practiced caution. The girl—Courtney—had the thousand-yard stare Hailey recognized from trauma victims. The boy—Jake—couldn't stop fidgeting, his sneakers tapping an erratic rhythm against the grass.

"I'm Special Agent Rock." She kept her voice gentle but authoritative. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Courtney's eyes snapped to Hailey's face, recognition dawning. "You're the FBI agent. From the news."

A muscle twitched in Hailey's jaw. "That's right."

Jake leaned forward. "Are we in trouble? Because we weren't—"

"You're not in trouble," Hailey interrupted, crouching to their eye level where they sat, covered in their blanket under the tent’s shelter. "I just need to understand exactly what happened last night."

The paramedic hovering nearby gave Hailey a nod and stepped away, granting them privacy. Graham positioned himself at the tent's entrance, watching silently to ensure they weren’t interrupted.

"We just wanted to look around," Jake said, words tumbling out. "The carnival left, and sometimes they drop stuff, you know? Valuable stuff."

"Tyler Meeks found a Rolex last year," Courtney added, voice hollow.

Hailey nodded encouragingly. "So you came over the fence on the west side?"

"How did you—" Jake started.

"Footprints," Graham said from behind. "Only one access point with fresh tracks."

Courtney hugged herself tighter. "We were just walking around. Jake found this metal box, and then I found a quarter, and when I turned around, he was gone."

"I wasn't gone," Jake protested. "I was checking out the carousel area. You freaked out for no reason."

"And then?" Hailey prompted.

"I screamed." Courtney's fingers twisted in the blanket. "I was looking for Jake but I saw... him. Just sitting there, staring. His face was..." She trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Did you touch anything?" Graham asked.

Jake shook his head vehemently. "No way. Soon as we saw him, we ran."

"Almost ran," Courtney corrected. "I dropped my flashlight. It's probably still there."

"We'll find it," Hailey assured her. "Did you notice anything else unusual? Anyone else around? Vehicles nearby?"

The teenagers exchanged glances. Jake shrugged.

"There was this weird mist," Courtney said hesitantly. "Like, it didn't rise like normal fog. It sort of... crawled along the ground."

"Ground fog," Graham offered. "Common in low-lying areas after temperature shifts."

Courtney shook her head. "This was different. And there was a card—"

"The Queen of Hearts," Hailey said. "You mentioned finding it earlier. Can I see it?"

“It wasn’t on the body or anything… The cops didn’t take it before because I said I found it a little ways away—”

“That’s ok, Courtney,” Hailey interrupted gently. “I just want to see it. It might be important anyway.”

Courtney's hand trembled as she reached into her pocket, producing a playing card. Hailey accepted it carefully by the edges.

The Queen of Hearts stared back from the card, but the image was wrong. Distorted. The queen's eyes bulged with an expression of terror similar to the dead man's. Her mouth stretched in a silent scream.

"Where exactly did you find this?" Hailey asked, sliding the card into an evidence bag.

"Just laying on the ground," Courtney said. "Near where the fortune teller's tent was."

Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham. Three cards now—the Ten of Diamonds with Donaldson, the Jack of Spades with Winters, and now the Queen of Hearts, discarded where Courtney would find it.

"Did either of you notice anything else unusual?" Hailey pressed. "Anything at all about the carnival while it was here?"

Jake shrugged again. “Nothing. Like, really. Just nothing.”

Courtney wrinkled her nose. “No there was something off… something wrong about that place.”

“In what way?”

“She’s afraid of the dark,” Jake muttered.

Courtney rounded on him. “You ran. Leaving me with the body.”

Jake muttered under his breath and the two teenagers stared sullenly at the ground.

Hailey studied them both. They were scared and tired. She didn’t think they’d be of any further use. She tried to soften her expression, hoping to put the kids at ease.

But just then, a shout rang out behind them.

Hailey frowned, peering through the tent flap.

The coroner was gesticulating wildly, gesturing towards them with big, sweeping motions.

Raising an eyebrow at Graham, Hailey stood, but he was already moving towards where the coroner kept waving an arm.

“Excuse me,” Hailey muttered apologetically as she slipped back out under the afternoon sun.

Hailey jogged across the trampled fairground, Graham half a step behind her despite his limp. The medical examiner stood by his vehicle, waving a tablet with one hand while the other clutched at his chest. His face had flushed a dangerous shade of crimson.

"Dr. Patel?" Hailey called as they approached. "What is it?"

Dr. Patel's breathing came in short, rapid bursts. His usual composure had cracked, revealing something Hailey rarely saw in medical examiners—genuine distress.

"When we shifted the body," he managed, thrusting the tablet toward her. "Look."

Behind him, Hailey spotted where a couple of ME assistants were standing by a gurney, both looking similarly distressed.

Hailey returned her attention to the tablet.

The screen displayed close-up images of Winters' chest. Hailey squinted, then felt her stomach drop. Dozens of tiny puncture wounds dotted the pale flesh in a grotesque constellation. Some were inflamed, others crusted with dried blood. They formed no pattern—just a chaotic scattering across his torso.

"Needle marks?" Graham asked, leaning in.

Dr. Patel shook his head. "Not hypodermic. Too large, too shallow." His finger trembled as he swiped to the next image. "I opened his shirt completely. They're everywhere—chest, abdomen, even the upper thighs. Dozens. Perhaps hundreds."

Hailey's mind raced through possibilities. "Torture?"

"Almost certainly." Dr. Patel's professional detachment was returning, his scientific mind reasserting control. "The spacing suggests multiple sessions. Some wounds show early healing, others are fresh."

"Dear God," Graham muttered.

Alice appeared at Hailey's shoulder, her face grim. "That's not all."

She held up an evidence bag. Inside was a slender object, about four inches long with a metal tip and colorful plastic flights.

"Found this in his shirt pocket. Folded in there deliberately."

Hailey stared at the object. A throwing dart. The kind used in carnival games.

"Where exactly was it positioned?" she asked.

"Left breast pocket. Directly over the heart."

Graham's expression darkened. "Like a signature."

"Or a message," Hailey said. She studied the dart through the plastic. Its shaft was bright red with yellow flights. It looked factory-made, probably available at any sporting goods store or online retailer, nothing distinctive about it at all.

"The puncture wounds," she said, turning back to Dr. Patel. "Could they have been made with this?"

The doctor nodded grimly. "The diameter matches perfectly. Someone repeatedly jabbed him with darts. Given the varying stages of healing, I'd estimate over a period of days."

"Kept him alive," Graham said. "Tortured him slowly."

Alice ran a hand through her hair, dislodging her sheriff's hat. "We need to check Donaldson's body. See if he has similar marks."

"Already texted my assistant," Dr. Patel said. "He's checking now."

Hailey stepped away, needing space to process. Someone had turned Richard Winters into their own personal carnival game, a living dartboard—and as she closed her eyes, she wondered who the Queen of Hearts had been meant for… and what kind of game this killer intended to play with them.

CHAPTER FOUR

The carnival had left behind phantoms.

And now they were staring at another one. Three hours had passed after the discovery of the body.

Hailey and Graham had been driving back to the sheriff’s department when they’d got the call from the coroner’s office to reroute.

And now, here they stood, in the cold coroner’s office. Alice had joined them, standing quietly off to the side, her face set in a grim expression.

Martin Donaldson's body lay on the steel examination table, skin the color of old wax under the merciless fluorescent lights. Dr. Patel had insisted they come immediately, his voice cracking with urgency over the phone. The morgue smelled of industrial disinfectant and something else—something primal that cleaning chemicals could never quite mask.

Hailey stood opposite him, Graham and Alice flanking her sides. The bank manager's body had been in cold storage for a week, waiting for the state lab results. The pallor of preservation had settled over his features, but even in death, his face retained that same frozen mask of terror they'd seen on Richard Winters.

"What am I looking at, Doctor?" Hailey asked, keeping her voice steady despite the unease crawling along her spine.

Dr. Patel's latex-covered fingers hovered over Donaldson's bare chest. He pressed gently on the center of Donaldson's sternum. The skin dimpled unnaturally, like pressing into partially set gelatin.

"The sternum is fractured. Completely. As are most of the ribs." His finger traced a circular pattern across the chest. "Initially, I suspected multiple blows from a sledgehammer or work mallet, but after the discovery of Winters… Well, I had a hunch. The damage forms a perfect circle, approximately eight inches in diameter."

Graham leaned closer. "That’s a big hammer," he mused grimly.

"Precisely." Dr. Patel nodded, relief evident that someone understood. "But not from a fall or impact against a flat surface. It’s not consistent with multiple blows either. This was delivered by a cylindrical object with significant weight behind it. A single blow."

Hailey's mind flashed to the carnival midway. Games of chance and skill lined up in garish colors. Test-your-strength hammers. Ball-toss mallets.

"A carnival hammer," she said quietly. "Like from those strength-test games."

Dr. Patel's eyes met hers. "Exactly what I concluded. The high-striker mallet would match these dimensions precisely."

Alice cursed under her breath. "So someone crushed his chest with a carnival hammer. Deliberately?"

"With extraordinary force," Dr. Patel confirmed. "The sternum is one of the strongest bones in the human body. To shatter it so completely would require tremendous strength—or multiple blows, but again… the circle is so perfect."

"And that's what killed him," Hailey said, not a question but a confirmation of what they were all thinking.

"Indirectly." Dr. Patel's fingers moved to Donaldson's neck, indicating subtle discoloration beneath the jaw. "The trauma triggered a massive cardiac event. His heart literally burst from the pressure."

Graham stepped back, processing. "So Winters was tortured with darts. Donaldson was beaten with a carnival hammer."

"Both killed using implements from carnival games," Hailey added, the connection crystallizing in her mind. "Both positioned where the carnival had been. Both left with playing cards."

Alice's phone buzzed. She checked it, her expression darkening. "Deputies just finished canvassing Winters' neighborhood. His wife reported him missing four days ago. Said he never came home from a business meeting."

"When the carnival was still in town," Graham noted.

"Donaldson disappeared three days before that," Dr. Patel offered. "His secretary reported it when he missed an important loan committee meeting."

Hailey moved to the head of the table, studying Donaldson's face. The frozen terror in his expression matched Winters' exactly—eyes bulging, mouth stretched in a silent scream. Not the typical expression of someone suffering a heart attack.

"Doctor," she said slowly, "could these men have been conscious during their deaths?"

Dr. Patel considered this. "The lack of defensive wounds suggests they were restrained or incapacitated. But yes, they could have been fully aware as it happened."

"Shit," Alice muttered.

"They were forced to witness their own murders," Hailey said, the horror of it sinking in. "Kept alive and aware through the torture, right up until the end."

Graham's jaw tightened. "This is methodical. Ritualistic."

"The cards," Hailey said suddenly. "Ten of Diamonds with Donaldson. Jack of Spades with Winters. Queen of Hearts found by the teenagers."

"A sequence?" Alice asked.

"Maybe." Hailey's mind raced through the implications. "If the killer is following a pattern using playing cards, we might be able to predict the next victim."

"Or victims," Graham added grimly. "There are fifty-two cards in a deck."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that matched the corpse on the table. For a moment, no one spoke.

"We need to find that carnival," Hailey finally said, breaking the silence. "Track where they went after Pleasant."

Alice nodded. "I'll have my deputy check their permit application. Should have their route listed."

"I'll call neighboring jurisdictions," Graham offered. "See if anyone else has reported similar deaths." Graham was already pulling out his phone as he stepped toward the hallway.

The morgue felt suddenly colder. Hailey stared down at Donaldson's face, the frozen terror etched into features that would never again animate with life. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were already behind, playing catch-up in a game where they didn't know all the rules.

"We should check if there are any connections between the victims," she said to Alice. "Business dealings, social circles, anything."

Alice nodded, pulling out her notepad. "Winters was in real estate development. Donaldson ran First County Bank. Could be a financial connection there."

"Loan approvals," Hailey suggested. "Property financing."

"I'll pull their records as soon as we get back to the station."

Dr. Patel covered Donaldson's body with a sheet, his movements precise despite his evident distress. "I'll complete a full toxicology panel. If the killer used any chemical restraints, we'll find them."

A sharp rap on the door frame interrupted them. Graham stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, eyes wide with something between disbelief and urgency.

"What is it?" Hailey asked.

He held up one finger, listening intently to whoever was on the line. "Yes, thank you. We'll be there immediately." He ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket. "That was the Pleasant Chamber of Commerce."

Alice frowned. "Why would they—"

"The carnival," Graham cut in. "It's coming back."

"Coming back?" Hailey repeated. "To Pleasant? That doesn't make sense. They just left yesterday."

"Apparently there was some kind of scheduling error. They were supposed to be in Springfield this week, but there was a permit issue." Graham's expression was grim. "So they're returning to Pleasant for an 'extended engagement' starting tonight."

Alice's phone rang, the shrill tone echoing off the morgue's tile walls. She answered with a crisp, "Sheriff Rock." Her eyes widened as she listened. "When?" A pause. "Where exactly?" Another pause. "We're on our way."

She ended the call, already moving toward the door. "That was Deputy Gaffney. The carnival trucks are rolling into town right now. They're setting up in the town square."

"Town square?" Hailey repeated, disbelief coloring her voice. "That's less than five minutes from the sheriff's station."

"Quicker with lights and sirens," Alice confirmed, her jaw set in a hard line.

Hailey felt the air charge with electric possibility. The carnival—their best lead, their most likely connection to two brutal murders—was returning to the scene. Coming back to Pleasant as if drawn by some unseen force.

“Shit… do we… go to the carnival, then?” Graham muttered.

Hailey considered this. “We have time while they set up. Let’s… let’s speak to Donaldson’s widow. I think that’s our first move.”

Graham gave a curt nod. Perhaps not agreement, but at least acquiescence.

It was another reminder that he didn’t think she should be doing this at all, that the FBI office’s request to relocate her might still be her best choice. Hailey hated it when things were tense between them. But she simply wasn’t ready to back down.

And even if she suddenly agreed with him, she wouldn’t go. What had started as a ploy to buy time to investigate Drake was now an active murder investigation.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Donaldson house perched on Pleasant's north ridge like an afterthought of luxury—a beige colonial with pristine white columns and precisely trimmed hedges, too large for one person, too empty for its mortgage. Hailey pulled the Bureau sedan to the curb, killing the engine but leaving her hands on the wheel.

"You've been quiet," she said to Graham.

He stared through the windshield at the manicured lawn where sprinklers traced perfect arcs through late afternoon sunlight. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how much I hate being right." He finally turned to face her. "The Drake brothers are coming. The carnival's coming back. And you're digging in deeper."

Hailey's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "This isn't about Drake anymore. Two men are dead."

"Everything in Pleasant is about Drake eventually. For you. For you, it always is."

She couldn't argue with that. Victor Drake's shadow stretched across Pleasant like a stain, touching everything—politics, business, real estate. Even the sheriff's department budget depended on county commissioners who owed their elections to Drake's support. Graham meant it as a dig. She took it simply as an explanation.

"We focus on what's in front of us," she said firmly. "Right now, that's Martin Donaldson's widow and whatever she can tell us."

Graham nodded, professional mask sliding back into place. "Lead the way, Agent Rock."

The house smelled of artificial lavender and grief—that peculiar stillness that settles in rooms where someone is trying to pretend life continues normally. Patricia Donaldson led them through a foyer lined with family photographs, each featuring the same careful smile beneath increasingly graying hair.

"Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Donaldson," Hailey said as they entered a living room decorated in shades of taupe and beige. Nothing out of place. Nothing revealing personality.

"Please, call me Patricia." Her voice was steady but thin, like ice in late winter. "I've already spoken with Sheriff Rock several times."

"We have some new information," Graham explained, settling into an armchair that looked like it had never been sat in before, “about your husband's death."

Patricia Donaldson's hands twisted in her lap, ivory knuckles against black slacks. "You've found who did this?"

"Not yet," Hailey admitted. "But we've discovered similarities to another case. It might help us identify the killer."

"Another case?" Patricia's carefully maintained composure cracked slightly. "You mean... someone else was killed the same way?"

"Similar circumstances," Graham hedged.

Hailey studied the room while Graham explained their findings in the sanitized language of law enforcement—'evidence of trauma’ rather than ‘tortured with carnival darts,’ ‘positioned post-mortem’ instead of ‘dressed up like a macabre doll.’ The walls held tasteful landscape paintings amid personal photos that looked as staged as the stock prints that came with the frames. And this left the house feeling like a hotel suite—expensive but impersonal.

Patricia's fingers worked at an invisible thread on her slacks, her wedding band catching the light from the bay window. "Martin wasn't the sort of man who made enemies," she said finally. "Thirty years at the bank. Everyone liked him."

"We understand he disappeared the day the carnival arrived in Lakeside Park," Hailey said, leaning forward slightly. "Did he mention plans to attend?"

A small furrow appeared between Patricia's perfectly plucked eyebrows. "He didn't mention it specifically, but he always went. Every year since we were married." Her gaze drifted to a photograph on the mantel—younger versions of themselves, Patricia's smile genuine, Martin's arm around her waist. "He would have gone to the Pleasant carnival too, once it was in town… He loved those ridiculous games."

"The carnival games?" Graham asked, interest piqued.

Patricia nodded, a ghost of fondness crossing her features. "Martin was... competitive. Intensely so. He'd spend hours at those booths, determined to win the biggest prizes." Her fingers twisted harder. "It became something of a joke among our friends. The banker who could calculate loan interest in his head but couldn't see when the odds were stacked against him."

Hailey exchanged a quick glance with Graham. "Did he ever get frustrated with the games?"

"Frustrated?" Patricia's laugh held no humor. "He'd get furious. Convinced they were rigged—which, of course, they are. But he couldn't let it go." She shook her head. "Last year he spent over two hundred dollars trying to knock down milk bottles with a baseball. Came home in such a state I thought he might have a stroke."

"Did he ever confront the carnival workers?" Graham asked carefully.

Patricia's eyes darted away, focusing on the pristine carpet. "There was... an incident. Three days before he disappeared."

Hailey leaned forward. "What kind of incident?"

"We went to the carnival that evening. Martin headed straight for the ring toss—his particular nemesis." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I was getting cotton candy when I heard shouting. By the time I got back, Martin had a bloody lip and was storming off toward the parking lot."

"He was in a fight?" Graham asked.

"An argument that turned physical." Patricia's composure wavered. "With one of the workers. A younger man running the booth."

Hailey pulled out her phone, opening a photo album she'd compiled from the abandoned fairgrounds. "Would you recognize this worker if you saw him?"

Patricia nodded, accepting the phone with trembling fingers. Hailey swiped through images of the abandoned game booths, close-ups of signs and equipment, and finally, several shots of carnival personnel she'd pulled from the permit application Alice had forwarded.

Patricia stopped on the fifth image, her finger hovering over the screen. "Him. That's the one Martin argued with."

The photo showed a man in his thirties with a carnival worker's vest and a name tag reading COOPER. He had a lean build, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and a tattoo visible on his forearm—something tribal that disappeared beneath his rolled sleeve.

"What happened exactly?" Hailey asked, taking the phone back and studying the image.

Patricia's shoulders sagged slightly. "Martin accused him of rigging the game. Said the rings were too small for the bottle necks." Her voice dropped. "The worker—Cooper—laughed at him. Called him a 'sore loser' and a 'pathetic old man.' Martin... Martin shoved him. The worker shoved back harder. Martin fell against the counter and cut his lip."

"Did security get involved?" Graham asked.

"No." Patricia's fingers resumed their nervous twisting. "Martin was embarrassed. He stormed off, waited in the car while I found Ellie—our granddaughter. We didn't report it."

Hailey made a note in her small black notebook. "And this was three days before he disappeared?"

Patricia nodded. "He went to work the next morning like nothing happened. Then two days later, he said he had a late meeting with the loan committee. He never came home."

A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the tick of an antique grandfather clock in the hallway.

"Mrs. Donaldson," Graham said gently, "did your husband have any connection to Richard Winters? The real estate developer?"

Patricia frowned, considering. "Only professionally. Winters' company had several loans through First County. Martin handled most of the larger commercial accounts personally."

"Any issues with those loans?" Hailey pressed. "Defaults? Late payments?"

"Not that Martin mentioned, though I would check with the bank. He certainly didn’t take any frustrations there home with him."

Patricia's gaze drifted to the window where afternoon light slanted across the immaculate lawn. "Martin always said Winters was a good client: ambitious, but not reckless." Her voice softened, taking on the distant quality of someone slipping into memory. "He came to our Christmas party last year. Brought an expensive bottle of scotch. Martin was so pleased—he collected scotch, you know. Had a cabinet full of bottles he'd never open. Just liked to look at them, arrange them by region and age..."

She trailed off, fingers now completely still as her mind wandered through corridors of remembrance. "The night before he disappeared, he opened one. A twenty-five-year Macallan. Said life was too short to save everything for special occasions." A tear slid down her cheek, leaving a faint track through her carefully applied makeup. "I should have known something was wrong then. Martin never opened the good bottles."

Hailey watched the woman retreat into her memories, recognizing the pattern. Grief did this—created tunnels backward, pathways into moments that seemed insignificant until they became the last ones you shared. Her own mother had done the same after Mindy disappeared, endlessly recounting the breakfast they'd shared that morning, the argument over homework, the offhand ‘see you later’ that became a desperate prayer.

Graham caught Hailey's eye, giving a subtle nod. He understood the widow needed space now—time to travel these mental pathways without interruption.

"Mrs. Donaldson," Hailey said gently, rising from her seat, "would you mind if I used your restroom?"

Patricia blinked, surfacing from her reverie. "Of course. Down the hall, second door on the left."

"I have a few more questions about the bank records," Graham said smoothly, "if you don't mind."

Hailey slipped from the room as Graham leaned forward, his voice dropping to that perfect register of professional compassion he'd mastered over years of victim interviews. In the hallway, Hailey paused, studying the family photographs more carefully. Martin Donaldson's aging process captured in yearly portraits—his hair graying, face softening, eyes growing more tired behind bifocals that grew progressively thicker.

But it was the background details that caught her attention. In almost every photo, Martin clutched something—a stuffed animal, an oversized inflatable hammer, a plastic trophy. Carnival prizes, documented year after year like hunting trophies.

The bathroom was as impersonal as the rest of the house—guest towels folded with military precision, soaps shaped like seashells arranged in a crystal dish. Hailey washed her hands mechanically, mind racing through connections. Donaldson's obsession with carnival games. His confrontation with a worker named Cooper. His loans to carnival-adjacent property like Winters’.

She dried her hands on a pristine guest towel. Hailey carefully refolded the towel to its original perfection. Her reflection stared back from the polished mirror—dark circles under her eyes, tension lines at the corners of her mouth. She looked exhausted—felt it too.

She slipped out of the bathroom and paused in the hallway, hearing Graham's gentle questioning continuing in the living room. Her attention drifted to a door left slightly ajar at the end of the corridor: Martin's home office, most likely.

The door hinges were silent as she eased it open. The room beyond felt like stepping into Martin Donaldson himself—meticulously organized bookshelves, financial journals arranged by date, a heavy oak desk with a leather blotter. Unlike the rest of the house, this space had personality—a collection of carnival prizes arranged on custom shelves along one wall, each labeled with a year: thirty-six stuffed animals, plastic trophies, and gaudy trinkets spanning decades.

Beneath them, a glass display case held something else entirely—playing cards. Dozens of decks, some still in factory packaging, others displayed open in velvet-lined compartments. Collector's editions, limited runs, antique designs. Each labeled with the acquisition date and origin.

Hailey's pulse quickened. She pulled out her phone and snapped several photos.

When she returned to the living room, Graham was showing Patricia a photograph on his phone.

"—never seen that particular card before," Patricia was saying, shaking her head. "Martin collected unusual decks, but I don't recall one with distorted faces like that."

Graham nodded, tucking his phone away as Hailey reentered. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Donaldson. We'll be in touch if we have any further questions."

He got up, sharing a look with Hailey.

She nodded to the door. Graham bid farewell then followed her in retreat.

Outside, the late afternoon sun had taken on the golden quality of approaching evening. Shadows stretched long across the Donaldson's perfect lawn. Hailey waited until they were in the car, doors closed against the world, before speaking.

"We need to go to the carnival. I want to speak with this Cooper," Hailey said, already starting the car.

"You think he's our killer?" Graham fastened his seatbelt, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at his bad leg.

"I think he's our best lead." Hailey pulled away from the curb with more force than necessary. "Donaldson argued with him days before disappearing. And I saw a collection in his office carnival prizes going back decades. This wasn’t just an idle quirk of his. Winning those prizes meant something."

Graham nodded, scrolling through something on his phone. "I just sent Alice a request to run background on every carnival employee listed on the permit application. Cooper's real name is Marshall Cooper Phillips. Thirty-four. Worked with Starlight Carnival for three seasons."

Hailey navigated Pleasant's quiet streets, heading toward the town square where the carnival was setting up. The sun hung low now, painting everything in amber and long shadows. They drove in silence for several blocks, the weight of the case pressing between them.

"Did you notice Patricia never once cried?" Graham finally said. "Talked about her husband in the past tense without hesitation."

"Shock," Hailey suggested. "Or they weren't close."

"Or relief," Graham countered. "Thirty years with a man obsessed with winning cheap carnival prizes. Who knows what that marriage was really like behind closed doors."

Hailey considered this. "You think she's involved?"

"I think we shouldn't rule anyone out." Graham shifted in his seat, stretching his bad leg. "Including the widow with the perfect alibi and the impeccable house."

As they approached the town square, the carnival came into view—a surreal eruption of color and motion against Pleasant's staid brick buildings and historical markers. Workers swarmed like ants around half-assembled rides. The Ferris wheel's skeleton rose against the darkening sky, its circular frame not yet adorned with lights or passenger cars.

Hailey parked the Bureau sedan at the edge of the square, killing the engine. For a moment, they sat watching the organized chaos of the carnival's rebirth.

"I never liked these things," Graham muttered. "Even as a kid."

"Really? I loved them." Hailey's eyes tracked a worker climbing the Ferris wheel's frame like a spider ascending its web. "My dad would take me and Alice every summer. Let us eat nothing but cotton candy and ride the Tilt-A-Whirl until we nearly threw up."

"Sounds like a health hazard."

"It was freedom." Her voice softened with the memory. "For one magical night a year, all the rules disappeared. We could eat junk, stay up late, scream as loud as we wanted." Hailey's eyes followed the carnival workers moving with practiced efficiency. "I never understood why they left. It was so magical. Why did they pack up and disappear overnight."

Graham studied her profile in the fading light. "Maybe that's part of the appeal. If it stayed, it wouldn't be special anymore."

A truck engine roared to life across the square, drowning out whatever Hailey might have replied. Workers were backing a flatbed loaded with midway game components into position. The Lucky Duck Shoot booth—identical to the one where Winters' body had been found—was being reassembled piece by piece with its new, unbroken sign.

"Let's find Cooper," Hailey said, pushing open her door. "Before the crowds arrive."

They crossed the square together, FBI badges visible on their belts. The carnival's rebirth surrounded them—the smell of grease and cotton candy, the clang of metal rides being assembled, workers shouting instructions in a mixture of English and Spanish. Despite the daylight, some of the lights had already been tested, flashing in garish patterns that felt wrong against the still-bright sky.

A woman in a carnival manager's jacket approached them, clipboard in hand. "Sorry, folks. We don't open until seven."

Hailey flashed her badge. "Special Agent Rock, FBI. This is Agent Vance. We need to speak with one of your employees. Marshall Cooper Phillips."

The manager's smile remained fixed, but her eyes hardened. "Cooper? What's this about?"

"Just some questions about an incident last week," Graham said, his tone deliberately casual. "Nothing serious."

The woman—her jacket identified her as LORETTA KING, OPERATIONS SUPERVISOR—consulted her clipboard. "Cooper's on midway setup. Section C." She pointed toward a cluster of game booths being erected near the north end of the square. "But I should warn you, he's got a schedule to keep. We open in two hours."

"This won't take long," Hailey assured her, already moving in the direction indicated.

They threaded through the half-assembled carnival, dodging workers carrying sections of track and bundles of electrical cable. Hailey felt a strange dissonance—the familiar sights and sounds of childhood joy now overlaid with the knowledge of what had happened to Donaldson and Winters.

Every game booth took on sinister potential. Every smiling worker became a suspect.

And all the while, she tried not to think of the other threats descending on Pleasant like vultures.

The Drake brothers would be here soon.

If they weren’t already.

CHAPTER SIX

The rental car smelled of artificial pine and past occupants. Thomas Drake's massive frame crowded the passenger seat, his knees jammed against the dashboard no matter how far back he pushed the seat. His thick fingers drummed impatiently on his thigh as they passed the weathered wooden sign: WELCOME TO PLEASANT - WHERE GOOD NEIGHBORS GATHER.

"Nauseating," he muttered.

From the driver's seat, Marcus made a small noise of agreement. His lean hands gripped the steering wheel precisely at ten and two, his posture perfect despite the six-hour drive from Chicago. Unlike his brother's rumpled t-shirt and jeans, Marcus's charcoal suit remained immaculate, his tie knife-straight against his pressed shirt.

"Small towns," Marcus said, his voice cultured and soft, "are fascinating ecosystems of denial. All these pristine storefronts hide decades of petty hatreds and simmering resentments."

In the backseat, Raymond Voss said nothing. He rarely did. His forgettable face revealed no emotion as he stared through the window at Pleasant's tree-lined streets. Only his eyes moved, cataloging exits, alleyways, security cameras mounted on utility poles.

They drove past a park where mothers pushed children on swings, past a diner with a hand-painted sign advertising Best Pie in Three Counties, past a barbershop where old men gathered on benches outside, watching the world with tired eyes.

"Looks like we arrived at an auspicious time," Marcus observed as they approached the town square.

The carnival rose before them—a riot of color against Pleasant's brick-and-mortar respectability. Workers swarmed around half-assembled rides and game booths. The Ferris wheel's skeleton reached toward the darkening sky like a mechanical giant stretching awake.

Thomas's lip curled. "Carnivals. Cheap thrills for cheap people."

"They serve a purpose," Marcus replied, smoothly navigating around the square. "Distraction. The oldest tool of control—give the masses something shiny to look at while the real work happens elsewhere."

Raymond Voss leaned forward slightly. "There." His voice was flat, emotionless. He pointed to a black sedan parked at the edge of the square.

Marcus slowed, eyes narrowing as they passed. "Government plates. Bureau car."

Thomas's massive hands balled into fists. "Rock."

"Patience, brother." Marcus's tone held gentle rebuke. "We're here for Victor first. The agent will receive our undivided attention soon enough."

They drove in silence through Pleasant's east side, where Victorian homes gave way to newer developments. Marcus turned onto a tree-lined street of modest but well-maintained apartment buildings. Beyond all of these, almost on the edge where the avenue peeled off to find its way to the intersecting highway and where the distant glimmer of the lake could be just vaguely seen sparkling against the daytime sun, a squat two-story motel appeared.

The sleeping tubes of a neon ‘vacancy’ sign rested under a freshly painted panel that spelled out LAKEVIEW MOTEL in bold letters.

"This is it?" Thomas asked, disbelief evident. "Victor lives here?”

Marcus killed the engine, studying the building with a critical eye. "Appearances, brother. Always appearances." His thin lips curved into something approximating a smile. "Our brother understands the value of seeming ordinary."

Raymond Voss exited the car first, scanning the street with practiced efficiency. His hand brushed briefly against his jacket, confirming the presence of what lay beneath. Only when he gave a slight nod did the brothers emerge.

Thomas unfolded from the passenger seat like a bear awakening from hibernation, stretching his massive frame until joints popped. Marcus adjusted his tie, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. Together, they approached the building, Raymond trailing three steps behind.

The lobby smelled of lemon polish and recent vacuuming. A gangly young man with a patchy goatee looked up from his phone as if annoyed at the prospect of doing his job.

“Welcome to the Lakeview Motel. We have singles and doubles available. How many nights are you looking for?” he asked with rote flatness as he jiggled a mouse at his desk computer.

"The prodigal sons have returned," Marcus replied.

The young man’s eyebrow quirked a moment in confusion before panic replaced the expression. “Shit… shit. So sorry about that,” he stammered, dropping his phone and standing up in nervous agitation.

With a tremble in his fingers, he picked up the desk phone and hastily dialed a number.

“Yes, sir… Three of them… Yes. Right away, sir,” the desk clerk said briskly. Then, hanging up the phone, he turned and took two keys from the hooks on the way behind him. Each was marked with a plastic keychain flashing the number 17 in painted golden digits.

Handing over the keys, the scrawny young man quietly said, “He’s waiting in 214, but wanted me to give these to you right away. Please, enjoy your stay.” And afterward he lowered his head as if giving an instinctive bow.

The three men ignored the clerk’s nervous obeisance, and Thomas took both keys in a wide swipe, clasping them together in his palm as they turned toward the adjoining stairway.

 They ascended in silence, their footsteps echoing in the well-maintained stairwell. No elevator—another calculated choice. Victor had always appreciated the defensive advantages of stairs.

Suite 214 waited at the end of a carpeted hallway in the interior second story of the motel. It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes to reach it, but the door opened before they were within ten paces.

Victor Drake stood framed in the doorway, silver hair catching the hallway light like a halo. His tailored shirt—dove gray, French cuffs—contrasted with the casual setting. Only those who knew him well would notice the coiled tension beneath his welcoming smile.

"My brothers," he said, voice rich with warmth that never quite reached his eyes. "At last."

Thomas moved first, engulfing Victor in a bear hug that would have crushed a smaller man. Victor returned it with equal force, though his gaze remained fixed on Marcus over Thomas's shoulder.

"It's been too long," Thomas said, voice thick with emotion.

"Far too long," Victor agreed, releasing him to embrace Marcus. Their hug was briefer, more restrained, yet somehow more intimate—the embrace of minds rather than bodies.

Raymond Voss stood apart, patient and still. Victor acknowledged him with a nod that carried more respect than many received from lengthy conversations.

"Come in," Victor said, stepping aside. "There are others eager to meet you."

The motel suite defied its exterior. Where the building suggested middle-class modesty, the interior spoke of calculated luxury. Hardwood floors gleamed beneath Persian rugs. Original artwork—not prints—adorned walls painted in subtle earth tones. The furniture was Danish modern, expensive but understated.

"You've made yourself comfortable," Marcus observed, noting the leather-bound books arranged on built-in shelves: classics mostly, with a few contemporary works chosen for intellectual credibility rather than enjoyment.

"One makes do," Victor replied.

In what seemed to be the motel’s owner’s suite, the entryway fed into an open-concept living area, two figures rose from a sleek sectional sofa. Young men—early twenties at most—with the hungry look of strays who'd found shelter but remained wary. The taller one had close-cropped blond hair and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The shorter, darker one carried himself with the calculated swagger of someone who'd learned to appear dangerous before actually becoming so.

"My brothers," Victor said, gesturing toward the young men, "meet the future. Kevin Reese and Damian Mercer."

The young men straightened, tension visible in their shoulders. Being presented to the Drake brothers clearly carried weight—a moment they'd been prepared for, perhaps dreaded.

"Reese," Thomas repeated, studying the blond one with narrowed eyes. "The hardware store robbery on Elm? Three years back?"

Kevin Reese's jaw tightened. "Yes, sir."

Thomas's expression remained unreadable. "Clean work. One guard with a concussion, no witnesses, fourteen thousand in cash. Police never made the connection to the pharmacy job the month before."

A flicker of pride crossed Reese's face, quickly suppressed. "Thank you, sir."

Marcus circled the shorter one, Damian, like a scientist examining a specimen. "Mercer... Not related to Judge Mercer, by chance?"

"His nephew," Damian replied, voice carefully neutral.

"Fascinating." Marcus's thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "The judge sent three of our associates away for considerable terms. Now his blood stands in our living room."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Raymond Voss shifted slightly, his hand again brushing the concealed weight beneath his jacket.

Victor raised one hand—a small gesture that immediately commanded attention. "The judge and I have reached an understanding. Damian's loyalty is beyond question."

The moment stretched, taut as piano wire. Then Marcus inclined his head in deference. "Of course, brother. Your judgment has always been impeccable."

Thomas moved to the sideboard where crystal decanters caught the late afternoon light. "These boys know what they're signing up for?" He poured amber liquid into four tumblers without asking preferences.

"They understand the fundamentals," Victor replied, accepting a glass. "Loyalty. Discretion. Hierarchy." His gaze swept over the young men with paternal intensity. "They've proven themselves in small matters. Tonight begins their true education."

Kevin and Damian exchanged quick glances—a nervous energy passing between them like static electricity.

"The ritual?" Thomas asked, voice dropping to a near growl as he handed glasses to Marcus and Raymond.

Victor nodded, taking a measured sip of his whiskey. "All is prepared. The carnival provides perfect cover."

"Appropriate," Marcus murmured. "Continuation of tradition."

Mercer spoke first, shifting uncomfortably. “And… and what exactly do we have to do… Not… Not kill anyone, right?”

The Drake brothers all grinned.

But it was Voss who broke the unfortunate news.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hailey spotted Cooper Phillips near the ring toss booth, hammering wooden stakes into the ground with methodical precision. Sweat darkened his carnival vest despite the cooling evening air. The tattoo she'd seen in his personnel photo continued up his forearm—an elaborate tribal design that disappeared beneath his rolled sleeve.

"Marshall Cooper Phillips?" she called, approaching with Graham half a step behind.

Cooper straightened, hammer still gripped in one hand. His eyes narrowed, taking in their badges, their posture, their purpose. His entire body tensed like a street cat sensing danger.

"Who's asking?" His voice carried the rough edge of someone accustomed to confrontation.

Hailey stepped closer, badge extended. "Special Agent Rock, FBI. This is Agent Vance. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Cooper's gaze shifted between them, calculating. The hammer dangled from his fingers—not threatening, but not forgotten either. Around them, carnival workers continued their assembly, though several slowed their pace, watching the interaction with wary interest.

"About what?" Cooper asked, making no move to put down his tool.

"Martin Donaldson," Graham said, positioning himself slightly to Cooper's left—a subtle flanking maneuver born from years of field experience. "You had an altercation with him last week."

Cooper's laugh held no humor. "That old crank? Yeah, he got in my face about the rings being too small for the bottles." He gestured with the hammer toward the partially assembled ring toss. "Same complaint every year. Same guy. Same temper tantrum when he can't win."

"Witnesses say it got physical," Hailey pressed.

"He shoved me, I shoved back." Cooper's shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. "Happens half a dozen times a season. Drunk guys, sore losers, tough guys trying to impress their girlfriends."

"Mr. Donaldson is dead," Graham said flatly.

Cooper's expression didn't change—no surprise, no shock, no guilt. Just the same wary calculation. "Yeah, I heard. Heart attack, right? What's that got to do with me?"

With limited information initially released, it wasn’t unsurprising that ‘ruptured heart from trauma’ eventually made its way to the carnival worker as ‘heart attack’ before the full report was done, if it was even public yet, but it could also be a poor attempt at framing himself as uninformed and innocent.

"Where were you last Thursday night?" Hailey asked.

"Working. Like always." Cooper finally set the hammer down, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. "Ask Loretta. We had the late shift tear-down crew. Midnight to four AM. Hell, ask Sullivan; he’s the head honcho around here."

Graham made a note in his small black notebook. "Anyone who can verify you were actually working, not just scheduled?"

Cooper's jaw tightened. "Twenty other workers. The night security guy. Probably some teenagers trying to sneak in after hours." His eyes narrowed. "You think I had something to do with the old man's heart attack?"

"We're just establishing a timeline," Hailey said smoothly. "Did you interact with Mr. Donaldson at all after your altercation?"

Cooper's eyes darkened. "No. Never saw him again."

"What about Richard Winters?" Graham asked. "Ring any bells?"

A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—crossed Cooper's face before he controlled it. "Should it?"

"Real estate developer. Found dead yesterday at your carnival's previous location." Hailey watched his face carefully. "Interesting coincidence."

Cooper's posture shifted subtly—weight balanced evenly between both feet now, hands no longer in his pockets but hanging loose at his sides. The stance of someone prepared to move quickly if necessary.

"Look, I don't know what you're implying, but I didn't have anything to do with any deaths." His voice had hardened. "I run games, I take people's money, I move on to the next town. That's it."

"How long have you worked for Starlight Carnival?" Graham asked, changing tack.

"Three seasons."

"Before that?"

Cooper hesitated. "Odd jobs. Construction mainly."

Suddenly, a voice called out behind them. "Hey—hey, Cooper! Asshole, get back to work! We've got two hours and I still need you to finish that setup!"

The bellow came from a stocky middle-aged man storming toward them, his face flushed crimson beneath the brim of a sweat-stained Starlight Carnival cap. He moved with the thunderous purpose of someone used to being obeyed, shouldering past a cotton candy vendor who scrambled to get out of his path.

"Sullivan," Cooper muttered under his breath, tension visible in his jawline. “Manager,” he added at a questioning glance from Hailey.

James Sullivan closed the distance in seconds, his ruddy complexion darkening further as he took in the scene. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cooling evening air, and his carnival manager's jacket—once bright with embroidered stars—had faded to a dull blue that matched the circles under his bloodshot eyes.

"What the hell are you doing standing around?" Sullivan demanded, jabbing a thick finger toward Cooper's chest. "Midway opens in two hours and you've got five booths left to stake down!" His gaze swept over Hailey and Graham with open hostility. "Who the hell are these people? We don't give interviews until opening night."

Cooper's expression remained carefully neutral. "It's not—"

"FBI," Hailey interrupted, holding up her badge at eye level. "Special Agent Rock. This is Agent Vance. We're conducting an investigation."

The transformation was immediate and remarkable. Sullivan's aggressive posture melted away like ice cream on hot pavement. His scowl dissolved into a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes, and he actually took a half-step backward, hands raised in a gesture of exaggerated deference.

"FBI! Well, why didn't you say so?" His voice shifted from drill sergeant to solicitous host in the space of a heartbeat. "James Sullivan, Operations Manager for Starlight Enterprises. How can we help Pleasant's finest federal agents?"

Graham's eyebrow arched slightly at the performance. "We're asking Mr. Phillips about his whereabouts last Thursday night."

"Thursday?" Sullivan's eyes narrowed in thought, then widened with manufactured clarity. "Oh, but Cooper was with me Thursday! All night, in fact." He clapped a meaty hand on Cooper's shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make the younger man wince. "We were doing inventory in the supply trailer until nearly dawn. Counting prizes, checking stock—tedious work, but essential."

Cooper's face remained expressionless, but Hailey caught the slight flaring of his nostrils—surprise, quickly masked.

"Funny," she said, tilting her head. "Mr. Phillips just told us he was with the tear-down crew that night. Midnight to four AM."

Sullivan didn't miss a beat. "Well, he was! Before that. With the crew, I mean." He gave Cooper's shoulder another squeeze. "Then he helped me after.”

The evening breeze carried the scent of cotton candy and hot oil, swirling around them as Sullivan's lie hung in the air like smoke. Hailey studied both men, noting the tension in Cooper's jaw, the too-wide smile on Sullivan's face.

"So which was it, Mr. Phillips?" Graham asked, voice deceptively casual. "Tear-down crew or inventory with Mr. Sullivan?"

Cooper's eyes flickered between the agents and his boss. "Both," he said finally. "Crew until two, then Sullivan pulled me to help with inventory."

"For a man who just claimed to work from midnight to four with twenty witnesses, your memory seems conveniently flexible," Hailey remarked.

Sullivan's meaty hand tightened on Cooper's shoulder. "Look, agents, we've had a long day. Setting up on short notice like this—it's stressful. Memories get fuzzy." His smile stretched wider. "But I can personally vouch for Cooper here. He's a model employee. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

Graham flipped open his notebook. "Then perhaps you can explain why his personnel file shows three complaints of aggressive behavior toward patrons in the last season alone."

Sullivan's smile faltered. "Minor misunderstandings. Nothing serious."

"One resulted in a broken nose," Graham countered.

"Self-defense," Cooper interjected. "Guy was drunk, tried to climb into the booth when he lost."

Hailey's attention shifted to Cooper's hands—strong, calloused, capable of the force needed to drive darts through human flesh or swing a carnival hammer with deadly accuracy. She noted a healing cut across his right knuckles, still pink with new skin.

"We'd like to see your employment records," she said to Sullivan. "And speak with you privately about your... inventory session."

Sullivan's façade cracked slightly. "Now? We open in less than two hours. I've got a dozen rides still being assembled, safety inspections pending, and a midway that's half-finished."

"Sounds like Cooper should get back to work then," Graham suggested, his tone making it clear this wasn't optional.

Sullivan hesitated, then released Cooper's shoulder with a final squeeze that looked more like a warning than encouragement. "Finish the ring toss, then help Manny with the duck shoot." He turned to Hailey and Graham, professional smile back in place. "My office is in the operations trailer. This way, please."

Hailey glanced back at Cooper, who looked relieved. But… perhaps not guilty. They’d check his alibis but for now… if he was occupied at the times of the murders, he couldn’t be their guy.

Besides, just because he’d yelled at a belligerent customer didn’t mean he was a bad guy. And if anyone could verify the alibi, it seemed like it would be this smooth-talking manager.

As they followed Sullivan through the carnival's controlled chaos, Hailey glanced back. Cooper had already returned to hammering stakes, his movements more aggressive than before. He didn't look up, but she felt his awareness of their departure like a physical touch.

The operations trailer sat at the carnival's periphery—a weathered silver Airstream with STARLIGHT ENTERPRISES stenciled across its side in fading blue paint. Inside, the space was cramped but meticulously organized. Filing cabinets lined one wall. A desk dominated the center, covered with permits, schedules, and maps marked with colored pins indicating past and future carnival locations.

Sullivan gestured toward two folding chairs. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? We've got some decent bourbon hidden away for after hours." His laugh was too loud, too forced.

"Just answers," Hailey said, remaining standing. "Starting with why you lied about Cooper's whereabouts."

Sullivan's smile dimmed. "I didn't lie. I simply—"

"First you claimed he was with you all night," Graham interrupted. "Then you claimed he was with the tear-down crew until two, then with you. Which directly contradicts his initial statement that he was with the crew until four."

Sullivan sank into his desk chair with a sigh that seemed to deflate him. He pulled off his carnival cap, revealing a balding head with sweat-plastered hair. "Look, I was just trying to help the kid out. He's had a rough go of it."

"By providing a false alibi?" Hailey pressed.

Sullivan rubbed his face with one meaty hand. "You don't understand how it works out here. We look after our own. When cops start asking questions, we close ranks. Instinct."

"We're not cops," Graham said. "We're federal agents investigating two deaths connected to your carnival."

Sullivan's head snapped up. "Two? I heard about the bank manager, but—"

"Richard Winters," Hailey supplied. "Found yesterday at your previous location. Dressed in carnival attire, positioned like a display."

All color drained from Sullivan's face. "Holy shit."

"So let's try again," Hailey continued, leaning forward slightly. "Where was Cooper Phillips last Thursday night?"

Sullivan's gaze dropped to his cluttered desk. "He really was at tear-down. I saw him twice. I swear I did. Bunch of people did.”

“Then why’d you lie?”

A shrug. No shame. “Get you off our backs. Get back to business. This place doesn’t run itself.”

“We need names that can verify Cooper’s whereabouts. People who saw him.”

“No problem. Is that all?”

“No,” Hailey cut in.

Sullivan shifted in his chair, his posture changing from ingratiating to defensive. His fingers drummed against the desktop, leaving faint sweat marks on the laminate surface.

"Look, Agent Rock, we see thousands—literally thousands—of people every week." He gestured toward a whiteboard where attendance numbers were tracked in red marker. "Two or three thousand in Pleasant last week alone. You think I remember every face? Every name? They drive in from surrounding towns too."

"These weren't ordinary patrons," Hailey said, remaining standing while Graham lowered himself into one of the folding chairs, leg extended carefully to accommodate his brace. "Martin Donaldson was a bank manager who got into a physical altercation with one of your employees. Richard Winters was a prominent real estate developer."

Sullivan's eyes darted to a stack of permit applications on his desk. "The name Winters sounds vaguely familiar. Might've come through the office about property rental or something." He shrugged, the movement too casual. "But bank managers? Got no reason to remember them unless they're bouncing checks."

Hailey studied the operations manager, noting the fine sheen of sweat across his forehead despite the trailer's aggressive air conditioning. His eyes never quite settled on hers, always sliding away to the schedule board, the door, the window showing workers assembling the Ferris wheel against the darkening sky.

"Mr. Sullivan," she said, voice dropping to a register she reserved for suspects holding something back, "two men are dead. Both found where your carnival had been. Both killed using implements from carnival games. Both dressed in carnival attire post-mortem. Now, if we get a lead, we can be on our way. If we don’t then we have no choice but to tear this place apart to find one. We may even need to freeze the carnival for the night to prevent loss of evidence."

It was a bluff, but Sullivan's face paled regardless. The thought of all that lost revenue was making him short circuit before her eyes.

Hailey pressed her advantage. "So I need you to think very carefully about whether you've seen either of these men." She pulled out her phone, showing him photographs of Donaldson and Winters. "Take your time. Look closely."

Sullivan leaned forward, squinting at the screen. His breathing had quickened slightly, a muscle twitching beneath his left eye. "The bank guy—Donaldson—yeah, I remember him now. Comes every year, always hassling the game operators about the odds." He pointed a thick finger at Winters' photo. "Him, I'm not sure. Maybe. Got one of those faces, you know? Could be anyone."

Graham's pen scratched across his notebook. "You mentioned Winters might have come through your office about property rental. Care to elaborate?"

Sullivan's shoulders tensed. "Just business stuff. Sometimes local property owners approach us about future seasons, offering space."

"Was Riverside Properties one of them?" Hailey asked, watching his reaction carefully to see if he recognized Richard Winters’ firm.

A flicker of recollection crossed Sullivan's face before he could control it. "Might've been. We deal with a lot of companies."

"Mr. Sullivan," Hailey said, placing both hands flat on his desk and leaning forward, "I want to be very clear about something. I have two options right now. Option one: you cooperate fully—give me complete access to your records, your employees, and your operations. Option two: I make a call to my field office, and within thirty minutes this carnival is crawling with federal agents conducting a full sweep."

He hadn’t been sufficiently cowed the first time, but Hailey had no choice. She needed to double down on the bluff. She was cut off from the FBI. If they found out she was on loaner to the sheriff’s dept, they’d come down hard.

But he didn’t need to know that.

Sullivan's eyes widened. "You can't—"

"I absolutely can." Hailey's voice remained level, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Two murders connected to your operation constitutes grounds for a federal investigation. My team would shut this place down for days while they process every inch for evidence."

Sullivan's gaze darted to the window where workers continued assembling rides against the darkening sky. Beyond them, a small crowd had already gathered at the entrance, families with children vibrating with anticipation, waiting for the carnival to open.

"That would ruin us," he said quietly. "One night's lost revenue is bad enough. Several days would bankrupt Starlight."

Graham leaned forward slightly. "We don't want to shut you down, Mr. Sullivan. That helps no one—not us, not you, not the investigation."

"I can't have federal agents swarming the place," Sullivan insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. "People talk. Word spreads. Even after you're gone, the damage would be permanent. No town wants to host a carnival connected to murder."

Hailey straightened, crossing her arms. "I don't have singular authority to shut down your operation, but my superiors do. One phone call from me explaining the situation, and the decision gets taken out of my hands entirely."

Sullivan's shoulders slumped. He stared at his cluttered desk for several long moments, the only sound the distant mechanical whirr of the Ferris wheel being tested.

"What exactly do you want?" he finally asked, defeat evident in his posture.

"Full cooperation," Hailey replied immediately. "Access to all employment records, work schedules, and incident reports. Permission to question your staff without interference. Unrestricted access to all areas of the carnival."

Sullivan ran a hand over his balding head. "Some of these people... they've got records. Minor stuff mostly. Things they're trying to put behind them."

"I'm not here for parole violations or outstanding parking tickets," Hailey assured him. "I'm here for a killer who's using your carnival as a stage for his crimes."

Sullivan's eyes met hers for the first time without sliding away. "You really think it's one of mine?"

The vulnerability in his question caught Hailey off-guard. Despite his evasiveness, she sensed genuine concern beneath the carnival manager's blustering exterior.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But someone with intimate knowledge of carnival operations is involved. The precision of the staging, the use of specialized equipment—this isn't a random killer."

Sullivan nodded slowly, the weight of understanding settling across his features. "I'll give you what you need. But please—be discreet. Let us operate tonight. The local economy depends on it. These families..." He gestured toward the window where the waiting crowd had grown larger. "For some of them, this is the highlight of their year."

Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"The carnival opens as scheduled," she conceded. "But I want two of my people on-site all night. Plainclothes. They'll blend in, but they'll be watching."

Relief washed over Sullivan's face. "Done. Anything else?"

"I need those employee records now. And a complete list of everyone who worked the tear-down shift last Thursday night."

Sullivan nodded, already turning to the filing cabinet behind him. "I'll have it all for you in five minutes."

As he rummaged through folders, Hailey stepped closer to Graham. "Call Alice," she whispered. "See if she can spare two deputies for observation tonight."

Graham nodded, slipping outside to make the call. Through the trailer's window, Hailey watched the carnival coming to life against the twilight sky. Lights flickered on across the midway, casting multicolored shadows across workers' faces as they made final preparations. The Ferris wheel began a test rotation, its empty passenger cars swinging gently as they traced their circular path.

Beautiful. Innocent. Magical.

And somewhere within this swirl of light and sound and childhood dreams, a killer walked free—someone who had tortured Martin Donaldson and Richard Winters, who had turned carnival games into instruments of death, who had staged their bodies like macabre trophies for others to find.

Sullivan returned with a stack of folders. "Employee records for everyone who's been with us more than a season." He set them on the desk, then added a single sheet of paper. "And the tear-down crew from Thursday night. Seventeen people, including Cooper."

Hailey accepted the documents with a nod. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sullivan."

"Just find whoever's doing this," he replied, his earlier bluster completely gone. "Find them before they destroy everything we've built."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The carnival blazed against the night sky like a fallen constellation. Thousands of lights strung between rides and booths created a kaleidoscope effect, transforming Pleasant's town square into an electric dreamscape where normal rules ceased to exist. Music blared from competing speakers—calliope melodies from the carousel colliding with thumping bass from the Gravitron, creating a chaotic symphony.

Hailey stood at the edge of the midway, watching. The FBI windbreaker she'd worn earlier was now stuffed into Graham's car trunk, replaced by a plain black t-shirt that helped her blend with the crowd. She'd tied her hair back, added sunglasses despite the darkness. Not a disguise exactly—just enough to avoid immediate recognition by anyone who might have seen the news.

The carnival had been operating for three hours now. Three hours of Hailey systematically working through Sullivan's list, cornering tear-down crew members between shifts, flashing her badge discreetly, asking the same questions about Cooper Phillips.

"He was definitely here at midnight," a cotton candy vendor had confirmed, pink sugar crystals dusting her arms like glitter. "Helped me break down my machine."

"Saw him around twelve-thirty," a ride operator insisted. "By the Tilt-A-Whirl, carrying stakes to the truck."

"Cooper? Yeah, he started with us," the head of the tear-down crew had said, scratching his tattooed neck. "But now that you mention it, I don't remember seeing him after about one."

Person after person, the same pattern emerged. Cooper had been visible, present, accounted for—until suddenly, he wasn't. Somewhere around one in the morning, he had vanished. No one could recall seeing him again until morning setup began at seven.

Six hours unaccounted for. Six hours during which Martin Donaldson was being tortured with carnival darts.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Graham: Meet at the Ferris wheel. Found something.

Hailey navigated through the crowd, dodging excited children clutching stuffed prizes, teenagers traveling in packs, couples holding hands as they wandered from attraction to attraction. The air smelled of funnel cake and grease and spun sugar, overlaid with the faint metallic scent of machinery in constant motion.

Graham waited at the Ferris wheel's base, leaning against a support strut. His bad leg was bothering him—she could tell from the way he shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd been at this as long as she had, working the other half of Sullivan's list while she took the first.

"What did you find?" she asked, having to raise her voice over the carnival noise.

Graham leaned closer. "Cooper's roommate. Guy named Levon who works the Gravitron. Says Cooper never came back to their shared trailer Thursday night. Didn't see him until setup the next morning. Said he was wearing the same clothes, looked exhausted."

Hailey's pulse quickened. "Did he say where Cooper claimed to be?"

"Claimed he spent the night with a local girl. Wouldn't give a name." Graham's expression was grim. "Levon didn't believe him. Said Cooper's been acting strange the past few weeks. Secretive. Disappearing for hours without explanation."

"We need to find him," Hailey said, scanning the crowded midway. "Where was he assigned tonight?"

"Ring toss until nine, then duck shoot until close."

Hailey checked her watch: 10:37 PM. "Let's check the duck shoot."

They moved through the carnival with purpose now, weaving between families and teenagers with practiced efficiency. The duck shoot stood near the midway's center—a garishly painted booth where mechanical ducks moved along a conveyor belt while patrons fired cork guns at them.

Cooper wasn't there.

A teenage girl in a Starlight Carnival vest manned the booth instead, looking bored as she handed rifles to children too small to hit anything.

"Excuse me," Hailey said, approaching the counter. "We're looking for Cooper. Wasn't he supposed to be working this booth tonight?"

The girl shrugged. "Called in sick about an hour ago. Sullivan was pissed, made me cover."

Graham and Hailey exchanged glances. "Did he say where he was going?" Graham asked.

Another shrug. "Not to me. Just heard Sullivan yelling something about 'not again' and 'last chance.'"

Hailey's instincts hummed with warning. "We need to find Sullivan."

They located the operations manager near the funhouse, arguing with a maintenance worker about a malfunctioning animatronic clown. Sullivan's face was flushed with exertion or anger or both, sweat staining the collar of his carnival jacket despite the cool night air.

"Sullivan," Hailey called, flashing her badge discreetly to avoid alarming nearby patrons. "Cooper Phillips. Where is he?"

Sullivan dismissed the maintenance worker with a curt nod before turning to them. "Your guess is as good as mine. Called in 'sick' about an hour ago." He made air quotes around the word. "Third time this season. I told him it's his last chance."

"You didn't see where he went?" Graham pressed.

"I was in the operations trailer when he called. By the time I got out here, he was gone." Sullivan's expression darkened. "If you find him, tell him he better have a doctor's note or his final check will be waiting."

Hailey surveyed the carnival's electric landscape, the neon glow painting everything in unnatural colors. Behind Sullivan, the funhouse loomed like a grotesque parody of a mansion—its facade twisted and warped, grinning clown faces leering from every corner, their painted eyes seeming to follow movement across the midway. A stream of children emerged from its exit, some laughing, others wide-eyed with lingering fear.

"We need to search his living quarters," Hailey said, turning back to Sullivan. "Now."

Sullivan's face contorted, caught between compliance and resistance. "Look, I've cooperated with everything so far, but my people have rights. Their trailers are their homes."

"Two men are dead," Graham reminded him, his voice low but carrying an undercurrent of steel. "And your employee with a history of aggression has suddenly disappeared—after giving contradictory statements about his whereabouts during the first murder."

A young couple walked past, the woman clutching an enormous purple unicorn as the man's arm draped possessively across her shoulders. Sullivan waited until they were out of earshot before responding.

"The residential area is off-limits to the public," he said, voice dropping. "It's where my people retreat when they're off the clock: their sanctuary." His eyes swept across the carnival, where workers in matching vests manned booths and operated rides with practiced efficiency. "This life—it's not easy. Constant travel. No roots. No privacy. Their trailers are the only space they can call their own."

Hailey stepped closer, invading his personal space just enough to establish dominance. "I understand your concern for your employees, Mr. Sullivan. But right now, my concern is preventing another death."

In the distance, the Ferris wheel completed another rotation, its lights reflecting in Sullivan's bloodshot eyes as he weighed his options. The cacophony of carnival sounds pressed around them—calliope music, barkers calling to passing customers.

"What if he comes back while you're there?" Sullivan asked, stalling. "Finding federal agents pawing through his belongings..."

"Then we'll question him directly," Graham replied. "Either way, we need access to that trailer."

Sullivan's shoulders slumped, resignation settling over him like a heavy cloak. "Fine. But I'm coming with you." He gestured to a young man operating the balloon dart game nearby. "Tommy! Cover for me. Ten minutes."

CHAPTER NINE

The residential area sprawled behind the carnival's public face—a small village of travel trailers arranged in loose rows on the grassy field behind the town square. Some were newer models with slide-out sections and awnings. Others were vintage units from the seventies and eighties, their aluminum skins dented and weathered by years on the road.

Christmas lights strung between them created pools of warm illumination in the darkness, and folding chairs clustered in small groups suggested communal gatherings during off-hours. A few portable grills stood cold and empty, remnants of earlier cookouts still visible on their grates. The noise of the carnival reached here as a distant, muffled roar—like ocean waves heard from several streets away.

"This feels wrong," Sullivan muttered as he led them down the narrow lane between trailers. "These people trust me."

Hailey didn't respond. Her attention had shifted entirely to the task, eyes scanning each trailer they passed. Most were dark, their occupants working the night shift. Occasionally a window glowed with television light or music drifted through a partially opened door.

"Which one is Cooper's?" Graham asked, his limp more pronounced after hours on his feet.

Sullivan pointed to a vintage Airstream near the encampment's edge. Unlike its neighbors, no lights adorned its exterior. No personal touches distinguished it from the factory model. It sat slightly apart from the others, positioned where the field began sloping down toward a line of oak trees that marked the property boundary.

"He shares with Levon," Sullivan explained. "But Levon's working the Gravitron until midnight."

Hailey approached the trailer cautiously, her hand instinctively brushing her sidearm. "Anyone else have keys?"

"Just me." Sullivan produced a master key from his jacket pocket. "Emergency purposes only."

The aluminum door creaked as it swung open. Sullivan reached inside, flipping a switch that bathed the interior in harsh fluorescent light. The trailer's interior was surprisingly tidy—two narrow bunks against opposite walls, a kitchenette barely large enough for a mini-fridge and hot plate, a booth-style table that doubled as a desk.

"Which side is Cooper's?" Graham asked, pausing at the threshold.

Sullivan gestured to the right bunk. "That one. Levon's got the wizard posters."

Indeed, the left side of the trailer featured several fantasy posters—wizards battling dragons, armored women riding unicorns. The right side was conspicuously bare. No photographs. No posters. Nothing personal at all.

Hailey pulled on latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them into place with practiced efficiency. "Mr. Sullivan, please wait outside."

"But—"

"Outside," Graham repeated firmly. "We'll call if we need you."

Sullivan hesitated, then retreated down the metal steps, leaving the door ajar as he called back, “I’ll be back in fifteen. Don’t take anything and don’t talk to my workers without me.”

The trailer was small enough that Hailey and Graham had to choreograph their movements carefully to avoid colliding. The confined space amplified every sound—the soft snap of latex as they adjusted their gloves, the creak of metal as they shifted their weight, their measured breathing in the artificial stillness.

"I'll take this side," Hailey said, moving toward Cooper's bunk.

Graham nodded, focusing on the shared living space. "Check under the mattress first."

The bunk was military-neat, blanket pulled taut across a thin mattress. Hailey ran her hands beneath it, feeling for anomalies. Nothing. She checked beneath the pillow, then carefully lifted the mattress entirely, revealing only a sheet of plywood beneath.

"Nothing here," she muttered.

She turned her attention to the narrow space beneath the bunk. A duffel bag, army green and worn at the corners, lay partially unzipped. Hailey pulled it out, setting it on the floor. Inside: three t-shirts, a pair of jeans, underwear and socks. Standard travel wardrobe. Nothing incriminating.

Graham was methodically working through the kitchenette drawers. "Utensils. Take-out menus. Aspirin." He closed each drawer carefully after inspection. "Nothing unusual."

Hailey turned to the small closet at the bunk's foot. Sliding open the accordion door revealed precisely five shirts on hangers—three carnival vests and two button-downs. A pair of boots stood beneath them, caked with dried mud around the soles. She crouched, examining the boots more closely. The mud pattern seemed fresh, with traces of grass still embedded in the treads.

"Graham," she called softly. "Look at these."

He joined her, balancing carefully in the confined space. "Recent," he agreed. "Matching the fairgrounds?"

"Possibly." She pulled out her phone, taking several close-up photographs of the boot treads. "We'll need soil samples to confirm."

A small wooden chest occupied the closet's back corner, partially hidden beneath a folded tarp. Hailey pulled it forward, testing its weight. Heavier than expected for its size. The brass hasp wasn't locked, just looped over a simple hook.

She lifted the lid, revealing a collection of carnival game pieces arranged with almost reverent precision. Small stuffed animals—the kind given as minor prizes. Plastic whistles. Kaleidoscopes with Starlight Carnival logos. Rubber ducks with numbers painted on their bottoms. Ring toss rings in various colors. Several wooden milk bottles designed to be knocked down with baseballs.

"Souvenirs?" Graham suggested, leaning closer.

Hailey shook her head. "Too organized." Her gloved fingers carefully lifted each item, examining it before returning it exactly as she'd found it. "None of these match our murder weapons though. No darts.”

She leaned back, releasing a slow breath.

Suddenly, a voice boomed behind them.

“What the hell are you doing in my trailer?” A sudden click sounded, then a loud blast. The wood next to Hailey’s arm exploded in a shower of debris and sawdust.

CHAPTER TEN

Shotgun.

The word reverberated in Hailey’s head as she heard the shooter chamber another round.

She was already moving. Instead of flinging herself for cover, she lunged at the figure in the doorway, hands outstretched. She shoved the barrel down as another blast tore through the floorboards.

The world compressed to a roaring tunnel. Hailey's ears rang from the shotgun blast. She registered Graham's shout, felt the heat of the barrel against her palm, smelled cordite and sweat and fear.

Not Cooper Phillips.

The man struggling against her grip was older, scrawnier, wild-eyed with fury or fear or both. His weathered face contorted as he tried to wrestle the shotgun back into firing position. Another carnival worker—she'd seen him earlier operating the carousel, his lined face illuminated by the ride's pulsing lights.

"Federal agent!" she shouted, voice drowned by the ringing in her ears. "Drop the weapon!"

Behind her, Graham had drawn his sidearm, but the trailer's confines made it impossible to get a clear shot without risking Hailey. "FBI! Drop it now!"

The man's eyes widened at the sight of Graham's weapon, his grip on the shotgun momentarily loosening. Hailey seized the opportunity, twisting the barrel sharply while sending her knee into his midsection. He doubled over with a grunt, and the shotgun clattered to the metal floor.

Graham was there instantly, kicking the weapon away while Hailey flipped the man face-down, driving a knee into his back as she secured his wrists with flex-cuffs. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

"Levon Madeiros," the man gasped against the floor. "This is my home! You broke in!"

"Mr. Sullivan gave us access," Graham replied, retrieving the shotgun and checking its chamber. "Federal investigation."

Outside, carnival workers had begun gathering, drawn by the shotgun blasts. Sullivan pushed through them, face pale beneath the string lights.

"Holy shit," he breathed, taking in the scene—Levon face-down and restrained, the shotgun in Graham's hands, the splintered holes in the trailer floor. "What happened?"

"Your employee decided to greet federal agents with a shotgun," Hailey said, maintaining pressure on Levon's back. "That's a felony."

"You were in my home!" Levon protested, voice muffled against the floor. "I thought you were thieves! It was dark! I just saw figures going through my stuff!"

Sullivan stepped inside, careful to avoid the splintered floor. "Levon, for God's sake, you were supposed to be working the Gravitron until midnight."

"Tommy said you were looking for Cooper," Levon replied, straining against Hailey's grip. "I got worried, came to check on him."

"Worried about what?" Hailey asked, easing her knee slightly but maintaining control.

Levon fell silent, his sudden reticence obvious even from his awkward position on the floor.

"Mr. Madeiros," Graham said, his tone shifting to interrogation-soft, "we're not here about illegal weapons or trespassing. We're investigating two murders. If Cooper's in trouble, now's the time to tell us."

Levon's resistance gradually ebbed, tension draining from his body like air from a punctured tire. Hailey eased her weight off him but kept the flex-cuffs secured.

"Can I at least sit up?" he asked, voice barely audible.

Hailey helped him into a sitting position, back against the kitchenette cabinet. In the harsh fluorescent light, Levon looked older than she'd initially thought—mid-fifties perhaps, with deep creases fanning from his eyes and a permanent furrow between salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His carnival vest hung open, revealing a faded Metallica t-shirt beneath.

"Cooper's not a killer," Levon said finally, meeting Hailey's gaze with unexpected directness. "He's an idiot kid who got in over his head, but he's not a murderer."

Graham leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. "In over his head how?"

Levon's eyes darted to Sullivan, then to the small crowd of carnival workers gathered outside the trailer. "Can we clear them out? This isn't for everybody's ears."

Sullivan hesitated, then nodded, turning to address the onlookers. "Show's over, folks. Back to work. We've still got paying customers out there." When no one moved immediately, his voice hardened. "Now! Or you're all on cleaning detail tomorrow."

The crowd dispersed reluctantly, murmuring among themselves as they drifted back toward the carnival's bright lights. Sullivan pulled the trailer door mostly closed, leaving just enough space to monitor the situation while providing some privacy.

Levon exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. "Cooper's got gambling debts. Bad ones."

"How bad?" Hailey pressed.

"Thirty grand, maybe more now." Levon shifted uncomfortably, the flex-cuffs creaking with the movement. "Started small—poker games in Springfield, sports bets in Oakridge. But then he got hooked on the high-stakes stuff. Underground games. The kind where you don't want to lose."

Graham's expression remained neutral, but Hailey caught the slight narrowing of his eyes—interest piqued. “When he missed his shift… where was he?”

“I was with him. I was… a card game. He was there the whole night. I swear… My phone. I’ve got pictures at the bar. Couple of cute ladies. He’s in the pics. Timestamps too!” Levon gasped, shifting to try and reach his back pocket. "Back pocket. My phone."

Graham carefully retrieved the phone, checked the photos. Several showed Cooper at a local bar called The Rusty Nail, posing with women, drinks in hand. The timestamps matched the night of Donaldson's disappearance.

"These could be from any night," Hailey observed, studying the images over Graham's shoulder.

"Look at the TV in the background," Levon insisted. "Championship game. That was Thursday night. Ask the bartender—Donnie. He'll remember us."

Graham made a note to verify the alibi. "And what about yesterday? When Richard Winters was killed?"

Levon's face clouded with confusion. "Yesterday Cooper was here all day. Setup, then worked his booths until close. Ask anyone."

Hailey's mind raced through the implications. If Cooper truly had alibis for both murders, they were back to square one. But something still felt off—the gambling debts, the secretive behavior, the empty space under his bunk where the wooden chest of carnival prizes sat like a shrine.

"Why keep this collection?" she asked, gesturing toward the open chest.

Levon's expression softened. "That's just Cooper being Cooper. He's got this thing about carnival games—thinks they're pure somehow. Honest. You pay your money, you take your shot. Nobody cares who you are or where you came from." A rueful smile tugged at his weathered face. "Ironic, since most of them are rigged to hell and back."

"Did Cooper know Martin Donaldson?" Graham asked. "The bank manager he argued with."

"Knew him? No. Recognized him? Yeah." Levon shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position with his hands restrained behind him. "Old man came every year, always made a scene. Last week was just the first time it got physical."

"And Richard Winters? Real estate developer."

Levon shook his head. "Name doesn't ring a bell. But Cooper wouldn't know property developers unless they were playing cards with him."

Something in his tone caught Hailey's attention. "Has Cooper been in contact with anyone unusual lately? New friends? Business associates?"

Levon's gaze dropped to the floor, his earlier directness evaporating. The change was subtle but unmistakable—a withdrawal, a sudden reluctance.

"Mr. Madeiros," Hailey said, crouching to his eye level, "if Cooper's in trouble, we might be his best chance."

Levon remained silent, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. Outside, the distant calliope music from the carousel drifted through the partially open door, its cheerful melody at odds with the tension inside the trailer.

"The men he owes," Graham pressed gently, "are they local?"

Levon's shoulders hunched, defensive.

Levon's eyes darted around the trailer like a cornered animal's, settling anywhere but on Hailey's face. Finally, he sighed—a sound of defeat mingled with resignation.

"It's not just some local bookie," he said, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "Cooper got himself tangled up with the Drakes."

The name fell between them like a stone in still water, ripples of implication expanding outward. Hailey felt ice crystallize along her spine, her body reacting before her mind fully processed what she'd heard.

"The Drakes," she repeated, needing confirmation. "As in Victor Drake?"

Levon nodded miserably. "Started with his brother Thomas. Cooper met him at a card game in Springfield a couple nights ago. High-stakes poker. Cooper was on a hot streak, couldn't lose. Until he did." His weathered face crumpled with something between fear and disgust. "Should've walked away. I told him to walk away. But Thomas kept backing him, offering credit. By the time the night ended, Cooper was in for fifteen grand."

Graham stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving as they flicked toward Hailey, gauging her reaction. She maintained her professional mask, but beneath it, her mind raced through implications, connections, memories.

Victor Drake: the philanthropist, the businessman, the monster who had haunted Pleasant while being celebrated as its savior—and now the man who held the strings on their prime suspect.

"And then?" she prompted, keeping her voice steady.

"Then interest started piling up. Thomas introduced him to Marcus, the middle brother. Before Cooper knew it, he was thirty grand in the hole, with the clock ticking." Levon shifted uncomfortably, the flex-cuffs creaking. "Yesterday, Victor himself showed up at a game. Cooper nearly shit himself."

Sullivan, who had been listening silently from the doorway, inhaled sharply. "Dammit, Levon. You never said—"

"What was I supposed to say?" Levon snapped. "That one of your employees owes the most dangerous family in three counties? That the same people who own half the politicians in the state are squeezing him for cash he doesn't have?"

Hailey's training kept her expression neutral, but her heart hammered against her ribs. Victor Drake—back in Pleasant.

“Hang on… isn’t Victor Drake supposed to be some town hero,” Sullivan muttered. “I swear I’ve seen him on the news or something.”

"Victor Drake wears many faces," Hailey said, her voice suddenly tight. "To the public, he's a philanthropist. A businessman. Community leader." Her eyes hardened. "To law enforcement, he's something else entirely."

Graham shifted his weight, drawing attention away from Hailey's reaction. "When did you last see Cooper?"

Levon slumped against the cabinet. "This evening. He was jittery, checking his phone every few minutes. Said he had to 'take care of something' after setup but before his shift." His weathered face crumpled with worry. "I figured he was meeting with Drake's people again, trying to buy more time."

"Did he take anything with him?" Hailey asked. "A bag? Money?"

"Just his phone. And he changed shirts—put on his good button-down instead of the carnival vest."

Graham made a note in his small black notebook. "What time exactly?"

"Around six-thirty. Right after we finished setting up the ring toss."

Hailey's gaze traveled across the trailer, settling on Cooper's nearly empty closet.

"Mr. Sullivan," she said, turning to the carnival manager, "does Cooper have a vehicle?"

Sullivan shook his head. "Most of the workers don't. They travel with the carnival, live on-site. No need for cars."

"So how would he get around Pleasant?"

"Bicycle, maybe?" Sullivan suggested. "Some of the younger ones keep fold-up bikes in their trailers. Or he could've called a ride service."

Hailey nodded, processing this information. She turned back to Levon, studying his face carefully. Despite the shotgun incident, her instincts told her he was genuinely concerned for Cooper.

"Mr. Madeiros," she said, softening her tone slightly, "I believe you when you say Cooper isn't a killer. But he's clearly in trouble—serious trouble. The Drakes don't forgive debts, and they don't show mercy to people who can't pay."

Levon's eyes met hers, fear evident in their depths. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Cooper could be in danger," she replied. "Or he could be being coerced into something illegal to clear his debt. Either way, we need to find him before the situation escalates."

Graham pulled out his phone. "I'll contact the sheriff's department, have them issue a BOLO for Phillips."

Hailey nodded, then reached behind Levon, cutting the flex-cuffs with a small pocket knife from her jacket. "I'm releasing you as a courtesy, Mr. Madeiros. But the shotgun stays with us, and I expect your full cooperation going forward."

Levon rubbed his wrists, relief visible as circulation returned. "You'll help him? Even after...?" He gestured vaguely at the splintered cupboard.

Hailey nodded once. If Drake was involved, then things had escalated.

“Victor’s brothers,” she said casually. “You said they were a few towns over last week. Where are they now?”

He shrugged. “Cooper mentioned he was meeting with them in town sometime this week. In Pleasant, I think.”

“They’re here?”

A shrug, a pause, but then a nod. A guess… but a guess based on information.

Drake’s family was back in Pleasant.

Hailey released a slow breath. They needed to find Cooper. Needed to see how Drake was involved in all of this.

And if possible, needed to put a stop to Victor and his family’s plans.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Night had settled over Pleasant like a heavy shroud. Streetlights cast pools of sickly yellow on empty sidewalks, and the once-bustling carnival had dimmed to a skeleton crew closing down the day's operation. Hailey gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, the Bureau sedan's engine humming beneath them as they sped toward the Lakeview Motel.

"Call came in twenty minutes ago," she said, voice tight with controlled urgency. "Night clerk at the Lakeview spotted a black Escalade matching Thomas Drake's vehicle description. Said three men checked in—one massive guy who barely fit through the door, one in an expensive suit, and a third who 'moved like a ghost.'"

Graham braced himself against the dashboard as Hailey took a corner too fast. "The Drake brothers and Raymond Voss," he confirmed grimly. "Their enforcer."

The radio crackled. Alice's voice came through, tense but measured: "Units are standing by two blocks from the motel. No movement from Room 17 where they checked in. Waiting on your arrival before approaching."

"Copy that," Hailey responded, then clicked off the radio.

The silence that followed felt weighted, electric with unspoken concerns. Pleasant's outskirts blurred past their windows—shuttered gas stations, darkened strip malls, the occasional all-night diner glowing like a lonely lighthouse.

"Hailey," Graham finally said, his voice deliberately casual. Too casual. "We should discuss parameters before we arrive."

She shot him a quick glance. "Parameters?"

"Your history with the Drakes. Victor specifically." He chose his words with obvious care. "The Bureau has strict protocols about agents with personal connections to subjects."

Hailey's jaw tightened. "This isn't personal. It's an active murder investigation."

"It's both and you know it." Graham shifted in his seat, wincing slightly as his bad leg protested. "If Victor is connected to these murders—directly or indirectly—and you're part of bringing him down, defense attorneys will have a field day."

"So what are you suggesting?" Her voice had taken on a dangerous edge. "That I recuse myself? Let you and Alice handle it while I sit in the car?"

"I'm suggesting we proceed with extreme caution." Graham's tone remained measured, diplomatic. "Document everything. Triple-witness every interaction. Make sure there's no procedural daylight for a good lawyer to exploit."

The Lakeview Motel appeared ahead—a single-story horseshoe of rooms surrounding a cracked parking lot. Its neon sign flickered pathetically, several letters permanently dark. At the far end of the lot, a black Escalade gleamed under the security lights, its polished surface reflecting the motel's sad attempts at illumination.

Hailey pulled into a space near the office, killing the engine but making no move to exit. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel once, twice, then stilled. The night seemed to press against the car windows, the silence broken only by the distant hum of highway traffic and the buzz of the motel's failing neon.

"You're right," she finally said, the admission clearly costing her. "I can't jeopardize this case. Not when we're this close."

Graham's surprise registered only as a slight widening of his eyes. "So what's the play?"

"I'll coordinate from outside. You and Alice make the approach." She turned to face him fully, shadows playing across her features. "But Graham—if Victor Drake is involved in these murders, if there's even a thread connecting him to Donaldson and Winters..."

"We'll pull it," he promised. "Follow it wherever it leads."

She nodded once, decision made. "Let's go."

They exited the car silently, the night air cold against their skin. Two sheriff's department vehicles sat dark and waiting on a side street, barely visible from their position. Hailey raised a hand in acknowledgment, knowing Alice would be watching.

The night clerk—a young man with acne scars and tired eyes—looked up from his phone as they entered the office. Recognition flashed across his face.

"You're the FBI agents," he said, straightening in his chair. "I called about the men in Room 17."

Hailey nodded. "Have there been any changes since your call? Any movement? Visitors?"

"Nothing." The clerk shook his head. "They've been quiet. Too quiet, almost. Most people, you hear the TV through the walls, or the shower running, something. These guys—nothing."

Graham leaned against the counter. "Did they ask for anything specific? Extra towels, room service, information about the area?"

"Just asked if we had rooms at the back, away from the road." The clerk's fingers nervously tapped his phone case. "Said they were light sleepers."

Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham. Strategic positioning—backs to the woods, clear sightlines to the parking lot and road beyond. Standard Drake family precaution.

"We need to see your security camera footage," she said.

The clerk grimaced. "Cameras are just for show. Haven't worked in years. Owner says it's cheaper to have fake ones than maintain real ones."

Of course. Nothing could be easy.

Hailey's phone buzzed with a text from Alice: In position. Deputies Gaffney and Wilson covering rear exit. All quiet.

"What's the layout of Room 17?" Graham asked. "Windows? Connecting doors?"

The clerk pulled out a dog-eared property map. "Standard double queen. Window faces the parking lot, bathroom window faces the woods. No connecting doors." He hesitated, then added, "There's a gap in the fence behind, leads straight into the state forest. About fifty yards through the trees there's an access road.

Another escape route. Another carefully chosen detail that confirmed these were no ordinary guests.

"We need a room key for 17," Hailey said.

The clerk swallowed hard, then turned to the pegboard behind him. His hand hovered over the hooks, then dropped. "They took both keys. Said they didn't want housekeeping coming in."

"Of course they did," Hailey muttered.

Outside, the radio in her pocket crackled softly. Alice's voice came through, urgent but controlled: "Movement at Room 17. Light just went on."

Hailey and Graham moved immediately, exiting the office and taking positions behind their sedan. Across the parking lot, a thin strip of light had appeared beneath Room 17's door. A shadow moved across it—someone pacing inside.

"What's the plan?" Graham asked quietly.

Hailey studied the motel's layout, calculating angles, approaches, risks. The Drakes were dangerous under normal circumstances. Cornered, they became lethal. And the running joke on Raymond Voss—the silent enforcer who had been with the family for decades—was that he’d killed more men than smallpox.

Her phone vibrated with another text from Alice: Second vehicle approaching. Black sedan, tinted windows.

As if on cue, headlights swept across the parking lot entrance. A sleek black Lincoln moved with predatory grace into the lot, its engine nearly silent. It parked three spaces from the Escalade, positioned for a quick exit.

The driver's door opened. A young man emerged—mid-twenties, athletic build, close-cropped blond hair. He scanned the lot with practiced efficiency, his hand resting near his waistband where the bulge of a concealed weapon was visible to trained eyes.

"That's not Cooper Phillips," Graham whispered. "Who the hell is that?"

The passenger door opened next. Another young man—darker, shorter, moving with calculated swagger. He circled the car, joining the first at the trunk. Together they removed a large duffel bag, its contents heavy enough to require both their effort.

"They're not carnival workers," Hailey observed. "Too polished. Too coordinated." She raised her radio. "Alice, do you have visuals on these new arrivals?"

"Affirmative," came the response. "Running plates now. Car is registered to Victor Drake."

“That’s odd,” Hailey murmured, her pulse quickening. It would be a rare misstep for Drake to involve a second vehicle that could be so directly tied back to him… Something about this didn’t smell right. "Hold positions. Do not approach yet."

The young men carried the duffel toward Room 17. The blond one knocked—three short raps, a pause, then two more. A code.

The door opened immediately, spilling yellow light across the cracked concrete. Thomas Drake's massive silhouette filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the frame. He ushered the young men inside with a quick gesture, checking the parking lot before closing the door behind them.

The entire exchange took less than three seconds.

"We need to move," Hailey said, already reaching for her sidearm. "Whatever they're planning—"

Her radio crackled again. Alice's voice, tight with urgency: "Third vehicle approaching from the north access road—moving without headlights."

Graham tapped Hailey's arm, pointing toward the tree line behind the motel. A dark SUV was emerging from the forest access road, moving slowly, deliberately, its lights extinguished. It circled behind the motel, disappearing from their view.

"That's a coordinated arrival," Graham murmured. "Multiple vehicles, different entry points."

Hailey's training warred with her instincts. Protocol dictated calling for backup, establishing a perimeter, gathering intelligence before any approach. But her gut screamed that whatever was happening in Room 17 wouldn't wait for procedural niceties.

"Alice," she radioed, decision made. "Move in on my mark. Approach with caution—subjects are considered armed and extremely dangerous."

"Copy that," came the immediate response.

Hailey holstered her radio and drew her weapon in one fluid motion. "Graham, you take the right flank. I'll approach from center. Alice and her deputies will secure the rear exit."

Graham nodded, his own weapon already in hand. "On your signal."

They moved across the parking lot in a low crouch, using the parked cars as cover. The motel's exterior lights cast long shadows across the cracked asphalt, and a neon ‘VACANCY’ sign buzzed erratically, creating strobing patterns that distorted depth perception.

Twenty yards from Room 17, Hailey raised her hand, signaling a pause. Something felt wrong. The curtains were drawn tight, but the light within had changed—dimmer now, as if someone had switched from overhead lights to a single lamp.

Her radio vibrated against her hip. She checked it quickly: "Third vehicle is empty. Driver not visible. Proceeding to secure rear exit."

Hailey signaled Graham to continue their approach. Fifteen yards. Ten. The sound of voices drifted through the thin motel walls—too muffled to distinguish words, but the cadence was clear: multiple speakers and rising intensity.

Five yards from the door, Hailey positioned herself to one side, Graham taking the other. She raised three fingers, counting down silently. Three. Two. One.

"FBI!" she shouted, voice carrying across the quiet parking lot. "Open the door now!"

Silence fell inside Room 17. Complete, absolute stillness.

"Thomas Drake, Marcus Drake," Graham called, his voice carrying the full authority of the Bureau. "This is the FBI. We have the building surrounded. Come out with your hands visible."

More silence. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh—deep, genuinely amused—filtered through the door.

"Now that's what I call timing," came a cultured voice that Hailey instantly recognized as Marcus Drake. "Truly impeccable."

Movement sounded within—not the frantic scrambling of cornered criminals, but the unhurried rustling of people taking their time. A chair scraped against carpet. Glass clinked against wood.

"We're armed federal agents," Hailey warned, tension coiling through her body. "Open the door now or we will breach."

"No need for dramatics, Agent Rock," the voice replied, perfectly calm. "We've been expecting you."

The door swung open.

Marcus Drake stood framed in the doorway, immaculate in a charcoal suit despite the late hour. His thin lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. Behind him, Thomas Drake's massive frame dominated one of the queen beds, where he sat cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade. Raymond Voss stood motionless by the bathroom door, his forgettable face revealing nothing.

The two young men from the Lincoln sat at the small table near the window, a deck of cards spread between them. No duffel bag was visible.

"Agent Rock," Marcus said, inclining his head in a gesture almost like respect. "And Agent Vance. What a pleasure. Please, do come in." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the cramped room as if inviting honored guests to a gala.

Hailey maintained her firing stance, weapon trained center mass on Marcus. "Hands where I can see them. All of you. Now."

The Drake brothers exchanged glances—an entire conversation compressed into a momentary eye contact. Then, with elaborate care, Marcus raised his hands to shoulder height. Thomas followed suit, the switchblade still pinched between two massive fingers. Raymond Voss's hands rose last, mechanical and precise.

The two young men remained seated, their expressions caught between nervousness and defiance.

"Kevin. Damian. Show our guests proper respect," Marcus instructed, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion.

The young men slowly raised their hands, exchanging uncertain glances.

Behind her, Hailey sensed rather than heard Alice and her deputies approaching, securing the rear of the motel. Good. They were contained.

"What brings the Federal Bureau of Investigation to our humble accommodations?" Marcus asked, his cultured voice at odds with the seedy motel room. "Surely not a noise complaint."

"Step outside," Graham ordered. "All of you. One at a time."

Thomas snorted, the sound like gravel in a dryer. "In our socks? On that filthy concrete? I think not." He gestured toward his bare feet, massive toes wiggling slightly for emphasis. "Besides, we're having a private business meeting. Nothing illegal about that."

"Last chance," Hailey said, her voice hardening. "Step outside or we come in. Your choice."

Marcus sighed theatrically. "Very well. Though I must protest this intrusion." He turned to the others. "Gentlemen, shall we accommodate our friends from the Bureau?"

One by one, they filed out of the room—Marcus first, followed by the two young men, then Thomas, who made a show of carefully setting down his switchblade before rising. Raymond Voss exited last, his movements fluid and economical, eyes constantly scanning, assessing.

The night air had turned colder, their breath forming small clouds in the parking lot's security lights. Alice and her deputies approached from the rear, weapons drawn, completing the circle around the Drake entourage.

"Sheriff Rock," Marcus acknowledged with a slight nod. "The family resemblance is remarkable. Though you lack your sister's intensity."

Alice's expression remained professional, betraying nothing. "Hands behind your heads, all of you. Deputies will secure you while we search the room."

"On what grounds?" Marcus inquired, though he complied smoothly, lacing his fingers behind his perfectly groomed hair. "We've broken no laws. Paid for our room in cash—perfectly legal. Haven't disturbed any neighbors. Haven't even ordered room service," Marcus said cavalierly, as if it were something he could have received at the motel at all.

"Two murders connected to Pleasant in the past week," Hailey replied, keeping her weapon trained on Marcus while Graham and a deputy began securing the others. "And the Drake family suddenly returns to town after a notable absence. Interesting timing."

Thomas laughed, the sound rumbling from his massive chest. "We're businessmen, Agent Rock. We go where opportunity arises."

"What business, exactly?" Graham asked, securing Thomas's wrists with handcuffs that barely closed around his thick forearms.

"Private business," Marcus answered smoothly. "Nothing that concerns federal authorities."

The younger men—Kevin and Damian—exchanged nervous glances as deputies secured them. Their earlier bravado had evaporated in the face of actual law enforcement.

"Search the room," Hailey instructed Alice. "Every inch."

Alice nodded, gesturing for a deputy to follow her inside. The motel door stood open, yellow light spilling across the cracked concrete where the Drake brothers and their associates now stood in a neat row, secured but far from subdued.

"You won't find anything interesting," Marcus remarked, his tone conversational. "Just some playing cards, perhaps a bottle of decent bourbon. We travel light."

"Where's the duffel bag?" Graham demanded. "The one your associates brought in."

The young men stiffened slightly—a telling reaction that Marcus noticed instantly. "My associates are nervous. First time being detained by federal agents, I imagine. The bag contained nothing but some clothes and toiletries. Feel free to check the bathroom."

Alice emerged from the motel room, her expression tight with frustration. "Nothing," she reported. "Bottle of bourbon, playing cards, some cash. No weapons except the switchblade, which is technically legal given its blade length."

The deputy following her added, "Checked the bathroom too. Just toiletries in a black duffel. Clothes in the closet. No contraband."

Hailey's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Something wasn't right. The coordinated arrivals, the multiple vehicles, the strategic positioning—all pointed to something more significant than a casual card game.

"Where's Victor?" she demanded, stepping closer to Marcus. "And Cooper Phillips—where is he?"

A flicker of genuine confusion crossed Marcus's face. "Cooper Phillips? The name means nothing to me."

"Carnival worker," Graham supplied. "Gambling debts. Word is he owes your family a considerable sum."

Thomas snorted. "We have many debtors, Agent Vance. Can't be expected to remember every name."

"Cooper Phillips," Marcus repeated, as if testing the name on his tongue. "No, doesn't ring any bells. Though if he's in debt to someone claiming Drake family connection, I'd be concerned. Many use our reputation without authorization."

Hailey stepped closer, close enough to smell Marcus's expensive cologne. "And Victor? Where's your brother?"

"Victor is handling business elsewhere," Marcus replied smoothly. "Though I'd be happy to pass along your regards when next we speak."

The night air felt charged with unspoken tensions, possibilities, threats. Around them, the motel's weak security lights cast everyone in sickly yellow, deepening shadows beneath eyes and in the hollows of cheeks. Moths battered themselves against the light fixtures with senseless determination.

"You're lying," Hailey said flatly.

Marcus's thin smile never wavered. "Then prove it, Agent Rock. Otherwise, I believe you're holding us without cause." He tilted his head slightly, the gesture somehow both deferential and mocking. "Unless there are actual charges?"

Graham and Alice exchanged glances. They had nothing concrete—suspicions, coincidences, bad timing—but nothing that would stand up in any court.

"Release them," Hailey finally ordered, holstering her weapon with barely contained frustration.

The deputies hesitated, looking to Alice, who nodded reluctantly. One by one, the handcuffs were removed. The Drake brothers and their associates made a show of rubbing their wrists, straightening their clothes, restoring dignity deliberately stripped from them.

"Thank you for your diligence, agents," Marcus said, smoothing his suit jacket with manicured hands. "It's comforting to know Pleasant is so well-protected."

Hailey wanted to turn back. Something in those shark-like eyes made her skin crawl.

But they hadn’t found anything. The Drakes were too careful for that.

Hailey turned away from the Drakes, exiting the door, shoulders squared. Each step across the motel parking lot requiring conscious effort not to look back. The smell of cheap cleaner and cigarettes clung to the night air, mingling with the lingering scent of Marcus Drake's cologne—something expensive and understated that somehow made her even more nauseated. Gravel crunched beneath her boots, each step punctuated by the distant hum of highway traffic and the flickering buzz of the motel's failing neon sign.

Behind her, she could hear the Drakes murmuring among themselves, their voices low and amused. Celebrating their victory in this round. The sound made her shoulder blades tighten, instinct warning her not to turn her back on predators.

"We'll maintain surveillance," Alice whispered as they reached the Bureau sedan. "Two deputies, rotating shifts. If they so much as jaywalk, we'll know."

Graham nodded, his face grim in the harsh security lighting. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, deepening the lines around his mouth. "They're here for something specific. The coordinated arrivals, multiple vehicles, strategic positioning... This wasn't just a family reunion."

Hailey reached the car door, fingers closing around the handle with unnecessary force. The metal felt cold against her palm, grounding her when everything else seemed to be slipping away. They'd been so close—the Drake brothers within arm's reach—and yet they'd walked away clean. Again.

"They're laughing at us," she said, voice pitched low enough that only Graham could hear.

The motel parking lot stretched before her like a battlefield where she'd just suffered a humiliating defeat. The cracked asphalt reflected the broken neon lights in scattered puddles from an earlier rain—fractured red and yellow dancing across black water. A plastic bag tumbled across the lot, driven by a sudden gust of night wind that carried the scent of coming rain.

She pulled the car door open with more force than necessary, the hinges protesting with a metallic groan. The sound matched the frustration coiling in her chest, tightening with each breath.

"We'll get them," Graham assured her, his voice steady despite the exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. "They made a mistake coming back to Pleasant. Everyone makes mistakes eventually."

"Even the Drakes?" Hailey couldn't keep the bitterness from her tone.

"Especially the Drakes." Graham's certainty was as solid as bedrock. "Their arrogance makes them vulnerable. They think they're untouchable. But don’t forget, the three Drake brothers were in prison until recently. The only trick is to get them with something that really sticks."

Hailey cast one final glance toward Room 17. Marcus stood in the doorway, watching them with that same thin smile that never reached his eyes. He raised one hand in a mocking salute before stepping back inside, the door closing with deliberate softness.

Disgust rose in her throat like bile. She turned away, sliding into the driver's seat.

And that’s when she spotted him.

A single, lone figure, across the street.

Cooper.

He was staring right at them. And in one hand, he held something gleaming. A gun? No. Worse.

It was a camera. And it was pointed right at them.

Suddenly, Hailey’s stomach sank.

A trap.

This had all been a trap. And they’d walked right into it.

“I found Cooper,” she said, grimly.

“What… Where?” Graham followed her indicating finger and he went still. A second longer, and he tensed, likely reaching the same conclusions as she had.

“Guess… we should bring him in,” Graham muttered.

Hailey sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She pushed open the door. It all made sense. Victor had tricked them. Had wanted the FBI to be seen ‘harassing’ his brothers.

Had wanted it on camera.

And who better than to send as the cameraman than someone who owed you a substantial debt?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Morning light filtered weakly through the interrogation room's lone window, casting Cooper Phillips in harsh relief. His face was a landscape of exhaustion—stubble darkening his jaw, shadows pooling beneath bloodshot eyes, yesterday's wrinkles still pressed into his carnival worker's shirt. His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the metal table, the sound echoing in the room's deliberate emptiness.

Hailey stood in the observation room, watching him through one-way glass. The camera they'd confiscated sat on the desk beside her, its small digital screen dark and accusatory. She'd reviewed the footage three times already—crisp, professional-quality video of FBI agents surrounding the Drake brothers, weapons drawn, forcing them from their motel room in the middle of the night. Without context, it looked like harassment, like overreach; it looked exactly like the kind of heavy-handed law enforcement Victor Drake could use to paint himself as a victim.

To make matters worse, in the aftermath of the ruse, Alice had sent a text confirming what Hailey had already begun to suspect. The motel had been discreetly sold more than a month ago, its new owner—obfuscated by the paperwork—was none other than Victor Drake.

Acting as a ‘local businessman revitalizing a dying motel’, he’d bought and set the stage for the trap weeks ago… and she had walked right into it.

"He hasn't asked for a lawyer," Graham observed, entering with two steaming cups of coffee and breaking Hailey from her ruminations. He handed one to her, the ceramic warm against her cold fingers. "Hasn't asked for anything except water and to use the bathroom."

Hailey took a sip, grimacing at the station's bitter brew. "He knows he's not under arrest. Just being held for questioning."

"Twenty-four-hour hold won't get us much," Graham reminded her, leaning against the wall beside the observation window. "Clock's ticking."

Through the glass, Cooper shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders to release tension. His eyes kept darting to the door, anticipation and dread mingling in his expression.

"Let's see what he has to say," Hailey said, setting down her coffee.

The interrogation room door opened with a metallic click that made Cooper flinch. Hailey entered first, case file tucked under one arm, face composed into professional neutrality. Graham followed, taking position against the wall behind Cooper—a subtle psychological tactic placing the suspect between two points of authority.

"Mr. Phillips," Hailey began, settling into the chair across from him. "Thank you for your patience."

Cooper's laugh held no humor. "Like I had a choice."

"Actually, you did," Graham countered from behind him. "You haven't been charged with anything. You could have requested a lawyer at any point."

Cooper's shoulders hunched slightly. "What's the point? You've seen the footage. It's too late anyway."

Hailey placed the case file on the table between them but didn't open it. "Why don't you tell us about the camera, Cooper? About last night."

His eyes fixed on the table's scratched surface. "Nothing to tell. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That's not going to work," Hailey said, voice hardening. "We found you across from the Lakeview Motel at midnight, filming federal agents during an active investigation—with professional-grade—equipment," Hailey continued, gesturing to the camera now sitting in an evidence bag on the table. "Sony A7S III. Night vision capability. Directional microphone. This isn't some smartphone video, Cooper. This is deliberate surveillance."

Cooper's eyes darted to the camera, then back to the table. His fingers had stopped drumming, now pressed flat against the metal surface as if seeking its coolness. Sweat beaded at his hairline despite the room's chill.

"You don't understand," he muttered, voice barely audible. "It doesn't matter what you do to me. Or that." He nodded toward the camera without looking at it. "The footage is already gone."

Graham stepped forward, looming over Cooper's shoulder. "Gone where, exactly?"

Cooper swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Livestreamed. Direct upload to a private server. The camera was just... just transmitting." A bitter laugh escaped him. "That's why I didn't run when you spotted me. No point. Job was already done."

Hailey kept her expression neutral despite the cold dread spreading through her chest. "Who has the footage, Cooper?"

"Who do you think?" His eyes finally met hers, bloodshot and desperate. "The Drakes. Victor Drake." He shook his head, a tremor visible in his hands now. "He has everything: you coming to the motel, drawing weapons, detaining his brothers without charges… all of it."

Graham exchanged a glance with Hailey—confirmation of their worst fears. Victor had orchestrated the entire encounter, using Cooper as his unwitting camera operator to capture what would appear, without context, as federal overreach against private citizens.

"Walk me through it," Hailey said, deliberately keeping her voice calm. "From the beginning. How did this happen?"

Cooper slumped in his chair, the fight draining from him like air from a punctured tire. "I owed money. A lot of money. Thomas Drake—he kept backing me at this card game in Springfield. I was winning at first, then... it all turned. Before I knew it, I was thirty grand in the hole."

"And then?" Graham prompted.

"Interest started piling up. Marcus—the middle brother—he came to see me at the carnival a couple days ago. Said I had one chance to clear my debt." Cooper's fingers began trembling more noticeably. "Said his brother Victor needed someone to help with a ‘project.’ Low risk, but very important to him—important enough to call us even."

Hailey nodded encouragingly, though her stomach twisted with each confirmation of Victor's calculated approach. "So you agreed to help them."

"What choice did I have?" Cooper's voice cracked. "You don't understand what these people are capable of, what they do to people who don't pay." His eyes took on a haunted quality. "Marcus showed me pictures… of the last guy who couldn't pay his debt to the Drakes." Cooper shuddered visibly. "I haven’t really slept since seeing those photos. The things they did to him... his family... I don’ t mind telling you because you’ll never prove it. Even if you take this as testimony, it’s nothing but the word of a busted carnie with a record. They don’t care. They might even want me to tell you for whatever twisted reason."

His voice trailed off, lost in horrific memories Hailey could only imagine. The room fell silent except for the soft hum of the ventilation system and Cooper's increasingly ragged breathing.

"So they gave you the camera," Graham prompted, gently steering him back to the present.

Cooper nodded, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. "Yesterday afternoon. Marcus said all I had to do was record whatever happened at the motel. Said they were expecting 'harassment' from local authorities." A bitter laugh escaped him. "He knew you were coming. Somehow, he knew exactly what would happen."

"What about the murders, Cooper?" Hailey asked, finally opening the case file to reveal photos of Donaldson and Winters. "Did Victor mention anything about them?"

“No… They never came up. You’re not still looking at me for that shit, are you?” he said, his voice rising. “I told you—”

“You lied about where you were.”

"Fibbed. Not lied. I… I was at The Rusty Nail!" Cooper interrupted, desperation edging his voice. "All night. With Levon and some others. Playing cards in the back room from one until closing." His words tumbled out faster now. "Ask Donnie, the bartender. He kept bringing us drinks. Hell, I lost another two hundred that night to some trucker passing through."

He leaned forward, fingers splayed on the table. "There were these two women—sisters, I think. Brunettes. They sat with us for hours. We took pictures together." Cooper's eyes darted between Hailey and Graham. "Levon showed you the photos, right? He texted me he did. Check the timestamps. Check the background TV—it was showing the championship game. You can see the score change throughout the night."

Graham made a note.

"And yesterday?" Hailey asked. This only confirmed what they’d already heard from Levon. It was starting to all make sense… And she didn’t like the picture that was forming. "When Winters was killed?"

Cooper shook his head emphatically. "I was at the carnival all day. Setup started at five in the morning—Sullivan had us rebuilding the entire midway. I didn't leave the grounds once." His voice grew steadier as he recounted details. "I worked the ring toss from noon until six, then switched to the balloon dart booth until nine. Twenty people can confirm I was there."

He ran both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in disheveled spikes. "Look, I've done some stupid things. Getting in debt to the Drakes tops the list. But murder?" His voice cracked. "I couldn't even kill the mouse that got into our trailer last month. Levon had to set the trap."

Hailey studied his face, looking for tells, for micro-expressions that might betray deception. She found none—just exhaustion and genuine fear.

"Did Victor or his brothers mention anything about the murders? Even in passing?" Graham asked.

Cooper considered this, brow furrowed in concentration. "No. Nothing. Our conversations were strictly about my debt and the filming job." He hesitated, then added, "Actually, they seemed focused on something else entirely. Something happening at the carnival tonight."

"What about it?" Hailey asked sharply.

"I don't know details. Just overheard Marcus telling those two young guys—Kevin and Damian—something about 'preparation' and 'the ritual' being ready." Cooper shrugged helplessly. "Could be anything. Those guys speak in code half the time."

"Did they mention any specific location within the carnival? Any particular time?" Graham pressed.

Cooper shook his head. "But whatever is going on… it’s at the carnival. Tonight. Now… I’ve said everything you could want about the Drakes. If you want to talk about me… I think I’d like that lawyer.”

Hailey pushed away from the table, trying not to sigh too loudly. She believed him, and that troubled her.

She was also starting to wonder if the Drakes were involved in the playing card murders at all, or if this had all been one ploy to capitalize on tragedy to get one over on Hailey again.

The latter seemed more likely.

And if the Drakes were planning something at the carnival, and the killer was still out there, using the same carnival as his hunting grounds, then Hailey guessed there was really only one place for them to go.

A stakeout.

A good old-fashioned, stakeout.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Midday sun beat down on the carnival grounds, transforming the cheerful nighttime wonderland into something more mundane—a collection of weathered trailers, faded paint, and temporary structures awaiting darkness to regain their magic. Sweat trickled down Hailey's back as she and Graham moved methodically from worker to worker, flashing badges, asking questions, building a complex web of information that so far led nowhere conclusive.

"Three seasons with the carnival," a gaunt man with tattoos climbing his neck told them as he restocked a ring toss booth. "Cooper's always been straight with me. Bit of a gambler, sure, but who isn't in this life?" He threaded plastic rings onto a metal rod, his fingers nimble despite their roughness. "Murder? No way. Kid doesn't have it in him."

Similar sentiments echoed across the grounds as the day progressed.

"Cooper Phillips has never been in a real fight in his life," insisted a middle-aged woman operating the balloon dart game, her arms corded with muscle from years of repetitive motion. "Last month in Springfield, some drunk guy threatened him over a rigged game. Cooper did his usual bit of standing his ground and ‘looking intimidating’, but after one swing, he hid behind the counter, waiting for security." She demonstrated by mimicking a cowering position, her weathered face creasing with amusement at the memory.

By three o'clock, Hailey's notebook contained seventeen statements from carnival workers—all confirming Cooper's whereabouts during both murders, all dismissing him as a killer. The heat had intensified, the air thick with humidity that promised an evening thunderstorm. Her shirt clung uncomfortably to her skin as they approached their next interview.

"The fortune teller," Graham said, nodding toward a purple tent set slightly apart from the midway. Gold stars and celestial symbols adorned its fabric walls, shimmering in the afternoon sun. A hand-painted sign proclaimed "Madame Zara—Past, Present, Future Revealed."

"Really?" Hailey arched an eyebrow. "You think our killer is hiding out as a carnival psychic?"

Graham shrugged, wincing slightly as he adjusted his leg brace. "She's been with Starlight Carnival for fifteen years, according to Sullivan. Longest-serving employee. Might know something about the Drakes' history with the carnival."

The tent's interior was surprisingly cool, the thick fabric blocking the worst of the afternoon heat. Scented candles perfumed the air with jasmine and sandalwood, creating an exotic and comforting atmosphere. In the center, a small round table covered in midnight blue velvet held a crystal ball and a deck of tarot cards.

"Come in," called a voice with a trace of an Eastern European accent. "I've been expecting you."

Madame Zara emerged from behind a beaded curtain—a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into an elegant knot. Her clothing was subdued compared to her tent's flamboyance—a simple black dress with a colorful shawl draped across her shoulders. Only the multiple rings adorning her fingers suggested her carnival persona.

"FBI," she said before they could introduce themselves, her dark eyes shrewd beneath heavily lined lids. "Looking for a killer who isn't Cooper Phillips."

Hailey exchanged a glance with Graham.

Madame Zara's laugh was warm and genuine. "No mystical powers needed, Agent Rock. News travels fast in carnival circles. Everyone knows you've been questioning the staff all day." She gestured toward the small table. "Please, sit. My feet aren't what they used to be."

They settled into chairs that were surprisingly comfortable despite their portable nature. Up close, Hailey noticed the fine lines mapping Zara's face—evidence of a life fully lived rather than merely endured.

"You know my name," Hailey observed.

"Alexandra Zarnescu," the fortune teller replied, extending a ring-laden hand. "Zara to my friends. And yes, I know who you are. The whole carnival does by now." Her eyes held Hailey's with unexpected directness. "The FBI agent whose sister was taken all those years ago—the one who became a Fed to catch monsters.”

Hailey maintained her professional mask, though something cold settled in her stomach. "We're here about—"

The murders. Of course." Zara waved a dismissive hand. "But also about the Drakes. About what's happening tonight." She leaned forward slightly.

Graham's posture shifted subtly—more alert, more focused. "What do you know about that?"

Zara's fingers traced patterns on the velvet tablecloth, her numerous rings catching the candlelight. “I don’t know anything.”

“You just said you did.”

Zara blinked, shaking her head. “Did I? I… say things sometimes. But no…” She released a low breath. “I don’t know.”

Zara's gaze drifted toward the tent's entrance, where sunlight filtered through the purple fabric, casting the interior in an otherworldly glow. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her weathered fingers continuing their restless dance across the velvet tablecloth.

"The carnival has its own heartbeat," she finally said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Its own rhythm. Those of us who've lived within it long enough... we feel things before they happen." Her rings glinted as she arranged and rearranged a set of tarot cards without actually turning them over. "Like animals before an earthquake."

Hailey leaned forward. "What exactly are you feeling, Ms. Zarnescu?"

"Shadows where there should be light. Whispers in places that should be silent." Zara's eyes refocused on Hailey with surprising intensity. "The Drakes have returned to Pleasant for a reason. Not for gambling debts. Not for carnival games."

"Then why?" Graham pressed.

Zara shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling beneath her colorful shawl. "Who can say? The crystal reveals only fragments, Agent Vance. Pieces of a larger puzzle."

Hailey fought the urge to roll her eyes. This was getting them nowhere—just vague mysticism and carnival double-talk.

"Ms. Zarnescu," she said firmly, "two men are dead. If you have actual information about the Drakes or their plans for tonight, now would be the time to share it."

Zara's expression shifted, something like amusement flickering across her features. "You don't believe in my abilities. That's fine. Most don't." She gathered her cards, tapping them into a neat stack. "I've been with Starlight for fifteen years. Seen carnivals come and go. Seen towns welcome us, then drive us away when something goes wrong."

"And the Drakes?" Graham prompted.

"They've crossed paths with Starlight before. Years ago." Zara's hands stilled on the cards. "Victor has always been... interested in certain aspects of carnival tradition. The old ways. The secrets."

"What secrets?" Hailey asked, skepticism edging her tone.

Zara smiled enigmatically. "Every culture has its folklore, Agent Rock—its rituals. Carnivals grew from traveling medicine shows, which grew from ancient traditions of healing and magic." She spread her hands wide, rings catching the candlelight. "Some believe the right combination of symbols, timing, and location can open doors better left closed."

Graham exchanged a glance with Hailey. The fortune teller was deliberately obtuse, dancing around with direct answers while hinting at deeper knowledge.

"Ms. Zarnescu, we don't have time for riddles," Hailey said. "If you know something concrete about the Drakes' plans—"

"I don’t,” she said simply.

“Okay, thanks,” Hailey said sarcastically. She didn’t have time for this. Either they would bring her down to the station, or let it go.

Hailey stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the carpet-covered ground. The tent suddenly felt suffocating—too small, too perfumed, too contrived. Every crystal, every candle, every tarot card seemed to mock her with their manufactured mysticism.

"We're done here," she announced, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.

Zara looked up at her with something between amusement and pity. "You seek a rational explanation for irrational events, Agent Rock. Sometimes the universe doesn't comply with our need for order."

"What I need is concrete information, not carnival parlor tricks," Hailey retorted.

She resisted the urge to take the woman in for questioning.

Everything she’d said so far could’ve easily been guesswork or feigned ignorance followed by a slow reveal. She’d seen mentalist tricks and cold readings before.

She turned away, moving with Graham towards the exit. She moved out into the darkening evening.

Twilight descended over Pleasant, the sky deepening to indigo as stars appeared one by one above the carnival grounds. Hailey and Graham stood at the midway's edge, watching the transformation as thousands of lights flickered to life.

Like a luminous creature awakening, the carnival shed its daytime ordinariness, becoming once again a place of wonder and possibility. The Ferris wheel traced its glowing circle against the darkening sky, while the carousel's calliope music drifted through the cooling air, a nostalgic melody that called to something primal in the human spirit.

"We need to shut it down," Hailey said, her voice tight with conviction. "Tonight."

Graham's face was washed in alternating colors from a nearby ride—blue, red, green painting his features in rhythmic succession as he considered her words. "On what grounds? We've got nothing concrete—just Cooper's vague statement about 'something happening' and a fortune teller's cryptic warnings. Besides, if we go back on our word with that manager, Sullivan, you can bet nobody is going to be in a cooperative mood."

"Two men are dead, Graham." Hailey gestured toward the growing crowd filtering through the entrance gates—families with excited children, teenagers in rowdy groups, couples walking hand-in-hand. "The killer has used this carnival as his hunting ground twice now. What if he's here tonight, looking for his next victim?"

A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the ring toss booth where a young father had just won a stuffed elephant for his daughter. The child's face glowed with delight as she clutched her prize, spinning in a circle of pure joy. Nearby, an elderly couple shared cotton candy, pink wisps catching in the woman's white hair as her husband gently brushed them away.

"Look at them," Graham said quietly. "For most of these people, this carnival represents their only escape from everyday life. Shutting it down means taking that away—and for what? A hunch?"

Hailey's jaw tightened. "Better disappointed than dead."

They began walking the midway, moving against the flow of carnival-goers who streamed past in growing numbers. The air was thick with contradictory scents—sweet cotton candy and funnel cakes mingling with the grease of machinery and the earthy dampness of approaching rain. Overhead, thunder rumbled distantly, promising a storm later in the night.

"We need to be strategic," Graham said, limping slightly as they navigated around a group of teenagers comparing their ride wristbands. "Sullivan would fight a shutdown order with everything he's got. The carnival has permits, licenses, and legal permission to operate."

"Then we use what we do have," Hailey countered. We flood this place with law enforcement. Every deputy Alice can spare, in uniform and plainclothes. We watch for the Drakes, for anything suspicious."

They paused near the funhouse, its twisted facade looming like something from a fever dream. Mirrors along its entrance distorted their reflections—stretching Hailey's figure impossibly tall, compressing Graham's until he appeared comically wide. The carnival barker at the entrance—a thin man with a handlebar mustache—called to passing children with practiced enthusiasm, his patter as worn and comfortable as an old song.

"I think you're right," Graham finally conceded, his voice nearly lost beneath the cacophony of ride machinery and carnival music. "We can't shut it down, but we can flood the zone. Create a law enforcement presence visible enough to discourage any plans the Drakes might have."

Hailey nodded, already reaching for her phone to call Alice. As she did, movement near the Ferris wheel caught her attention—a familiar silhouette moving with calculated precision through the crowd.

Victor Drake.

She stared at the silver-haired man. She still wasn’t sure he wasn’t dyeing his hair for the cameras, not that yet, one more lie from the man, no matter how benign, would surprise her. But for once, when she looked his way, Victor Drake was not the person who drew her eye.

No, it was the person Victor was with that most caught her attention.

“Mindy,” she whispered.

Hailey’s younger sister was on Victor’s arm—the same sister who hadn’t been speaking to Hailey for a couple of weeks now on account of her new beau and confidant, Victor Drake.

“Hailey, hang on. He’s baiting you. He knows you’re here.” Graham caught her arm as she moved instinctively towards the distant figure.

Hailey froze. The carnival noise receded, becoming a distant roar in her ears. Victor Drake stood thirty yards away, impeccable in a charcoal suit despite the casual setting. His silver hair caught the carnival lights, creating a halo effect that seemed mockingly angelic. And on his arm—Mindy, looking small and fragile beside his commanding presence.

"Let me go, Graham," she said, voice dangerously quiet.

"Think, Hailey." His grip remained firm on her arm. "That's exactly what he wants. To provoke you into a public confrontation. To get you on camera again, losing your professional composure. If he gets you barred from the carnival tonight, what then?"

Rational thought warred with primal instinct. She knew Graham was right—Victor was goading her, using her sister as the perfect lure. But seeing Mindy with him, after everything the cult had done to her...

"He's using her," Hailey whispered, watching as Victor leaned down to say something in Mindy's ear. Her sister nodded, a mechanical movement that lacked natural animation. "She's been out of that cult for less than a year. She's still vulnerable. Still learning to think for herself again."

Graham's grip gentled, though he didn't release her. "I know. And we'll help her. But not by giving Victor exactly what he wants."

Hailey forced herself to take a deep breath, then another. The carnival smells flooded back—popcorn and the metallic tang of machinery. Lights pulsed around them in hypnotic patterns while rides whirled and dipped, passengers screaming with manufactured fear that would end precisely when the ride did.

"Okay," she said finally. "You're right. We do this smart."

Graham released her arm, relief evident in his expression. "I'll call Alice, get those deputies in place.”

As he dialed, Hailey kept her eyes fixed on Victor and Mindy. They were moving toward the carousel now, Victor's hand resting possessively at the small of her sister's back. Mindy's long hair—once matted and tangled during her captivity—had been styled into smooth waves that caught the carnival lights. She wore a simple white dress that made her look younger, more vulnerable somehow.

"Alice? It's Graham," he said when the call connected. "Hailey and I need your help. It's about Mindy."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Victor Drake inhaled the carnival air—sugar and grease and unwashed bodies all mingling into a perfume of desperation and fleeting joy, how he loathed it. The garish lights, the mechanical screams, the relentless cheerfulness of a place designed to separate fools from their money. Yet here he was, strolling the midway as if he belonged among these ordinary people with their ordinary lives and ordinary dreams.

He glanced down at Mindy beside him. She moved with the hesitant steps of a sleepwalker, her eyes wide but unfocused, taking in the carnival's sensory assault without truly processing it. The white dress had been his choice, symbolic in ways she couldn't comprehend. Purity. Sacrifice. Beginnings.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?" he asked, the solicitous tone perfected over decades of manipulation.

She nodded, the movement mechanical. "Yes. It's... colorful."

Her vocabulary had simplified during her years in the compound. Once she'd been sharp-tongued, according to her mother, now she spoke in these truncated sentences, as if each word cost her something vital. And while it was true that she came to life around her sisters, Victor had carefully and delicately lured her back, coaxing her into that simpler, sedate way of thinking her mind held as a defense mechanism. After all, it was much easier to control her this way than when her mind was frantic and trying to reassert itself.

"Indeed, it is." He guided her toward the carousel, its calliope music growing louder as they approached. "Would you like to ride? You always loved carousels as a child."

This was a guess, but an educated one. Most children did. The simple pleasure of moving in circles, going nowhere while believing you were on a journey—it was an apt metaphor for the human condition, around and around, thinking progress was being made.

"Did I?" Mindy's brow furrowed slightly, searching for memories that had been systematically erased during her time in the compound. "I don't remember."

"Trust me," Victor assured her, his hand firm against her back. "I know you better than you know yourself."

This, at least, was true. He had studied the Rock family for years while behind bars—their habits, their weaknesses, their pressure points. Had watched Hailey's meteoric rise through law enforcement, fueled by the guilt and rage of her sister's disappearance. Had observed Sheriff Alice Rock's campaigns against corruption while harboring her own secrets. Had noted their parents' slow decline into grief-stricken shells of their former selves.

He knew them all intimately, without them ever truly knowing him.

The carousel attendant—a bored teenager with acne scars and dead eyes—took their tickets without looking up. Victor helped Mindy onto a white horse with chipped gold trappings, its frozen gallop a mockery of freedom. She settled onto it with the awkward movements of someone relearning how to occupy space in the world.

"I'll watch from here," he told her, stepping back as the ride began its slow rotation.

As Mindy circled away, Victor scanned the crowd there, near the funhouse entrance. Hailey Rock and her FBI partner were watching him with barely concealed fury. Victor allowed himself a small smile, inclining his head in the slightest acknowledgment. He'd known she would be here tonight—her predictability was one of her greatest weaknesses. The sister. Always the sister.

The carousel completed its first rotation, bringing Mindy back into view. Her expression had softened slightly, a ghost of childlike wonder replacing the vacant stare. Up and down she moved on her mechanical steed, around and around in her white dress, unaware of her role in events far larger than herself.

Victor checked his watch—an understated Patek Philippe that had cost more than most carnival workers earned in a year. Almost time. His brothers would be in position now, along with the others. Everything is proceeding according to design.

The carnival lights reflected in his signet ring as he raised his hand, a casual gesture that would appear meaningless to any observer. Across the midway, a man in a vendor's apron nodded once, then disappeared into the crowd.

The pieces were moving. The ritual had begun.

Behind him, he sensed rather than saw Hailey Rock begin to approach, her righteous anger practically radiating across the midway. Victor smiled to himself. So predictable. So easy to manipulate. Add the sister and stir in some perceived danger, and Agent Rock would abandon protocol every time.

He turned to face her, composing his features into a mask of polite surprise.

"Agent Rock," he greeted her, his voice pitched to carry just far enough. "What an unexpected pleasure."

Her face was a study in controlled fury—jaw tight, eyes narrowed, body coiled with restrained violence. Behind her, Graham Vance limped forward, his expression more measured but no less vigilant.

"Victor," she replied, the name like poison on her lips. "Enjoying the carnival? Or just grooming your next victim?"

She was referring to Mindy, of course. So transparent.

"Your sister has been kind enough to accompany me this evening," he replied smoothly. "She's quite enjoying herself, I believe. The carousel was her idea." This lie would be impossible to disprove—Mindy's fragmented memory made her an unreliable witness even to her own experiences.

Hailey's gaze flicked to the carousel where Mindy continued her endless circular journey, white dress billowing slightly with the movement. "What game are you playing, Victor?"

"Game? No game, Agent Rock. Simply enjoying Pleasant's annual festivities." He gestured toward the whirling rides, the food vendors, the game booths with their impossible challenges. "Small-town Americana at its finest. Though I admit, I find it all rather... pedestrian."

Graham stepped forward slightly. "How did you meet Mindy, Mr. Drake?"

Victor smiled, recognizing the technique—the partner playing good cop, asking seemingly innocent questions to establish a timeline, build rapport, gather information.

He ignored Graham completely. “Apologies. But my date is waiting.”

Mindy had stepped off after one rotation of the wheel, frowning towards her sister and her sister’s partner.

Victor continued smiling at Hailey, wondering if she’d take another swing.

But she kept her clenched hands tight at her sides.

"Ah, Mindy, there you are." Victor extended his hand to her as she approached hesitantly. "Did you enjoy your ride? Just like when you were a child, yes?"

Mindy nodded vaguely, her eyes darting toward Hailey with a flicker of recognition that quickly faded. "It was... familiar."

"Your sister was just leaving," Victor said, placing his hand at the small of Mindy's back once more. The proprietary gesture was deliberate, calculated to provoke Hailey without crossing any line that might justify intervention.

Hailey took a half-step forward. "Mindy, you don't have to go with him."

Mindy's brow furrowed, confusion clouding her features. "I... we have plans."

Victor smiled, triumph glittering in his eyes. "Indeed we do. I've been telling Mindy about Pleasant's history. The parts they don't include in the tourist brochures." He checked his watch again. "In fact, we should be going. I have someone very special I'd like you to meet tonight."

The carnival seemed to pulse around them, its kaleidoscopic lights casting strange shadows across Victor's aristocratic features. For a moment, his silver hair caught the rotating patterns from a nearby ride, creating a crown-like effect that disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

"What someone?" Graham asked, his tone deceptively casual.

Victor's smile widened. "An associate.”

Mindy stared at the darkening sky, her expression suddenly distant. "The stars are wrong tonight," she murmured, so quietly that only Victor heard her.

He squeezed her elbow gently, steering her away from Hailey and Graham. "Come, my dear. We don't want to be late."

They moved against the flow of carnival-goers, Victor guiding Mindy with the practiced ease of a dancer leading a compliant partner. Her white dress seemed to glow under the carnival lights, making her easy to track despite the growing crowd. They passed the ring toss, the balloon dart game, the strength test with its oversized hammer and bell.

All the while, he could feel Hailey’s eyes on him. She barely restrained herself. He could tell she wanted to lunge—wanted to attack.

He grinned to himself, enjoying every minute of it.

Suddenly, a hand caught his shoulder, whirling him around. He half expected a punch, and he winced in anticipation.

But the blow never came.

Instead, he wheeled about to find himself staring Hailey Rock in the eyes. Up close and personal, like finding a lion at the zoo on the wrong side of the bars.

Her face was inches from his, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her otherwise dark irises. Hailey's nostrils flared slightly with each breath, her chest rising and falling in the measured rhythm of someone fighting for control. The carnival lights danced across her features—splashes of red, blue, and yellow that transformed her expression into something almost primal. A muscle twitched in her jaw as she clenched her teeth, her fingers still gripping his shoulder with professional restraint that contrasted the fury radiating from her like heat from asphalt.

"Agent Rock," Victor said, his voice a silken purr despite her grip. "Physical contact with a private citizen. How... unprofessional."

She didn't release him immediately. Instead, her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly before she let go, each digit uncurling with deliberate control. The carnival swirled around them—a riot of sound and color that seemed to recede into the background.

"You better understand something, Victor," she said, her voice pitched low enough that only he and Mindy could hear it over the carnival noise. "We’re calling in nearly fifty officers here tonight: Deputies from three counties. State police. Federal agents." Her eyes never left his, searching for any reaction, any tell that might betray his plans. "Whatever you're plotting, we're watching. Every move. Every conversation. Every shadow."

Victor's smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be anything but expensive dental work. The expression never reached his eyes, which remained cold as frozen pond water. A child ran past, bumping against his legs, but he didn't flinch or look down—his attention fixed entirely on Hailey.

"How flattering," he replied. "All that manpower dedicated to little old me. Though I wonder what taxpayers would think of such resource allocation based on... what, exactly? A carnival outing with a friend?" He gestured toward Mindy, who stood slightly behind him now, her white dress gleaming under the pulsing lights.

Mindy's gaze remained fixed on the ground, on the rides, on passing strangers—anywhere but on her sister. Her fingers worried at the fabric of her dress, creasing and releasing the material in a nervous rhythm. When a nearby ride released a burst of steam with a mechanical hiss, she flinched as if struck, pressing herself closer to Victor's side.

"Look at me, Mindy," Hailey said, her voice softening as she addressed her sister. "Please."

Mindy's eyes darted up for the briefest moment—a flash of recognition, of something deeper and more complex than her vacant exterior suggested—before dropping away again. "We should go," she murmured to Victor. "We'll be late."

"How right you are, my dear," Victor agreed smoothly, placing his hand at the small of her back once more. "Your sister is very busy tonight, it seems.”

He turned away again. And this time, Hailey didn’t pursue.

But as he walked, his smile turned to a scowl.

He refused to let Hailey see it… but if there really was going to be that big of a police presence… they’d have to postpone.

He surreptitiously pulled his phone from his pocket.

Victor glanced at his phone, fingers moving swiftly over the encrypted messaging app. The text was brief: "Complications. Too many eyes. Delay 24 hours."

He didn't wait for a response, knowing his brothers would comply without question. The Drake family had survived and thrived for generations by knowing when to press forward and when to retreat. Tonight would require the latter—a tactical withdrawal rather than a defeat.

As they approached the carnival's eastern edge, where the midway gave way to the equipment area, Victor felt rather than saw the surveillance net tightening around them. Plainclothes officers mingling with the crowd. Uniformed deputies taking positions at strategic points. Even the carnival workers seemed more alert, watchful in a way that suggested they'd been briefed.

Hailey Rock had not been bluffing.

"Change of plans, my dear," Victor said, steering Mindy toward the Ferris wheel instead. "Our friends will have to wait for another evening."

Mindy looked up at him, her expression clouded with confusion. "But the ritual—"

"Will proceed when the time is right," he finished smoothly, squeezing her arm in warning. "Patience is a virtue, after all."

Thunder rumbled overhead, closer now. The storm that had been threatening all evening was finally approaching, its electrical charge making the air heavy and expectant. A few raindrops—large, warm harbingers of the deluge to come—splattered against the pavement, creating dark spots that expanded like ink blots on paper.

"I should get you home before this weather worsens," Victor said, voice carrying just enough concern to be convincing to any observers. The perfect gentleman, protecting a young woman from the elements.

Mindy nodded, docile once more. The brief spark of awareness—of resistance—had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Yes. Home."

Behind them, the storm clouds gathered, swallowing stars one by one.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The storm finally broke over Pleasant just after midnight, rain arriving in vertical sheets that hammered against rooftops and transformed streets into temporary rivers. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts, illuminating the emptying carnival grounds in stark, momentary tableaux—abandoned rides gleaming wet and lonely, workers hurrying to secure equipment, the last stragglers running for shelter with jackets held over their heads.

Hailey watched from inside the Bureau sedan, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. Despite five hours of surveillance, fifty law enforcement personnel, and her own instincts screaming that something was wrong, the night had yielded nothing. Victor Drake had escorted Mindy to his luxury SUV shortly after their confrontation, driving away from the carnival grounds with the perfect composure of a man with nothing to hide. His brothers and their associates had never appeared.

"Hell of a waste," she muttered, squinting through the rain-blurred windshield as Graham navigated the flooded streets toward their motel. "All that manpower for nothing."

Lightning flashed again, casting Graham's profile in harsh white light before plunging him back into shadow. The thunder that followed rattled the car windows, so close it seemed to vibrate through their bones.

"Maybe that was the point," he suggested, hands steady on the wheel as he avoided a fallen branch. "Victor knew we were watching. Knew we'd be ready, so he changed plans."

Hailey sighed, leaning her head against the passenger window. The glass felt cool against her forehead, the constant drum of rain almost hypnotic after the long, tense hours of heightened awareness. "Or maybe Cooper was wrong. Maybe there never were any plans for tonight."

"You don't believe that," Graham replied, not a question but a statement of fact. "Neither do I."

The only real action they'd witnessed all night had been a fistfight in the parking lot—two locals, both drunk, arguing over a fender bender until carnival security and Alice's deputies had separated them. And some teenagers who'd tried to sneak onto the Gravitron without paying, resulting in a brief chase through the midway that ended with embarrassed parents being called.

Nothing sinister. Nothing connected to murders or the Drake family's mysterious return to Pleasant.

"Did you notice how many people were there tonight?" Hailey asked, watching raindrops race each other down the window glass. "Families with children. Teenagers. Couples. Like nothing had happened."

"Two murders in a week, and they're still lining up for cotton candy and carnival rides," Graham agreed. "Human nature. 'It won't happen to me.'"

The road curved around Pleasant Lake, its surface churned into whitecaps by the storm. In daylight, this view was featured on local postcards—the pristine water reflecting forested hills, quaint boathouses dotting the shoreline. Tonight it looked wild, primordial, the water black as ink.

"Can we take the long way back?" Hailey asked suddenly. "Past Oakridge Drive."

Graham glanced at her, understanding immediately. "Your parents' house?”

Ignoring the question, Hailey stared out the window and said, “They moved into a short-term rental. Couldn’t take the close quarters at the motel anymore.”

“Gotcha. No worries.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. The rain intensified, hammering against the car roof like impatient fingers. The wipers fought valiantly against the deluge, creating brief moments of clarity before the windshield blurred again.

The sedan crawled through flooded streets, tires displacing water in twin fans. Pleasant looked different at night, especially in the storm—familiar landmarks transformed into looming shadows, street signs barely visible through the rain. Houses that appeared welcoming in daylight now stood dark and shuttered, their occupants tucked safely away from the elements.

Hailey's childhood neighborhood emerged from the gloom—a collection of well-maintained craftsman homes with deep porches and mature oak trees. Even through the rain, she recognized each one. The Hendersons' blue house with the wraparound porch. The Mitchells' with its distinctive weathervane. Mrs. Abernathy's, where wind chimes would be singing chaotically in this storm.

Then, her parents' home. Or what was left of it.

The gas explosion had practically levelled the place. Weeks later, cordoning tape was still wrapped around the property, fluttering wildly in the storm winds. The foundation remained, blackened and exposed like an open wound in the earth. A few charred beams jutted upward—skeletal fingers reaching for the storm-tossed sky. The rain had turned the ash to a thick, black sludge that pooled in depressions where rooms had once stood.

Hailey stared silently through the rain-streaked window, memories superimposing themselves over the devastation. Sunday dinners at the oak table that had stood where only scorched concrete remained. Christmas mornings by the fireplace, now just a hollow opening in a half-collapsed wall. The kitchen where her mother had taught her to bake, the bedrooms where she and her sisters had whispered secrets late into the night—all gone.

"They're at the Willow Creek Apartments," she said finally, voice barely audible above the storm. "Building manager gave them a ground-floor unit. Two-bedroom. Dad says it feels like a shoebox after forty years in the house—but it beats the motel."

Graham slowed the car, giving her the time she needed. "Have they decided if they'll rebuild?"

"Insurance is still processing. Dad wants to. Mom..." Hailey shook her head. "She says the house died with Mindy. Finding her again doesn't erase those nineteen years."

Thunder crashed directly overhead, so loud it felt physical. The lightning that accompanied it bathed the ruined house in stark illumination—a freeze-frame of destruction that burned itself into Hailey's retinas.

"We can stop if you want," Graham offered. "Check on them."

"No." Hailey straightened in her seat, pulling her gaze from the ruins. "It's late."

Graham nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. He accelerated gently, guiding the sedan back toward the main road. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm as they left the neighborhood behind, memories receding in the rearview mirror.

Hailey just shook her head, feeling the cold tinge of sadness.

Mindy had practically ignored her.

Her family was suffering, and even Alice had started closing herself off with more work.

Drake was disassembling everything that mattered to her. And on top of it all, there was still a killer out there, and the carnival was staying in town for another day.

She released a slow sigh.

It wasn’t just raining. It was pouring.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The watcher stood in the rain, indifferent to the droplets streaming down his face and soaking through his dark clothing. From his position between two equipment trailers, he observed as the final patrons fled to safety, scurrying like insects from an overturned rock. Their desperate scramble amused him—how quickly their carnival revelry dissolved in the face of nature's minor inconvenience.

Lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the grounds in stark white before plunging them back into shadow. In those electric moments, the carnival revealed its true nature—not the magical wonderland of colored lights and manufactured joy, but a collection of rusted joints, peeling paint, and weathered canvas.

He preferred it this way: stripped bare—honest in its decay.

The rain intensified, drumming against metal roofs and transforming the midway into a shallow river. Workers shouted to each other as they secured equipment, their voices barely audible above the storm. None noticed him standing motionless in the shadows. They never did. He had perfected the art of invisibility—not through elaborate disguises or theatrical techniques, but through careful cultivation of absolute ordinariness. The forgettable face. The unremarkable posture. The clothes that registered as ‘someone’ rather than ‘someone specific.’

Tonight had been disappointing. He had watched for hours as families wasted money on rigged games, as teenagers performed their elaborate mating rituals, as parents dragged overtired children from ride to ride in desperate pursuit of memories no one would truly value. All that manufactured joy, that forced laughter—it rang hollow, discordant against the quiet rage that had become his constant companion.

The killer flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar tightness in his right hand where it had gripped the dart too firmly. He could still feel the perfect balance of it, the satisfying weight, the way it had flown true to its target. Richard Winters’ surprised expression—that moment of recognition, of understanding what was happening—had been almost worth the years of waiting.

Almost.

Martin Donaldson had been less satisfying—too quick to die, too slow to understand why. Still, watching the life drain from his eyes had momentarily quieted the constant buzzing in the killer's head—the endless catalog of grievances, of faces that deserved punishment, of debts that remained uncollected.

Tonight should have yielded his third. He had identified the target days ago—another face from that summer long past, another person who had looked through him rather than at him. But the unexpected police presence had forced restraint. He had counted at least twelve plainclothes officers moving through the crowd, plus uniformed deputies at every entrance. The Drake brothers' appearance at the motel had drawn unwanted attention, complicating his carefully constructed plans.

A setback, not a defeat.

The carnival would remain in Pleasant. The police couldn't maintain tonight's presence indefinitely—budgets, schedules, and human stamina all had their limits. Tomorrow night would offer fresh opportunities. One more victim before moving on to the next town, the next carnival, the next hunting ground.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time.

The thunder that followed vibrated through his bones, a sensation both uncomfortable and exhilarating. The storm spoke to something primal within him—the raw power of nature, indifferent to human concerns, sweeping away pretense and leaving only truth behind.

He shifted position, moving deeper into the shadows as a security guard hurried past, flashlight beam cutting through the rain. The guard's shoulders were hunched against the downpour, attention focused on the ground before him rather than the spaces between trailers. Predictable. People rarely looked into darkness willingly, preferring the comfort of illuminated paths.

The watcher allowed himself a small smile. Tomorrow night, the carnival would transform once more—lights restored, music playing, the illusion of safety and joy carefully reconstructed. And he would return, moving through the crowds like a ghost, watching faces until he found the right one.

He had a mental catalog of potential targets—faces from that summer long ago when Pleasant had first revealed its true nature to him. Some still lived here, comfortable in their routines, oblivious to his return. Others visited only occasionally, drawn back by nostalgia or business. It didn't matter. He would find them eventually. He was patient… methodical… inevitable.

The rain began to slacken, the storm moving eastward across Pleasant Lake.

He flexed his fingers again, feeling phantom darts between them. The perfect weight. The satisfying balance. The absolute certainty of their flight when released from his grip. He'd practiced for years to develop this skill, transforming a carnival game into something lethal. Hiding in plain sight.

Tomorrow night would bring fresh crowds, fresh opportunities. He would arrive early, taking his customary position near the dart game. He would play a few rounds—never winning too much, never drawing attention. And he would watch.

For hours if necessary, until the right face appeared in the crowd.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Morning arrived with painful brightness, sunlight streaming through the gap in the motel curtains and landing precisely across Hailey's closed eyes. She groaned, rolling away from the intrusion. Her body ached with the particular stiffness that came from too little sleep after too much tension. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 6:43 AM in angry red numerals—seventeen minutes before her alarm was set to go off.

The storm had passed during the night, leaving behind a world washed clean. Through the thin motel walls, she could hear the drip-drip-drip of water falling from the eaves, a steady percussion accompanying the distant calls of morning birds. Everything smelled of wet asphalt and ozone—that distinctive after-storm scent that somehow made the air feel scrubbed and new.

Hailey stared at the water stains on the popcorn ceiling, mentally cataloging yesterday's failures. The carnival surveillance yielded nothing. Victor Drake walked away untouched. Mindy's vacant eyes refused to meet hers. And the storm had washed away any evidence that might have been overlooked at the carnival grounds.

Her phone vibrated on the nightstand, the screen illuminating with an incoming call. Dr. Grayson Meyer, the assistant to the county coroner.

She frowned, answering the call.

"Dr. Meyer," Hailey answered, voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

"Agent Rock." The young doctor's voice came through with unusual urgency. "Dr. Morrow asked me to call you immediately. We've found something on Richard Winters' clothing that you need to see."

“Dr. Morrow?”

“We’re pitching in at Dr. Patel’s request now that it’s a federal case. But that’s not important. How soon can you get here?”

Hailey sat up, instantly alert. “In person?”

“Better if in person.”

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"We'll be waiting."

The county morgue occupied the basement level of Pleasant Memorial Hospital—a utilitarian space of gleaming steel surfaces, harsh fluorescent lighting, and the persistent underlying scent of industrial disinfectant. Dr. Elaine Morrow was waiting when Hailey arrived, her gray hair pulled back in its customary tight bun, sharp eyes meeting Hailey's over reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"Agent Rock," she greeted, gesturing toward a lab table where evidence bags containing Winters' clothing were spread out. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"You said you found something," Hailey replied, cutting straight to the point as she approached the table.

Dr. Morrow nodded, reaching for a small evidence container. "Dr. Meyer was running additional tests on the clothing fibers last night when he noticed an anomaly on the victim's shirt collar." She held up the container, which appeared to contain a small cotton swab with a faint yellowish stain. "Trace amounts of a substance that wasn't consistent with the victim's personal care products."

Dr. Meyer stepped forward, his youthful enthusiasm a stark contrast to Dr. Morrow's measured professionalism. "At first, I thought it might be food residue or environmental contamination. But the chemical composition is quite specific." He handed Hailey a printout of test results. "It's an emulsifier commonly used in theatrical makeup. Professional grade."

Hailey stared at the report, mind racing. "Makeup? You're saying our killer was wearing theatrical makeup?"

"Not just any makeup," Dr. Meyer continued, excitement evident in his voice. "This particular emulsifier is used in products designed for stage performance under hot lights. It's water-resistant, sweat-resistant, and has remarkable staying power."

"Carnival makeup," Hailey murmured, the implications crystallizing. "Our killer isn't just using the carnival as hunting grounds—they might be performing in it."

Dr. Morrow nodded. "That's our conclusion as well. The substance was transferred to the victim's collar during close contact—likely when the killer delivered the fatal blow."

Hailey examined the evidence bags containing Winters' shirt. The collar showed no visible staining to the naked eye, but under the morgue's harsh lighting, she could make out the faintest yellowish discoloration where the sample had been taken.

"Have you found similar traces on Donaldson?" she asked.

Dr. Meyer shook his head. "We're re-examining his clothing now, but decomposition and environmental contamination make it more challenging." He gestured to another workstation where Donaldson's effects were being processed. "The rain complicated things further. Water-resistant is not waterproof. Evidence would have been compromised."

Hailey leaned closer to the sample, studying the faint yellowish residue. "What kind of theatrical makeup are we talking about exactly? Clown paint? Character makeup?"

"Foundation," Dr. Morrow answered, removing her glasses. "High-coverage foundation with setting powder. The kind used to create a flawless appearance under stage lighting."

"Foundation," Hailey repeated, the word triggering something in her mind. "Not typically used by male performers unless they're..."

"In drag, theatrical productions, or need significant complexion correction," Dr. Meyer supplied eagerly. "The formulation suggests it was being used to cover something—scars, birthmarks, tattoos."

"Or to change the appearance of skin tone," Dr. Morrow added, her experienced eyes meeting Hailey's. "To make someone appear younger, older... or different altogether."

A new possibility crystallized in Hailey's mind. "Could our killer be a woman?"

The question hung in the sterile air. Dr. Morrow tilted her head, considering.

"The forensic evidence doesn't exclude it," she said carefully. "Both victims were struck from behind—technique rather than brute force. The weapon—likely a carnival dart modified with a weighted tip—requires skill, not strength."

Dr. Meyer nodded enthusiastically. "And the body transportation—we assumed it required significant physical capability, but with the right tools..."

"A woman could have used a hand truck, furniture dolly, something to leverage mechanical advantage," Hailey finished, mind racing through new scenarios.

Hailey paced the length of the steel table, the fluorescent lights casting her shadow in sharp relief against the white tile floor. "We've been focusing on male carnival workers: Cooper Phillips; his associates." She stopped, turning back to the doctors. "We need to expand our search parameters."

"There's something else," Dr. Meyer added, almost hesitantly. "The foundation contains mica particles with a specific reflective quality. It's a brand called Lumineux—favored by performers who need to appear... otherworldly."

"Otherworldly," Hailey repeated.

"It creates a subtle shimmer under certain lighting conditions. Makes the skin appear to glow."

Madame Zara's purple tent flashed in Hailey's memory—the fortune teller with her silver-streaked hair and multiple rings. The carnival's resident mystic, reading futures in crystal balls and tarot cards.

"The fortune teller," Hailey murmured, though the connection felt tenuous at best.

Dr. Morrow raised an eyebrow. "Alexandra Zarnescu? She must be seventy if she's a day."

"Sixty-seven according to carnival records," Dr. Meyer corrected. "I had a palm reading last summer when the carnival came through. Sweet old woman. Could barely lift her crystal ball to place it on the table."

Hailey remembered Zara's hands—how they trembled slightly when shuffling her tarot cards, the arthritis evident in the swollen knuckles despite the rings partially concealing them. The woman had moved with the careful deliberation of someone managing chronic pain, each shift in her chair accompanied by a barely perceptible wince.

"She's too physically diminished," Hailey agreed reluctantly. "Winters was six-foot-two, nearly two hundred pounds. Donaldson wasn't much smaller.”

Dr. Morrow nodded. "The bruising patterns on both victims suggest they were gripped by hands larger than the average woman's. Not impossibly large, but significant."

Hailey nodded, already reaching for her phone. "I need to get back to the carnival grounds. They'll be setting up for tonight already."

As she turned to leave, Dr. Morrow called after her. "Agent Rock—one more thing. The foundation shade."

Hailey paused at the doorway. "What about it?"

"It's marketed as 'Moonlight Porcelain.' The palest shade Lumineux makes." The coroner's eyes met hers steadily. "Designed for extremely fair skin."

The implication hung in the air between them—another piece of the puzzle, another parameter to narrow their search. Hailey nodded her thanks and stepped back out into the hall, placing a call to Graham as she moved fast.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hailey punched Graham's number as she pushed through the hospital's emergency exit, stepping into morning sunlight that felt too bright, too ordinary for the revelations spinning through her mind.

"Graham," she said the moment he answered, "I think our killer might be a fair-skinned carnival worker. Maybe female."

"Wait—what?" His voice crackled with sudden excitement. "Hailey, I was just about to call you."

She paused beside her Bureau sedan, key fob in hand. "What is it?"

"I couldn't sleep after last night, so I started digging through local news archives." Words tumbled out in a rush, unusual for Graham's typically measured speech. "Four years ago, there was an accident at the Starlight Carnival. A ride called the Cyclone collapsed during teardown. There was one fatality and a worker named Cameron Myers was severely disfigured. But get this," Graham hesitated as if double checking what he was about to say, his voice heavy with grim importance, “the carnival safety review board, the people who sign off and make the official declarations about whether an accident was preventable or not and who was at fault… Martin Donaldson and Richard Winters were both members of that board at the time of the Cyclone accident.”

Hailey's pulse quickened. It was as damning a connection as they could hope for. "The victim, Mr. Myers, you said he was disfigured in the accident. Disfigured how?"

"Facial scarring, primarily. Burns from hydraulic fluid, plus crush injuries. Multiple surgeries. "

"And you think he's our killer? Revenge against the carnival that maimed him, against the men who swept it under the rug?" Hailey unlocked her car, sliding into the driver's seat.

"I… I was trying to figure that out. But coupled with what you just told me…" A long pause. Then an exhale. "Yeah, I remembered correctly. His wife. She's fair-skinned according to her DMV photo. Helps out part-time when the carnival comes through town. Article mentioned she was there when it happened—watched the whole thing."

“Holy shit.”

"Exactly. And get this—they ruled it was mechanical failure, not negligence by Starlight management."

Hailey started the car, already planning her route to the carnival grounds. "Nobody sued?"

"Settled out of court. Looks like there was a separate settlement for the worker who was killed, but Myers got medical expenses covered but nothing for pain and suffering. The settlement included a non-disclosure agreement. “

"So we have motive, opportunity, and physical capability," Hailey said, pulling onto the main road. "What's the wife's name?"

"Angela Myers. Thirty-four. No criminal record. Worked as a gymnast in carnival performances before the accident—explains the physical strength. Now she helps with costume design and makeup."

Hailey's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Where is she now?"

"That's the problem. She's not on Sullivan's current employee list. If she's at the carnival, she's working off the books."

"Or using a different name," Hailey added. "Meet me at the grounds in twenty minutes. And Graham—bring Angela's photo. We need to know exactly who we're looking for."

"Already sent it to your phone," he replied. "Hailey... be careful. If she's killed twice already, she won’t hesitate.”

“I know.”

Hailey gunned the engine to her vehicle.

The carnival grounds glistened in the morning sun, wet grass squeaking beneath Hailey's boots as she strode past half-assembled rides and booths. Workers moved with practiced efficiency, repairing storm damage and preparing for another night of manufactured joy. Graham met her at the entrance, his face tight with urgency as he handed her a tablet.

"DMV photo," he said. "Angela Myers."

Hailey studied the image—a woman with fair skin and auburn hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She had sharp cheekbones, eyes that seemed to be looking through the camera rather than at it. There was almost nothing remarkable except the intensity of her gaze.

"Let's split up," Hailey decided. "Cover more ground."

They moved through the morning carnival preparations with purpose, showing Angela's photo to workers setting up game booths, ride operators checking safety harnesses, vendors stocking cotton candy supplies. Most shook their heads, barely glancing at the image before returning to their tasks.

"Never seen her," said a teenager arranging stuffed animals at the ring toss. "But I just started last week."

A balloon dart vendor squinted at the photo. "Looks familiar, maybe? Lots of people come through here."

"Sorry," a carousel operator shrugged. "Can't help you."

Frustration mounted as Hailey worked her way toward the Ferris wheel, where a crew was replacing light bulbs damaged by the storm. Twenty minutes of questioning had yielded nothing substantial—until she approached a young woman in a Starlight Carnival vest wrestling with a tangle of extension cords.

"Excuse me," Hailey began, holding up her badge and the tablet. "Have you seen this woman around the carnival? Her name is Angela Myers."

The woman glanced at the photo, then did a double-take. "Oh! Yeah, I think I saw her yesterday." She pointed toward the maintenance area. "Working with Walter in the repair shop. Thought she was new, but she seemed to know what she was doing."

Hailey's pulse quickened. "You're sure it was her?"

"Pretty sure. Hard to forget that hair." The woman frowned. "Though she was wearing it down, not like in that picture."

"Where can I find Walter?"

"Repair shop's behind the Gravitron. Big guy, coveralls, always has grease on his face." She gestured toward the far end of the midway. "Can't miss him."

Hailey texted Graham immediately: Possible ID. Subject may be working with carnival mechanic. Meeting you at repair shop behind Gravitron.

The repair shop turned out to be a large canvas tent with metal sides, housing a makeshift workshop filled with ride parts, tools, and the pervasive smell of machine oil. Hydraulic equipment lined one wall, while workbenches cluttered with mechanical components filled the center space. A radio played classic rock at low volume, barely audible beneath the rhythmic clanging of metal against metal. A broad-shouldered man in stained coveralls hunched over a disassembled motor, his massive hands surprisingly delicate as they manipulated tiny components.

"Walter Bennett?" Hailey called, approaching the workbench.

The man straightened, revealing a weathered face mapped with deep lines and a perpetual scowl. Oil stains darkened his forearms and speckled his gray-stubbled cheeks. He regarded Hailey with immediate suspicion, eyes narrowing beneath a sweat-stained baseball cap.

"Who's asking?" His voice was gravel over steel, decades of cigarettes evident in each syllable.

Hailey showed her credentials. "Special Agent Hailey Rock, FBI. I'm investigating the murders connected to the carnival."

Walter grunted, returning his attention to the motor. "Already talked to Sullivan about that. Don't know nothing."

"I'm not here about Cooper Phillips," Hailey clarified, moving closer despite the man's obvious desire for her to leave. "I'm looking for Angela Myers."

The wrench in Walter's hand slipped, clattering loudly against the workbench. He didn't immediately reach for it, his shoulders suddenly rigid beneath the worn coveralls.

"Don't know her," he said flatly, still not looking up.

"That's interesting," Hailey replied, leaning against the workbench to catch his eye. "Because I've got a witness who saw her working with you yesterday."

Walter's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath three days' worth of stubble. For several seconds, the only sound was the radio playing Creedence Clearwater Revival and the distant calls of carnival workers setting up rides.

"What do you want with Angie?" he finally asked, voice softer now, almost protective.

"I need to speak with her about the ride collapse four years ago, the one that injured her husband."

Walter's head snapped up, eyes suddenly blazing. "Cameron wasn't just 'injured.' He was goddamn mutilated. Face burned off by hydraulic fluid. Crushed under three tons of metal." He snatched up a rag, wiping grease from his hands with unnecessary force. "And those corporate bastards called it an 'unfortunate accident.' Paid his medical bills and told him to be grateful."

Hailey recognized the opening, the raw nerve she'd touched. She glanced around the space. It was empty save the mechanic.

He was rocking on his heels now, muttering and shaking his head. She paused, then pressed, "Tell me what happened that night, Walter. The real story."

Bennett stared at her for a long moment, then glanced toward the tent's entrance as if expecting someone. Apparently satisfied they were alone, he gestured toward a pair of metal folding chairs in the corner.

"Sit," he commanded more than offered.

The chairs were uncomfortable, the metal cold through Hailey's jeans. Walter lowered himself with a grunt, knees cracking, the chair protesting beneath his substantial weight.

“Angie’s a good girl,” he said. “After I tell you this, I hope you’ll understand that. And I’m only talking on good faith that you’ll leave her alone.”

She didn’t agree or disagree but just sat, listening.

Finally, he ran a hand across his face, leaving a grease smudge across his temple.

"It was after closing. July sixteenth, four years back. We were tearing down the Cyclone—big coaster, six cars, hydraulic lifts. Cameron was lead rigger that season." Walter's voice dropped, taking on the cadence of painful recollection. "Angie was there too. She'd just finished her aerial silk act—she was something to see back then. Graceful as a damn bird."

His calloused fingers traced an invisible pattern on his knee. "We had the safety pins pulled, ready to collapse the first section when something gave way too early. The hydraulic system—" His voice caught. "It just blew. Pressure line ruptured, sprayed fluid everywhere. Hit Cam full in the face, then the whole front assembly came down."

Hailey leaned forward. "Was there a maintenance issue? Something overlooked?"

Walter's eyes hardened. "I checked that system myself that morning. Everything was in spec. But later, when I tried to get the inspection logs, they'd disappeared. Convenient, right?" He spat the word. "Sullivan claimed I must have forgotten to file them."

"There were other injuries?" Hailey prompted.

"Rhonda Reed." Walter's voice cracked on the name. "Ticket girl. Sweet kid, twenty-three. Just started that season. Wrong place, wrong time." His shoulders slumped. "Support beam caught her right across the chest. Crushed her lungs. She was still alive when the ambulance came, but..."

He trailed off, staring at nothing.

"Did they investigate the accident?" Hailey asked quietly.

Walter barked a harsh laugh. "They called it an investigation. County inspector spent all of twenty minutes looking at the wreckage before declaring it mechanical failure. Donaldson and Winters—those two suits who got themselves killed—they were on the review board. Signed off on the report without even talking to me or the other witnesses."

"And the carnival? How did they respond?"

Something dark moved behind Walter's eyes. "That's the part that still keeps me up at night. People heard the crash—whole damn town must have. But you know what they did? They gathered around, pointing, taking pictures like it was part of the show. Some parents lifted their kids up for a better view while Cam was screaming with his face melting off and Rhonda was choking on her own blood."

Hailey kept her expression neutral despite the horror of the image. "And afterward?"

"Sullivan had us clean up the mess, haul away the wreckage. Next night, the carnival opened like nothing happened. Different spot on the midway, one less ride. Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody cared." He shook his head slowly. "Except Angie. She noticed. She cared."

"Where is she now, Walter?" Hailey asked. "I need to speak with her."

The mechanic studied her face, seeming to weigh something in his mind. His weathered face shifted through several emotions—protectiveness, uncertainty, resignation. Finally, he sighed, a sound heavy with surrender.

"She ain't here," he said. "Left early this morning. Said she had business to take care of."

Alarm bells rang in Hailey's mind. "What kind of business?"

"Didn't say." Walter's eyes met Hailey's, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. "Look, whatever you think she did—"

The tent flap opened, cutting him off. Graham entered, his expression tense. A sinking feeling hit Hailey’s stomach along with a sudden sense of urgency.

She stood. "Where is Angela Myers right now, Walter? It's important."

Walter looked between them, indecision plain on his face. "I told you, I don't—"

The repairman’s phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his denial. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting subtly before he shoved it back in his coveralls.

"Walter," Hailey pressed, stepping closer. "Angela Myers is a suspect in two murders. If you're hiding her, that's aiding and abetting. That’s a federal offense."

Another moment of tense indecision flashed in the older man’s eyes. Then, the mechanic's shoulders slumped further, defeat settling over him like a physical weight.

"She's at the lake house. Where Cameron stays now." He rubbed his grease-stained hands together. "But she ain't what you think.”

"Address," Graham demanded, already pulling out his phone.

"Forty-seven Lakeside Drive. Little blue cabin at the end of the gravel road." Walter looked up, his eyes suddenly pleading. "She's had enough pain, Agent Rock. Don't hurt her. Please."

Hailey was already moving, Graham falling in behind her as they exited the repair tent. The morning sun felt harsh after the dim workshop, reflecting off puddles from last night's storm. Carnival workers continued their setup, oblivious to the urgency propelling the agents across the soggy grounds.

"What did you find?" Hailey asked as they reached the Bureau sedan.

Graham's face was grim. "Sullivan confirmed Angela Myers isn't officially employed by Starlight anymore. But security footage shows her coming and going from the repair shop for the past week. And there's more—the night Donaldson disappeared, cameras caught her leaving the grounds at 11:48 PM. She returned at 4:17 AM."

"During our window," Hailey said, sliding behind the wheel.

"Perfect timing for abduction, murder, and body staging." Graham fastened his seatbelt as Hailey started the engine. "I checked her background. Before the carnival, she was a competitive gymnast. College scholarship. Physical capability isn't an issue."

Hailey navigated through Pleasant's morning traffic, her mind racing ahead to the lake house. "What about Winters?"

"No security footage for that night—cameras were down due to an electrical issue. Convenient timing."

"Too convenient," Hailey agreed, accelerating through a yellow light. "Call Alice. We need backup.”

But Graham was already dialing.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The winding roads around Pleasant Lake glistened in the morning sun, still slick from the night's storm. Hailey took each curve with precision, the Bureau sedan hugging the asphalt as they sped toward Lakeside Drive. Beside her, Graham finished his call with Alice.

Even in that moment, it was hard to ignore the Ozarks.

The lake spread before them like liquid sapphire, its surface stippled with diamond light where the morning sun caught ripples. Beyond it, the Ozark hills rose in undulating waves—not the dramatic peaks of western mountains, but ancient, rounded formations worn by millennia of wind and rain into something gentler. The storm had scrubbed the air clean, allowing sunlight to illuminate every shade of green imaginable—the deep emerald of white pines, the softer sage of hickories, the almost bluish tint of distant ridgelines where atmosphere itself became part of the palette.

"Sheriff's deputies are en route, ETA seven minutes," Graham reported, tucking his phone away. "She's sending two units."

Hailey nodded, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "We don't wait for them. If Angela's there, we approach immediately."

"Agreed. But carefully." Graham checked his weapon, then secured it in his holster. "We don't know what we're walking into."

Summer cabins dotted the lake's shoreline ahead of them, most still shuttered this early in the season. Many belonged to Pleasant's wealthier residents who used them only during the hottest months, preferring their in-town homes the rest of the year.

Lakeside Drive appeared on their right—a narrow gravel road barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. Hailey turned onto it, wincing as stones pinged against the sedan's undercarriage. Tall pines pressed close on both sides, their branches forming a tunnel that dappled the morning light into shifting patterns across the windshield.

"End of the road, Walter said," Hailey murmured, slowing as they approached a bend.

The blue cabin appeared ahead—a small A-frame structure perched at the water's edge. Its weathered siding had once been bright cerulean but had faded to a muted gray-blue that blended with the lake beyond. A wooden dock extended from the property into the water, where a small rowboat bobbed gently against its moorings.

"No vehicles visible," Graham observed as they pulled to a stop fifty yards from the cabin.

Hailey killed the engine. "Doesn't mean she's not here. Walter said Cameron stays here—she might not have her car."

Despite their caution, they silently exited the sedan, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The morning air carried the scent of pine and lake water and the faintest hint of woodsmoke—someone had lit a fire recently.

"Cover the rear," Hailey instructed, drawing her weapon. "I'll take the front."

Graham nodded, moving through the trees around the cabin's blind side. Hailey approached the front directly, staying low, every sense heightened. The cabin's windows reflected the morning light, making it impossible to see inside. A small porch with weathered Adirondack chairs faced the lake, empty now save for a half-empty coffee mug perched on the railing.

Fresh coffee. Someone was here, or had been very recently.

Hailey crept forward, tension coiling in her muscles as she reached the porch steps. The wooden boards creaked beneath her weight despite her careful movements. She froze, listening, but heard nothing from inside. The coffee mug on the railing still emitted wisps of steam—whoever had been drinking it had left minutes ago, not hours.

She pressed against the wall beside the front door, then peered through the window. The cabin's interior was rustic but neat—a small living area with a stone fireplace, a kitchenette along one wall, and a hallway presumably leading to bedrooms. No movement visible.

Hailey signaled to Graham, who had positioned himself by the rear entrance. They would enter simultaneously.

"FBI!" she called out, turning the doorknob. Unlocked. Angela Myers! Cameron Myers!"

Nothing. No response, no sounds of movement.

She pushed the door open, weapon raised, and entered in a tactical crouch. Graham's voice echoed from the rear of the cabin, announcing their presence again. They cleared each room methodically—living area, kitchen, bathroom, two small bedrooms. The cabin was empty.

In the larger bedroom, evidence of long-term occupation was clear—men's clothing hung in the closet, prescription medications lined the dresser. Several bore Cameron Myers' name. A hospital bed had been installed against one wall, the sheets rumpled but empty.

"Graham," Hailey called, holstering her weapon. "Look at this."

He joined her, surveying the room. "Cameron's been living here. But where is he now?"

"More importantly, where's Angela?"

They moved back to the main room. A fire smoldered in the stone hearth, nearly burned down to embers. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, both containing cold coffee. Hailey touched the side of the fireplace stones.

"Still warm. They can't have been gone long."

Graham checked the kitchen. "Breakfast dishes in the sink; Water's still pooled around them."

Frustration mounted as Hailey scanned the cabin again. They'd missed them by minutes. She moved to the front porch, searching the surrounding area for any sign of movement.

Splash.

The sound came from the lake—faint but distinct. Hailey's head snapped toward the water. Another splash followed, then another.

Without hesitation, she bolted down the porch steps and sprinted toward the shoreline, boots pounding against the wet earth. The dock came into view around the cabin's edge—and on it, a figure in a wheelchair being pushed by a woman with auburn hair.

"Angela Myers!" Hailey shouted, drawing her weapon again. "FBI! Stop where you are!"

The woman at the end of the dock froze, her hand still on the wheelchair's handles. The man seated in it remained motionless, facing the water. They were silhouetted against the morning sun reflecting off the lake, their features indistinct, but Hailey recognized Angela from her DMV photo.

"Stay back!" Angela called, her voice sharp and panicked. "Please! We're not hurting anyone!"

Hailey advanced, keeping her weapon trained on Angela. "Step away from the wheelchair, Ms. Myers! Hands where I can see them!"

Instead, Angela moved with startling speed. In one fluid motion, she spun the wheelchair toward the small rowboat tethered at the dock's end. Graham emerged from the cabin behind Hailey, shouting additional commands that Angela ignored completely.

She lunged forward, tipping the wheelchair at a precise angle to slide her husband from the seat into the waiting boat. The man made no sound as he tumbled into the vessel, his body moving with the passive weight of someone unable to control their movements.

"Angela, stop!" Hailey sprinted down the dock, boards thundering under her boots.

Angela leapt into the boat, yanking the cord on the outboard motor. It roared to life on the first pull, the sound shattering the morning calm. She twisted the throttle, the boat lurching away from the dock with a spray of lake water.

Hailey reached the dock's edge as the gap widened to six feet, then eight. Without hesitation, she holstered her weapon and launched herself across the water. Her body arced through the morning air, suspended for one breathless moment before crashing into the boat's stern.

The impact sent pain jarring through her shoulder and hip. The boat rocked violently, nearly capsizing from her added weight and momentum. Water sloshed over the sides, soaking all three occupants.

"Stop the boat!" Hailey commanded, scrambling to secure her position while reaching for her weapon.

Angela whirled around, her face a mask of fury and desperation. "Get out! Leave us alone!"

For the first time, Hailey got a clear look at Cameron Myers. The man slumped against the boat's side, his features a topographical map of scar tissue. Hydraulic fluid burns had melted the left side of his face into a glossy, patchwork landscape of red and white tissue. His right eye was gone entirely, the socket sealed shut by surgical reconstruction. His hands, resting limply in his lap, bore similar scarring—fingers fused together in places, skin grafts creating a patchwork effect.

"Angela," Hailey said, keeping her voice steady despite the boat's violent rocking. "It's over. Cut the engine."

"You don't understand," Angela pleaded, her hand still on the throttle. "They’re lying! Whatever they said—it isn’t true. They owe us. They owe us!”

Hailey stood her ground, pointing a warning finger at the woman.

"They killed Rhonda!" Angela shouted, her voice breaking. "And they mutilated my husband!" Her hand trembled on the throttle, tears streaming down her face. "No one cared. No one listened."

The boat drifted now, Angela's grip on the throttle loosening as emotion overwhelmed her. Twenty yards away on the dock, Graham stood watching, weapon drawn but held at his side. In the distance, sirens wailed—deputies approaching.

"Angela," Hailey said, gentler now. "I'll listen. But you need to cut the engine."

Something in Hailey's tone reached her. Angela's shoulders slumped, the fight draining visibly as she killed the motor. Silence fell over the lake, broken only by water lapping against the boat's hull and distant birdsong.

"They said I killed them," Angela whispered, her voice barely audible. “He texted me. That’s why you’re here? Donaldson and Winters. That’s insane!"

"Did you?" Hailey asked directly.

"No!" Angela's head snapped up, eyes flashing.

She moved to her husband's side, gently wiping lake water from his scarred face with tender efficiency. Cameron's remaining eye focused on her with painful devotion, though he remained silent.

"Then why run?" Hailey pressed, keeping her distance in the small boat.

Angela laughed bitterly. "Because you were FBI. Because the carnival sent you."

"The carnival didn't send me. I'm investigating two homicides."

"That's what they wanted you to think." Angela's hands moved automatically, adjusting her husband's position for comfort. "I've been documenting everything. Building a case against Starlight Carnival. Unsafe practices. Covered-up accidents. Not just Cameron—there've been others."

Hailey studied the woman's face, looking for deception but finding only exhaustion and conviction. "What kind of documentation?"

"Videos. Photos. Witness statements. I've been collecting evidence for years." Angela stroked Cameron's damaged hand. "The settlement had an NDA, but it didn't cover new violations. I found twenty-three safety violations in the past week alone."

The boat drifted closer to the dock. Graham watched silently, listening.

Hailey frowned. "So you were at the carnival during the murders."

"Yes. Documenting safety violations. Talking to workers who were afraid to come forward." Angela met Hailey's gaze directly. "I was there when Donaldson disappeared. Setting up hidden cameras near the Gravitron—it's had three near-misses this season alone."

"Can you prove that?"

Angela nodded. "Video timestamps. Walter can confirm—he helped me set them up. I recorded everything. Every minute I was there." Angela reached into her jacket pocket, producing a small digital camera. "It's all here. The night Donaldson disappeared, I was filming the Ferris wheel maintenance crew skipping safety checks from 10 PM until almost 3 AM."

Hailey stared at the camera, mind racing. If Angela was telling the truth, the footage would exonerate her completely.

"And the night Winters was killed?" she asked.

"Same thing. Different location." Angela's fingers trembled slightly as she held out the camera. "I was documenting the food vendors reusing expired ingredients. Filmed from behind the funnel cake stand for five hours straight. Never left my position."

Graham called from the dock. "Hailey, deputies are here."

Hailey glanced toward the shore where two patrol cars had pulled up beside their sedan. She turned back to Angela, and the decision was made.

"I'm going to take your camera and review the footage," she said. "If what you're saying is true—if you have video evidence placing you elsewhere during the murders—you'll be cleared as a suspect."

Panic washed over Angela's face. "No! This is all that they want. If I hand it over, it'll be lost or destroyed or—"

“Angela.”

The voice that spoke was pained and soft, rasping like dry leaves on concrete. It was the voice of her husband, barely audible even against the quiet lapping of the lake’s placid waters. “Please… We have to… trust someone to do… the right thing… We can’t… do this… alone... Please…”

Indecision clouded her eyes, and Angela looked at Hailey as if she were a shark that had grabbed her escaping boat in its jaws. Her husband's scarred and melted hand reached out, trembling as if under enormous strain, gently touching her in a clumsy caress that nonetheless caused Angela to close her eyes, a tear breaking free as the fight went out of her.

She extended her hand, and Hailey pocketed the camera, then gestured toward the shore. "Until we verify, I need you to come with us. Voluntarily. We'll help with Cameron."

Angela hesitated, looking down at her husband's scarred face. Something unspoken passed between them—a marriage reduced to glances and small gestures after tragedy had stripped away everything else. Though… perhaps there was more Hailey wasn’t seeing. She certainly hoped so.

"Okay," she finally agreed. "But I want to stay with him. He needs his medications every four hours."

"We'll arrange that," Hailey promised.

Together, they guided the boat back to the dock where Graham and the deputies waited. Getting Cameron from the boat to his wheelchair required all four officers working carefully under Angela's anxious supervision. Throughout the transfer, he remained silent, the effort of those few words taxing him like a marathon, his one good eye fixed on his wife with unwavering trust.

Back at the Bureau sedan, Hailey handed the camera to Graham. "Review this immediately. If she's telling the truth, we're back to square one."

He nodded, already connecting the camera to his tablet. "What about the Myers?"

Hailey watched as the deputies helped Angela settle Cameron into their patrol car, the woman's hands never leaving her husband's shoulder.

"Take them to the station. Comfortable room, not an interrogation cell. Make sure Cameron gets his medications."

Graham sighed, rubbing at his chin. “You believe her?”

Hailey hesitated, considering this question. She’d trained in behavioral science—though to call it a science was a bit overstated in her opinion. People weren’t always so predictable. She still believed in the out-of-date, old-fashioned concept of free-will.

But what was her gut telling her about Myers? A frown.

The woman seemed honest. Desperate but honest. Suspicious? Yes… Of her. Of Hailey. The Myers’ didn’t trust authorities, and who could blame them?

“She seems honest… but we have to check the footage.”

"And if the footage checks out?"

"Then we need to look at her videos very carefully," Hailey replied. "Our killer might be hiding in plain sight. Might find something about them on the camera.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

His nametag read Hugh in blocky permanent marker. Yesterday it had been Harold. The day before, Henry. Tomorrow it would be something different—maybe Howard or Herbert. He liked to keep the first letter consistent; it amused him, this small rebellion against identity.

Hugh straightened the faded Starlight Carnival vest over his plain white t-shirt, adjusting the cap with the same logo pulled low over his eyes. Both garments had seen better days, the once-vibrant colors now muted by countless washings and years of use. His fingers—calloused from setting up and tearing down countless carnival attractions—moved with efficiency as he arranged glass bottles in perfect triangular formations.

The afternoon sun beat down on the carnival grounds, already busy despite the early hour. Families pushed strollers through the midway, teenagers traveled in laughing packs, couples walked hand-in-hand. All of them temporary visitors to his permanent world, all of them blissfully unaware of his silent cataloging.

"Three balls for five dollars!" Hugh called out, his voice carrying the perfect blend of enthusiasm and approachability. "Knock 'em all down, win a prize! Any prize on the top shelf!"

A young father approached, son perched on his shoulders. The boy pointed excitedly at a stuffed dinosaur hanging from the booth's ceiling.

"How much for three games?" the father asked, already reaching for his wallet.

"Twelve dollars," Hugh replied with a smile. "But I'll make it ten for the little guy."

The man handed over a wrinkled ten-dollar bill. Hugh took it, fingers brushing against the man's momentarily—skin contact he neither sought nor enjoyed but accepted as part of the transaction. He handed over nine rubber-coated balls, three for each game.

"Good luck," he said, stepping back to give them space.

The father was terrible—his first throw missing completely, the second and third merely glancing off bottles that barely wobbled. The son did no better when lifted to try. They left disappointed but not angry, the father already promising ice cream to soothe the disappointment.

Hugh reset the bottles, movements economical and precise. His eyes never stopped scanning the crowd, categorizing faces with the efficiency of facial recognition software. New. Regular. Potential. Chosen.

Most people blurred together—the one-time visitors who came, spent their money, and disappeared. Hugh had no interest in them. They were background noise, static between signals. It was the recurring faces that caught his attention. The locals who returned day after day, familiar in their patterns yet oblivious to his existence.

A flash of recognition sparked as a man in his fifties strolled past the booth—balding, portly, wearing an expensive polo shirt stretched tight across his belly. Third day in a row. Yesterday he'd been with a younger woman, laughing too loudly at her comments, hand resting possessively at the small of her back. Today he was alone.

Third appearance; the thought ignited something hot and ugly in Hugh's chest. He watched the man pause at the cotton candy stand, hand over cash without looking at the vendor, eyes fixed instead on a group of teenage girls laughing by the carousel.

The glass bottle shattered in Hugh's grip.

Pain registered distantly as blood welled between his fingers. He'd squeezed too hard while setting up the next game, reducing the bottle to jagged shards. Red droplets pattered against the wooden booth floor, bright against the weathered boards.

"Hey man, you okay?" A teenage boy waiting for his turn stared at Hugh's bleeding hand.

"Fine," Hugh replied, voice perfectly steady despite the rage still pulsing behind his eyes. "Just a little accident. Happens all the time."

He wrapped a rag around his hand, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. The pain helped—sharp, clarifying, a physical anchor pulling him back from the precipice of his anger. The booth had a first aid kit; it always did. He'd made sure of that years ago.

As he bandaged his hand, Hugh kept his eyes on the man, who had now settled on a bench to eat his cotton candy. The perfect vantage point to watch the teenage girls. Hugh noted how the man's gaze lingered too long, how he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, how he checked his wedding ring before slipping it into his pocket.

The third day, and the same behavior—the same predatory interest.

Of course, the fun part of this line of thinking was that none of that mattered to Hugh. He wasn’t here because of predatory instinct. No… Hugh was a predator himself. He admired predators.

The decision crystallized, clean and simple. This one would be next.

Hugh finished wrapping his hand, then called to the waiting teenager. "Sorry about that. Three balls for five dollars. Knock 'em all down, win anything you want."

The boy played, won nothing, left disappointed. Hugh barely noticed. His attention remained fixed on the man, mentally adding him to a very specific list.

Day three was when Hugh engaged. Day three was when he learned their names, their habits, their weaknesses. Day three was when he began the ritual that would end on the carnival's final night in town.

"Taking my break," he called to the neighboring booth operator, who nodded without really looking.

Hugh moved through the crowd with learned invisibility, his nondescript appearance and carnival vest granting him the superpower of being simultaneously present and unseen. He approached the bench, settling at the far end, just another tired carnival worker taking a moment's rest.

"Hell of a day," Hugh commented, voice friendly but not overly familiar. "Crowds bigger than expected after that storm."

The man glanced over, initially dismissive until he registered the carnival vest. The universal signal that Hugh was ‘staff,’ someone who might be useful, someone worth acknowledging.

"Yeah," the man agreed, gaze drifting back to the teenage girls. "Nice recovery."

Hugh nodded, allowing silence to stretch just long enough to become slightly uncomfortable. "You been coming every day? Think I've seen you around."

The man shrugged.

Hugh just forced a smile. No… no, the predator’s instinct wasn’t the problem. What bothered him was how familiar the man looked. The shape of his jaw, the way he carried himself. The dismissive glance he gave vendors like Hugh.

Pleasant had so many familiar faces, so many who had been here that summer.

Hugh flexed his bandaged hand, testing the pain. Sharp but manageable. He'd thrown with worse injuries before. His right hand remained pristine—the throwing hand. He never risked damage to it, no matter how fury might surge through his body.

"Bottle game still open?" A woman approached with two young children in tow.

"Absolutely," Hugh replied, smile returning effortlessly. "I’m on break. Just go speak to my coworker there." He winked and flashed a winning smile. “Three balls for five dollars. Knock 'em all down, win anything on the top shelf."

The woman retreated to the booth. Hugh watched as she paid, the children threw, the bottles remained standing. Hugh had perfected the art of setting them—appearing random but actually a near-impossible configuration to topple completely. The game wasn't entirely rigged; professionals could win. But average carnival-goers would fail nine times out of ten.

He returned his attention back to the man.

He needed something: an in; a know-how; a schedule—the information was part of it. Hugh scanned his memory for something to say. Something to engage. He'd become good at finding the right hook over the years.

"You know, I've seen you around before. Not just at the carnival." Hugh kept his voice casual, conversational. "You're local, right? Work downtown?"

The man turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied Hugh's face. "Yeah. Insurance. Grant Allied on Main Street."

"Thought so," Hugh nodded, though he'd never seen the man before this week. "Face looked familiar."

The man relaxed slightly, ego stroked by the suggestion he was recognizable, important enough to remember. "Tom." He extended his hand.

Hugh accepted the handshake with his bandaged left, wincing slightly for effect. "Hugh. Just started with Starlight last month."

Tom's eyes drifted back to the teenage girls, who were now taking selfies by the carousel. "What happened to your hand?"

"Broken bottle. Hazard of the job." Hugh shrugged. "You come to the carnival often when we're in town?"

"Every year," Tom replied, still not really looking at Hugh. "Though I usually hit it on the last night. Best crowds."

Hugh felt a cold thrill run through him. Last night. Perfect.

"Last night's always special," Hugh agreed. "Carnival goes all out: extra lights, special shows." He paused, then added casually, "I'm working the bottle toss again. Stop by if you want a free game. Employee perk I can share."

Tom finally looked at him directly, interest piqued by the offer of something free. "Yeah? Might do that."

"Sure. After dark. Say, nine-thirty? Fewer kids around then." Hugh stood, stretching. "Break's over. Better get back before Sullivan notices."

Tom nodded absently, attention already drifting. "Maybe see you tomorrow night."

"Looking forward to it," Hugh replied, already walking away, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

As he returned to his booth, Hugh mentally rehearsed his preparations: the weighted dart tucked inside his vest pocket; the precise angle needed to strike between the third and fourth vertebrae; the maintenance corridor behind the bottle toss booth that offered a perfect escape route.

His bandaged hand throbbed dully, the pain a pleasant reminder of purpose. Another name added to his list. Another face from that summer, whether Tom realized it or not. Another debt to be collected.

Hugh resumed his position behind the booth, smile bright, voice cheerful as he called to passing customers. "Three balls for five dollars! Knock 'em all down, win a prize!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

"There." Hailey tapped the screen, freezing the image. "Timestamp 11:42 PM. Angela's clearly behind the funnel cake stand, camera focused on the vendor storing expired ingredients."

Graham rubbed his bloodshot eyes. They had been reviewing Angela Myers' footage for nearly eight hours straight, their makeshift command center in the sheriff's station cluttered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches. The small conference room smelled of stale coffee and frustration.

"That's the fourth confirmation," he agreed wearily. "She's got solid video evidence placing her away from both crime scenes during our estimated time of death windows."

Hailey leaned back in her chair, stretching muscles stiff from hours of immobility. Outside the windows, twilight had settled over Pleasant, streetlights flickering to life one by one. Another day nearly gone, another night approaching with the carnival in full swing and a killer still at large.

"Her alibi is airtight," Hailey conceded. "But there's got to be something in all this footage. She was documenting everything, everywhere."

The wall of the conference room had become a makeshift investigation board—photos of both victims, timeline charts, carnival maps marked with key locations. In the center, they'd added a still image from Angela's footage showing a crowded midway, faces blurred by motion and colored lights.

"Let's go back to the night Donaldson disappeared," Graham suggested, pulling up another video file. "Angela was filming near the Ferris wheel from 10 PM to 3 AM. That gives us a continuous shot of one of the busiest sections of the midway during our window."

The video flickered across the screen, showing the same angle of the Ferris wheel for hours. Hailey leaned closer, squinting at each passing face, each interaction between carnival-goers and workers. Nothing stood out. No suspicious encounters, no glimpses of Donaldson, no unusual activities that might signal a prelude to murder.

"Damn it," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "Five hours of footage and not a single useful frame."

Graham sighed, reaching for his cold coffee. "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. Let's try Winters' night again."

They switched videos. More of the same—different angle, different night, same lack of evidence. The funnel cake stand footage showed dozens of people walking past, none lingering suspiciously, none matching any profile they might construct for their killer.

"This is useless," Hailey said, slamming her hand on the table. "We've got hours of carnival footage and nothing to show for it."

Alice entered the conference room, carrying fresh coffee and a concerned expression. "Any progress?"

"None," Hailey admitted, accepting the coffee gratefully. "Angela's footage clears her completely but gives us nothing on our actual killer."

"And the carnival closes in—" Alice checked her watch, "—forty-five minutes. Tomorrow is their last night in town before they move on."

The implication hung heavy in the air. If they didn't catch the killer soon, Starlight Carnival would pack up and leave Pleasant by morning, taking with it any physical evidence and potential witnesses. Their investigation would grow exponentially more difficult once the carnival dispersed across state lines.

"We need to be there," Graham said, voicing what they all knew. "Last chance to catch this guy before the carnival moves on."

Hailey nodded, already gathering her notes. "I've got patrol organizing additional units. We'll flood the grounds again."

"Like last night?" Alice asked skeptically. "We had fifty officers there and saw nothing suspicious."

"We were looking for the wrong person," Hailey countered. “Now we know our killer is someone else—likely working the carnival, someone with access, someone who knows the layout well enough to move bodies without being seen."

Hailey just shoot her head in frustration, returning her attention to the footage. Alice muttered something to Graham then turned and retreated again.

Neither sister mentioned Mindy or the Drakes.

Hailey kept her focus on the screen, pushing aside any thoughts about family trouble.

The footage played on the laptop screen—slightly grainy but clear enough to make out individuals moving through the frame: carnival workers in their branded vests; teenage couples stealing kisses in shadowed corners; a security guard making rounds with flashlight in hand.

"Wait—pause it," Hailey said suddenly, leaning forward. "There. 12:17 AM."

Graham froze the frame. A carnival worker was visible at the edge of the shot, carrying what appeared to be a toolbox toward the maintenance area.

"What about him?" Graham asked.

"I've seen him before," Hailey said, brow furrowed in concentration. "In the background of at least three other videos. Different locations, different times." She tapped through several files, pulling up timestamps. "Here at 11:30 PM near the ring toss. Here again at 1:45 AM by the funhouse. And here at 2:10 AM heading toward the parking area."

Graham studied the figure—average height, average build, nondescript features partially obscured by a carnival cap pulled low. "Could be coincidence. Workers move all over the grounds during their shifts."

"Maybe," Hailey conceded. "Look at his vest compared to the others."

Graham squinted at the screen, adjusting the brightness. "His vest does look different."

They zoomed in, the pixelation increasing but revealing enough detail to notice a dark stain spreading across the left side of the worker's vest. Unlike the uniform Starlight logo or typical carnival dirt, this stain had an irregular pattern—something that had soaked into the fabric.

"That's not part of the design," Hailey said, voice tightening. "The other workers' vests are clean or have different stain patterns. This looks like..."

"Oil?" Graham suggested, leaning closer. "Hard to tell with this resolution."

Hailey's finger traced the outline of the stain on the screen. "Could be. The lighting distorts colors too much to be certain."

They followed the figure's movement through multiple frames. Each time he appeared, he seemed to be deliberately keeping low key, head angled away from security cameras, face obscured by the cap.

"Look how he moves," Hailey noted. "See that? He doesn’t want to be seen.”

Graham nodded slowly. "He's avoiding being identified."

They tracked the worker through several more clips, noting how he seemed to materialize at the periphery of busy areas before slipping away into maintenance corridors or between game booths—areas with minimal surveillance coverage.

"Can we get a clearer shot of his face?" Graham asked, scrolling through more footage.

Hailey shook her head in frustration. "He's too careful. Always keeps the cap low, always turns away at the right moment."

"Deliberately staying anonymous," Graham muttered. "In a place full of transient workers where nobody looks twice at a vest and cap."

After scanning through dozens more clips, they found nothing else remarkable about the man—no distinctive features, no obvious behaviors beyond his careful avoidance of clear identification. He could be anyone—a mechanic, a game operator, a maintenance worker.

"Damn it," Hailey said, pushing back from the table. "We have a suspicious figure who might be our killer, but we can't identify him beyond 'guy in a carnival vest with a stain.' That narrows it down to maybe fifty workers."

Graham checked his watch. "The carnival closes in thirty minutes. If we're going to do this, we need to move now."

Hailey stood, decision made. "If our killer really is a man that how do we explain the makeup?”

“An acrobat? A performer…”

“Could be. But the makeup type… it could also be to cover facial damage.”

“What? Like Myers?”

“Nothing that severe. But maybe… I don’t know… Acne scars?”

“You think our killer is young?”

“You don’t have to be young to have acne scars.”

“But you might be in order to care enough to cover them as a man.” Graham said with a sniff.

Hailey turned towards her partner. “Really? As a man? You think men are less vain than women?”

He hid a quirk of a smile and examined the tips of his fingers as if studying whatever was buried underneath. He jutted his tongue into the side of his cheek. “No…” he said slowly then sniffed. “Well…”

She let out a little laugh.

“Just… making a point is all,” he said. He let out a faint chuckle.

Hailey’s hands found her hips as she stared at him in a sort of defiant posture. Both of them were playing. The twinkle in their eyes matched. But there was something pleasurable about a silly argument that Hailey didn’t quite know how to emphasize. She was tired.

It was getting late again.

"Okay, okay. You're right." Graham raised his hands in mock surrender. "Men's vanity takes different forms. I spend forty dollars on hair product."

"Only forty?" Hailey quipped, a rare smile breaking through her fatigue. "Amateur."

They both laughed, the tension in the room dissipating momentarily. These small moments of levity had become precious during the case—brief respites from the constant pressure.

"So we're looking for a younger guy," Graham said, refocusing on the screen. "Someone concerned enough about appearance to use high-end foundation to cover scarring."

"Probably acne scars," Hailey agreed, studying the grainy figure. "See how he carries himself? The slight roundness to the shoulders? That's not an older man's posture."

"And the build matches our description—average height, slim to medium build." Graham tapped the screen. "I'm guessing late twenties, early thirties at most."

Hailey nodded, mind racing. "Let's cross-reference with Sullivan's employee records. Focus on male employees under thirty-five who work games or maintenance—jobs that would give them access to different areas without raising suspicion."

Graham was already pulling up the carnival's personnel files they'd acquired earlier. "Twenty-eight male employees under thirty-five. Eleven in games, nine in maintenance, eight in food service."

"Eliminate food service—they're too visible, too stationary." Hailey leaned over his shoulder, scanning the list. "And we can probably rule out the ride operators. They're stuck at their stations all night."

"That leaves seventeen possibilities." Graham scrolled through the names, matching them against photos where available. Many had only basic information—first name, position, date hired.

Hailey rubbed at the right side of her jaw.

“What is it?” Graham said, studying her.

“Myers… He was really injured. His face all disfigured.”

“Right…”

“What if the makeup was used to hide more than acne?”

“You think our killer suffered an injury too?”

“What if that’s why he's triggered? Vengeance of some kind…”

“Well… if our last suspect is to be believed, there have been more than twenty safety concerns in the last week. This place isn’t exactly a bastion of safety.”

“Why don’t… you go to speak to the employees—see if they have alibis.”

Graham paused, a frown creasing his expression. “And what are you going to do?”

“I… I want to see if there were any other accidents.” Hailey frowned, pacing now.

“Where’s this coming from?”

She hesitated, picturing Myers’ face. A part of her knew it was a longshot. But another part of her felt a lingering frustration. Witnessing the married couple struggle on the dock had left a sort of ache in Hailey’s chest.

"I don't know exactly. Just a hunch, I guess." Hailey sighed, brushing back a strand of hair. "The makeup, the injuries, Myers... I just feel like we're missing something connected to all this."

Graham nodded, trusting her instinct despite the vague explanation. "I'll start interviewing carnival workers from our list. You want me to take Alice?"

"Yes. Split the list. More ground covered." Hailey grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. "I'll call you if I find anything."

She was halfway out the door when Graham called after her, "Hailey—be careful. If this guy's already killed twice..."

She acknowledged the warning with a quick nod before disappearing down the hallway.

The evening air had grown cool as Hailey drove toward the carnival grounds, windows down to clear her head. The exhaustion of multiple late nights pressed against her temples, but she pushed it aside. Focus was essential now. One night left before the carnival packed up and vanished, taking their killer with it.

Her phone rang through the car speakers. Alice.

"Hey," Hailey answered, eyes still on the road.

"Thought you should know," Alice's voice sounded tight, controlled. "Mindy's back at Victor's motel. Sheriff's deputy spotted them entering together about twenty minutes ago."

Hailey's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Is she okay?"

"Appeared to be. Walked in under her own power, not visibly distressed." Alice paused. "I've got a unit watching the motel."

"Thanks," Hailey said, forcing herself to compartmentalize the information. "Any word from Mom and Dad?"

"They're at the apartment. I checked in earlier." Another pause. "They're asking about you."

Hailey swallowed. "I'll stop by when this is over."

"Right." Alice's tone suggested she'd heard that promise before. "Graham filled me in on your theory. I've pulled accident reports for Starlight Carnival going back ten years as well as the notes we got from Angela Myer. Sending them to your email now."

"Thanks, Alice."

"Be careful out there." The line went dead.

The carnival appeared ahead, its lights creating a dome of artificial daylight against the darkening sky. Already the parking lot was emptying as families with young children headed home, leaving behind the older crowd that would stay until closing—perfect hunting conditions for the killer.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Hailey parked away from the main entrance, choosing a spot that offered a view of both the front gates and the employee entrance at the rear.

Opening her laptop, she connected to the sheriff's department VPN and downloaded the accident reports Alice had sent.

The file was substantial—forty-seven incidents over ten years, ranging from minor injuries to catastrophic failures like the Cyclone collapse that had disfigured Cameron Myers. Hailey scanned quickly, looking for patterns, for names that might connect to their current investigation.

The first dozen files were mostly guest complaints—broken ankles from tripping on midway cables, allergic reactions to face paint, a child's finger caught in a ride restraint. Nothing unusual for a traveling carnival. Each complaint had been settled quickly, quietly, with minimal documentation. Ten thousand here, twenty thousand there—small enough to avoid headlines, large enough to placate injured parties.

Hailey scrolled faster, skimming for anything that might fit their pattern. Most claims ended with the same notation: Settlement reached. NDA signed. The carnival's legal team had been efficient at burying potential problems.

"Come on," she muttered, eyes burning from the screen's blue glow. "Give me something useful."

A car door slammed nearby, making her glance up. A family walking away from the carnival entrance, children hanging off parents in sleepy excitement—protesting having to leave for closing despite their yawns. The sight gave her a pang in the heart as she imagined her sisters and her walking away from carnivals like this, years ago… but there was nothing suspicious about it, so she returned to the files, her eyes narrowing to banish the memory.

The Myers incident stood out as the most severe, but there were others that caught her attention: a teenage girl injured when a carousel horse broke loose in 2017; a food vendor who suffered third-degree burns when a deep fryer malfunctioned in 2014; a maintenance worker electrocuted while repairing the Ferris wheel lights in 2019—survived but with nerve damage to his right arm.

All settled. All silenced with NDAs.

Hailey rubbed her eyes, frustration mounting. None of these incidents connected directly to their current investigation. None of the injured parties matched the profile they were developing for their killer.

Her phone vibrated with a text from Graham: 5 alibis confirmed. Working through others. Nothing suspicious yet.

She typed back: Same here. Lots of injuries, settlements, NDAs. Standard carnival operation.

As she set her phone down, Hailey's attention caught on a file she'd nearly skipped. Not because it was particularly notable—quite the opposite. It was thin compared to the others, containing minimal information about an incident from four years ago.

Incident Report #29-B, the header read. Minor injury to juvenile worker.

Hailey frowned, opening the file. Most of it had been redacted—unusual for such a supposedly minor incident. The carnival's lawyer had cited privacy laws regarding minors. The incident had occurred four years ago. Whoever was involved would now be in their early twenties.

The details were sparse, but what remained told a troubling story. The incident had occurred during the carnival's previous visit to Pleasant. A minor—name redacted—working the bottle toss game had gotten into an altercation with a customer. According to witness statements, the young worker had initiated the confrontation, shouting at the middle-aged male customer for ‘being lazy’ and ‘just playing games instead of getting a real job.’

The situation had escalated quickly. The customer—identified only as ‘T.B.’ in the report—had struck the minor in the face, causing significant lacerations requiring seventeen stitches across the cheek and jaw. The carnival management had intervened, but surprisingly, had terminated the minor's employment rather than pressing charges against the assailant.

A handwritten note at the bottom of the file caught Hailey's attention: Subject exhibited concerning behavior prior to incident. Termination recommended regardless of altercation.

Hailey sat up straighter, pulse quickening. This wasn't just a random workplace accident. This was different—a violent encounter between a carnival worker and a local resident, resulting in facial scarring that might need concealing years later.

"T.B.," she murmured, mind racing through possibilities.

She flipped through the remaining pages, finding only a medical expense receipt and a terse statement from Sullivan declining further comment. No follow-up, no investigation beyond the minimum required by insurance.

Hailey pulled out her phone, dialing Alice.

"I need a list of every Pleasant resident with the initials T.B. who would have been here four years ago," she said when her sister answered. "Focus on middle-aged men who might still be in town."

"That's specific," Alice replied. "What did you find?"

"Possibly our trigger event. A minor working the bottle toss was assaulted by a customer with those initials. Received facial lacerations, then was fired by the carnival instead of supported."

"Perfect recipe for a revenge motive," Alice agreed. "I'll pull county records and get back to you…”

Hailey ended the call, then texted Graham the new information. His reply came quickly: "Connection to our victims?"

She hadn't figured that part out yet. How would Donaldson and Winters connect to an altercation between a minor carnival worker and a local customer? Unless...

Unless it wasn’t a connection, per se. What if the killings weren’t personal… but more because of what the victims represented rather than who they were.

Lazy. Get a real job.

Hailey stared at the report. She knew enough about child psychology to know that an absent father could cause plenty of issues for a child—especially a son. What if Donaldson and Winters represented something to the killer? Some kind of authority figure he resented, like a paternal figure?

She scrolled back through the victims' information. Both were middle-aged men. Both were professionals with comfortable lives. And both had been drinking on the nights they were killed—Donaldson's toxicology had shown a blood alcohol level just below the legal limit, while Winters had been seen consuming several beers at the beer garden before his disappearance.

Her phone vibrated with a text from Alice: Four possibilities. Thomas Barker (moved to Florida 3 years ago), Timothy Bronson (deceased 2019), Theodore Barnes (incarcerated since 2016), and Tom Blakely (still local, insurance executive).

Hailey's breath caught. The others would have to be contacted by phone, except for Bronson. But Blakely? A potential lead. She typed back: Send everything you have on Blakely.

Hailey's phone pinged with Blakely's information—home address, work address, vehicle registration. Middle-aged insurance executive, married twenty-seven years, no criminal record beyond two DUIs that had been pleaded down to reckless driving.

She started the car, decision made. The carnival investigation could wait another hour. She needed to speak with Blakely now before any more time passed.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled up outside a two-story colonial in Pleasant's affluent north side. Mature oak trees lined the curved driveway, their branches casting spider-web shadows across manicured lawns in the evening light. A Mercedes SUV sat in the circular drive—license plate matching Blakely's registration.

Hailey approached the front door, noting the expensive seasonal wreath, the carefully positioned potted plants, the discrete security system panel. Money lived here—comfortable, assured money that expected the world to bend to its wishes.

She rang the doorbell, hearing melodic chimes echo inside. Footsteps approached—heavy, unhurried. The door swung open to reveal a man matching the DMV photo Alice had sent. Tom Blakely stood in pressed khakis and a golf shirt, drink in hand, fifty-something face arranged in the polite curiosity of someone who isn't accustomed to unexpected visitors.

"Can I help you?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he registered Hailey's professional stance.

Hailey showed her credentials. "Tom Blakely? I'm Special Agent Hailey Rock with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions about an incident at the Starlight Carnival four years ago."

His expression shifted—subtle but unmistakable. Recognition, followed immediately by wariness. "I'm not sure what you're referring to." The lie came smoothly, practiced. "I go to the carnival most years. Sorry if I don’t remember. What is supposed to have happened?"

"Mind if I come in?" Hailey asked, not really a question.

Blakely hesitated, weighing his options. Refusing would look suspicious. Agreeing meant inviting scrutiny into his home. Wordlessly, he stepped back, gesturing her inside with the hand holding his whiskey.

The interior matched the exterior—expensive but conventional. Pottery Barn furniture, framed family photos, tasteful neutral paint. A shrine to upper-middle-class success.

"My wife's not home," he said, leading Hailey to a sitting room off the main entrance. "Book club."

"This won't take long," Hailey replied, remaining standing when he gestured toward a chair. “A few years ago, you were involved in an altercation with a minor working at the bottle toss booth. You struck him in the face, causing injuries requiring seventeen stitches."

Blakely's face flushed, anger and embarrassment warring beneath his composed exterior. "That's not—I didn't—" He took a deep breath, composing himself with visible effort. "Look, that was a long time ago. The kid was out of line."

"Out of line how?" Hailey pressed, watching his face carefully.

Blakely took a long swallow of his whiskey, ice cubes clinking against the crystal tumbler. "I was there with clients—important ones. The kid kept making comments while I was playing the game, saying I was wasting money, that men like me were why the economy was broken." His jaw tightened at the memory. "Called me a parasite."

"So you hit him."

"It wasn't like that." Blakely's flush deepened. "He got in my face. Started screaming about how people like me ruined his life. I pushed him away, and he fell against the booth. Cut his face on something."

Hailey's expression remained neutral, though she doubted his sanitized version of events. "Do you remember his name?"

Blakely frowned, swirling the remaining whiskey in his glass. "Hugh... no, that wasn't it." He rubbed his temple, concentrating. "Wait—Hayden. That was it. Hayden Miller. Skinny kid, maybe seventeen. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas."

Hayden Miller. The name hit Hailey like a physical force. She'd seen it just hours ago on Sullivan's employee list.

"You're sure that was his name?" she asked, keeping her voice steady despite her racing pulse.

"Positive." Blakely nodded, seeming relieved to have remembered. "Sullivan made him apologize to me afterward. Kid looked like he wanted to kill me the whole time. Crazy eyes." He shuddered slightly at the memory. "Never saw him again after that. Heard he got fired."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Blakely," Hailey said, already moving toward the door. "One more thing—have you been to the carnival this week?"

His expression shifted again—caution returning. "Yesterday. With some colleagues. Why?"

"Just establishing a timeline," she replied vaguely. "Please stay home tonight. If Hayden Miller contacts you in any way, call this number immediately." She handed him her card.

Blakely stared at it, confusion and dawning concern warring on his face. "Is he... should I be worried?"

"Just a precaution," Hailey assured him, already stepping outside. "Thank you for your cooperation."

The moment she reached her car, Hailey dialed Graham.

"It's Hayden Miller," she said the instant he answered. "He was assaulted by Tom Blakely four years ago, received facial lacerations, and was fired by Sullivan. Now he's back, listed as a maintenance worker… He might help at booths too.”

“On it. Already checked maintenance. I’ll go see if anyone has seen Hayden. You en route?”

Hailey was already moving swiftly. “On my way,” she said through gritted teeth.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The carnival lights cast long shadows across the midway as Hayden trailed behind Tom, maintaining a careful distance. Earlier, their bench conversation had been a perfect setup—casual, forgettable to anyone watching, but Hayden had memorized every detail: the way Tom's eyes had lingered on the teenage girls by the carousel, the wedding ring that disappeared into his pocket, the casual arrogance in his posture that screamed entitlement.

It wasn’t his Tom… but he was close enough. He was the same breed of parasitic narcissist, and just because it wasn’t his Tom, Tom Blakely, it didn’t mean he wasn’t someone’s Tom.

Hayden had planned to wait until tomorrow night—the finale—the perfect symmetry of ending his work as the carnival prepared to leave town. But watching Tom now—the predatory gleam in his eyes as he followed a young carnival worker, the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable—had changed the timeline.

Tonight would have to do.

He’d been here for hours. A man at a carnival for hours? Where was his family? Why wasn’t he working?

Why was he neglecting them? His job… his responsibilities?

“Deadbeat…” Hayden muttered. Old wounds ached. His scowl only deepened.

Tom paused at the cotton candy stand, buying a pink cloud of spun sugar he clearly didn't want. His eyes never left the blonde girl restocking prizes at the ring toss. Hayden's fingers brushed against the weighted dart in his pocket, feeling the perfect balance—the familiar comfort of its deadly potential.

The insurance agent checked his watch, then began moving toward the parking lot, away from witnesses, away from lights. Perfect.

Hayden adjusted his carnival cap, pulling it lower over his eyes. The makeup felt heavy on his scarred cheek tonight—perhaps the humidity, perhaps the anticipation. The foundation had served its purpose well these past weeks, allowing him to move through the carnival unrecognized despite having worked here years before. Amazing how people's eyes slid right past you when you presented as unremarkable.

Tom walked faster now, keys jingling in his hand as he approached the far section of the parking lot where fewer cars remained. Hayden matched his pace, closing the distance between them with each step. The sounds of the carnival faded behind them—the calliope music, the screams from the Gravitron, the barkers calling to passing customers—all receding until only the crunch of gravel beneath their feet remained.

Tom stopped beside a luxury sedan, fumbling with his keys—distracted… vulnerable.

Hayden's heart pounded against his ribs, not with fear but with anticipation. The moment stretched, crystallized into perfect clarity. This wasn't Blakely—the man who had scarred him physically years ago—but Tom represented the same breed of predator: men who took what they wanted, men who believed themselves beyond consequences.

As he approached, his mind swam.

He grimaced, trying to hold back the memory. But sometimes… they came so fast, there was nothing to do but hold on.

The memory hit him without warning—he was thirteen again, huddled in the corner of their trailer as his father staggered through the door, reeking of cheap whiskey and failure. Three months without work, not for lack of jobs but lack of showing up. His mother's voice, shrill with desperation: "Hayden, help me get him to bed before he breaks something else!"

His stomach had cramped painfully—forty-eight hours since his last real meal, a half-sandwich his science teacher had ‘accidentally’ left beside his textbook. The hunger was a constant companion by then, a hollow ache that made his vision blur during gym class.

The next day at school, Tyler Jenkins had noticed Hayden eyeing his lunch tray. "What's wrong, Miller? Daddy drink the grocery money again?" The cafeteria had erupted in laughter while Hayden burned with shame, his hollow cheeks flushing crimson. That afternoon, he'd stolen a candy bar from the convenience store—his first theft, but not his last.

His father had found work for exactly six days that month before showing up drunk and getting fired again. "Not my fault," he'd slurred, while Hayden's mother sobbed over disconnection notices. "System's rigged against guys like me."

The memory crystallized around his father's bloodshot eyes, the same entitled dismissal he now saw in Tom's face as the man fumbled with his keys, oblivious to the approaching danger.

Hayden blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present. His hand closed around the dart, its weight centering him. This was justice. This was balance. Men like his father, men like Blakely, men like Tom—they all deserved the same fate.

Hours they wasted at a carnival. Days… back to back. If he saw them three times… three days in a row… the anger just grew. It was a simple system but one that made sense to him.

He pushed aside the memories, forcing his mind to refocus.

"Excuse me," he called, voice perfectly calibrated to sound helpful rather than threatening. "You dropped something back there."

Tom turned, annoyance flashing across his features before settling into the polite mask he showed to service workers. "What's that?"

"By the cotton candy stand." Hayden gestured vaguely behind them. "Looked like a credit card."

Concern replaced annoyance. Tom patted his pockets, the predictable reaction of someone whose entire identity was tied to financial instruments. "Shit. Are you sure?"

Hayden nodded, taking another step closer. "Red logo. I think it was a Mastercard."

"Damn it." Tom hesitated, glancing between his car and the distant carnival lights. "How far back?"

"Just past the ring toss." Hayden's fingers adjusted their grip on the dart, finding the perfect balance point. "I can show you."

Tom squinted into the darkness.

Hayden stepped closer, carnival vest clearly visible in the distant security lights. Just another worker. Nothing to fear.

But Tom looked uneasy now. He swallowed faintly.

“I… I don’t have Mastercard. You’re mistaken. He turned back to his car.”

Hayden moved fast. He was much stronger than he looked.

In one fluid motion, Hayden lunged forward, clamping his hand over Tom's mouth. The larger man's eyes widened in shock, but before he could react, Hayden drove his knee into Tom's stomach. As Tom doubled over, gasping, Hayden slammed his elbow against the man's temple, stunning him.

The parking lot remained empty—just rows of silent vehicles bathed in distant security lights. There would be no witnesses. The timing was perfect.

Hayden wrenched open the car door and shoved Tom's limp body into the driver's seat, then climbed in after him, pushing the man across the center console. Tom began to stir, confusion clouding his eyes.

"Remember me?" Hayden whispered, straddling Tom's chest. His hands found the man's throat, thumbs pressing against the windpipe with practiced precision.

Tom's hands clawed uselessly at Hayden's wrists. His legs thrashed against the passenger door, feet drumming a frantic rhythm against the window.

Tom's struggles weakened, his face purpling beneath Hayden's grip. The car windows fogged with his fading breaths. Outside, the carnival music played on, cheerful calliope notes floating across the empty parking lot.

When Tom finally went still, Hayden released his grip and checked for a pulse. He straightened Tom's collar, smoothing the wrinkles his fingers had created. Presentation mattered.

He reached into Tom's pocket, extracting the car keys and wallet. The wedding ring tumbled out—the one Tom had removed earlier while watching the girls. Hayden pocketed it along with the keys.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he adjusted the mirrors and started the engine. The luxury sedan purred to life, dashboard lights illuminating Tom's face beside him. Hayden backed out of the parking space with careful precision, headlights off until he reached the exit.

As he drove away from the carnival, Hayden's mind was already planning the tableau. Something special for Tom—something that told a story. The others had been practice. This one was personal. The last night of the carnival was tomorrow… Tom would die slower than the others.

The sedan glided through Pleasant's empty streets, carrying predator and prey into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Hailey sprinted through the carnival entrance, badge held high as she pushed through the evening crowd. Graham met her at the midway, his expression grim.

"Sullivan confirmed Hayden Miller is on the payroll," he reported as they moved quickly toward the bottle toss booth. "He’s a maintenance worker but helps with games when they're shorthanded. Nobody's seen him in the last hour."

"Description?" Hailey demanded, scanning the carnival workers as they passed.

"Average height and build, early twenties, wears his cap pulled low. Has scarring on his left cheek, but several workers mentioned he covers it with makeup."

Hailey cursed under her breath. "That matches everything I found. Miller was injured by Tom Blakely four years ago—facial lacerations that would leave permanent scarring. Apparently, though, Hayden started the fight. Was screaming at Blakely.”

“And two of our victims are men in the same age bracket.”

“Exactly,” Hailey said. “It’s personal for some reason. He’s targeting men…”

“Daddy issues?”

She nodded. “Possible. Where is he now?”

“Can’t find him.” Graham winced. “I’ve looked everywhere. He's not at his assigned post, not in the break area, not at any of the game booths."

“Do we know which car is his?”

“We can ask the maintenance shift supervisor.”

She nodded. “Where?”

Graham was already pointing towards one of the break trailers. “Asked the supervisor to wait for us.”

Hailey and Graham burst into the break trailer where a heavyset man with grease-stained coveralls sat at a small metal desk. He looked up, startled by their abrupt entrance.

"Maintenance supervisor?" Hailey demanded, flashing her badge.

"Ray Donovan," he confirmed, standing. "Sullivan said you'd be coming."

"Hayden Miller—what kind of car does he drive?" Hailey asked without preamble.

Ray scratched his stubbled chin. "Blue Honda Civic. Maybe ten years old. Employee lot's behind the maintenance area." He gestured vaguely. "Got a big dent in the rear quarter panel."

"Show us," Graham said.

The supervisor led them through a maze of equipment storage and repair tents to a gravel lot where carnival workers parked. Hailey scanned the vehicles quickly, methodically, her tension mounting with each passing second.

"There," Ray pointed toward a faded blue Civic partially hidden behind a food vendor's truck. "That's Miller's car."

Graham jogged over to check, placing his hand on the hood. "Engine's cold. Hasn't been moved for hours."

"Damn it," Hailey muttered, spinning in a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. Her eyes landed on a security camera mounted on a utility pole overlooking the lot. "That camera—is it working?"

Ray followed her gaze. "Should be. We installed them last season after some equipment theft."

"I need to see the footage. Now."

The supervisor hesitated. "That's Sullivan's department—"

"People are dying, Ray," Hailey cut him off. "We don't have time for jurisdictional bullshit."

Something in her expression must have convinced him. He nodded, leading them back to a small security office nestled between equipment trailers. Inside, a bank of monitors displayed various angles of the carnival grounds.

"System's pretty basic," Ray explained, settling into a chair and typing credentials into the computer. "But it stores about seventy-two hours of footage."

Hailey leaned over his shoulder. "Pull up the employee lot. Last two hours."

The screen filled with grainy black-and-white footage of the parking area. Ray manipulated the controls, rewinding through empty frames until movement caught Hailey's attention.

"Stop," she commanded. "There."

The timestamp showed 8:17 PM—forty-three minutes ago. A figure in a carnival vest moved through the lot, not toward Miller's Honda but toward the exit that led to the main parking area.

"Can you zoom in?" Graham asked.

Ray adjusted the image, bringing the figure into clearer focus. Even with the grainy quality, the unique stain and carnival cap pulled low was unmistakable. Hayden Miller, moving with purpose away from his own vehicle.

"Where was he going?" Hailey murmured, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Follow him through the cameras," Hailey instructed. "What path did he take?"

Ray's fingers moved across the keyboard, switching between camera views. They tracked Miller's progress through the carnival's service area, past the generator trucks, along the perimeter fence, until he reached the main parking lot.

"That's the public lot," Graham noted. "What's he doing there?"

The next camera showed Miller approaching a man in the far corner of the lot—a middle-aged figure in business casual attire standing beside a luxury sedan.

"Zoom in on that car," Hailey demanded, leaning closer to the screen.

Ray complied, the image pixelating as he increased magnification. "Can't make out much detail at this distance."

"Wait—" Hailey squinted at the screen. "What's happening?"

The grainy footage showed Miller suddenly lunging at the man. A brief struggle followed—violent and efficient. The victim doubled over, then collapsed as Miller struck him again. In seconds, Miller had wrenched open the car door and shoved the limp figure inside.

"Damn," Graham muttered.

"Can you get the license plate?" Hailey demanded, already backing toward the door.

Ray froze the frame, zooming in on the sedan's rear plate. The image blurred further, but the numbers remained legible: "LTX-472."

Without another word, she bolted from the security office, Graham close behind. They sprinted through the carnival, dodging families and teenagers, badges held high as they shouted for people to clear a path.

"Alice," Hailey barked into her phone as she ran. "APB on a black Lexus sedan, license LTX-472. Driver is Hayden Miller, early twenties, wearing carnival worker vest and cap. Victim is unidentified male, likely injured, possibly unconscious."

"On it," Alice replied. "Last known direction?"

"Left the carnival parking lot approximately forty minutes ago. Unknown destination." Hailey burst through the carnival exit, scanning the crowded lot for her Bureau sedan.

"I'll coordinate with highway patrol. All units are being notified."

Hailey spotted her car and sprinted toward it, keys already in hand. Graham slid into the passenger seat as she gunned the engine, tires squealing against asphalt as they peeled out of the lot.

"Where would he take him?" Graham asked, fastening his seatbelt as Hailey accelerated onto the main road.

"Somewhere isolated," Hailey replied, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Somewhere he can take his time."

Her mind raced through possibilities. The previous victims had been killed elsewhere, then displayed at the carnival. And this was no different—Miller had taken the man alive, in his own car. This wasn't just murder; it was abduction and personal.

“Motive…” she muttered. “Motive. Why’s he targeting strange men? Why?”

“Daddy issues,” Graham repeated the sentiment from earlier.

"Get me everything on the Miller family," Hailey instructed, maneuvering the car through a yellow light. "Focus on Hayden's father."

Graham was already typing on his tablet. "Accessing Pleasant PD records now."

While Hailey drove, scanning side streets for any sign of the black Lexus, Graham's fingers flew across the screen. His expression darkened as information populated his display.

"Dammit," he muttered. "Miller household had seventeen domestic disturbance calls between 2006 and 2014. Father's name is Edward Miller. Mother, Catherine."

"What kind of domestics?" Hailey asked, taking a sharp turn toward the lake road.

"Neighbors reporting shouting, breaking glass. Wife with visible bruising on three separate occasions. Once, Catherine had a broken arm she claimed came from 'falling down stairs.'" Graham continued scrolling. "Edward was arrested twice but charges were dropped both times when Catherine refused to testify."

Hailey's jaw tightened. "Hayden would have been a teenager during most of this. Witnessing it all."

"There's more," Graham said grimly. "CPS visited four times. Reports mention Hayden showing signs of neglect—malnourishment, inappropriate clothing for weather conditions, frequent school absences." He paused, reading further. "Teacher reported Hayden often came to school hungry. Said he was stealing food from other students' lunches."

"Father's employment history?"

Graham tapped through more records. "Spotty at best. Fired from seven jobs in five years, mostly for attendance issues or showing up intoxicated. Three DUIs, one assault charge from a bar fight." His voice dropped. "Medical records show Edward was admitted to Pleasant Memorial six times for alcohol poisoning between 2010 and 2015."

The picture forming was all too familiar—a household ruled by an alcoholic father, a mother unable or unwilling to protect her child, a system that documented the problem but failed to solve it.

"Where are they now?" Hailey demanded, scanning the road ahead.

More typing. "Edward died in 2015. Liver failure. Catherine relocated to Missouri the following year, remarried in 2018." Graham looked up from the tablet. "Hayden stayed in Pleasant. Dropped out of high school his senior year. Started working odd jobs, including at the carnival."

"Then Blakely assaulted him," Hailey added, connecting the dots. "A middle-aged man, probably drunk, attacking him just like his father would have."

"Trauma repeating itself," Graham agreed. "But why wait four years for revenge?"

Hailey's phone rang through the car speakers. Alice.

"Highway patrol spotted the Lexus heading west on County Road 16," her sister reported. "Officer attempted to pursue but lost visual when the vehicle turned onto an unmarked dirt road approximately seven miles past the lake turnoff."

Hailey hesitated. “Country Road 16…” She glanced at Graham. “Where did Hayden’s family live? Where did all of this take place?”

Graham typed rapidly on his tablet. "The Miller family home was at 1423 Old Cedar Road—a private drive off County Road 16." He looked up, eyes widening with realization. "That's exactly where the highway patrol lost the Lexus."

Hailey spun the wheel, executing a hard U-turn that sent gravel spraying from beneath the tires. "He's taking him home," she said, accelerating hard. "The place where it all started."

"Might be abandoned by now," Graham warned, bracing himself against the dashboard as Hailey pushed the sedan to its limits. "Property records show it's been in foreclosure since Edward Miller's death."

"Perfect isolation," Hailey replied grimly. "Nobody around to hear screams."

The Bureau sedan sped through Pleasant's outskirts, streetlights giving way to darkness broken only by their headlights. County Road 16 stretched before them, a ribbon of cracked asphalt winding through dense forest. Hailey drove with fierce concentration, her mind racing ahead to what they might find.

"Alice," she called, activating the hands-free system. "We need tactical at 1423 Old Cedar Road. Abandoned property, former Miller residence. Suspect is likely holding victim there."

"SWAT's already mobilizing," Alice responded. "ETA twenty minutes. Hailey, wait for backup."

"No promises," Hailey replied, ending the call before her sister could protest further.

Graham checked his weapon, then secured it back in his holster. "If Miller follows his previous pattern, he won't kill immediately. He'll want to savor it."

"This one's different," Hailey countered, slowing as they approached a barely visible turnoff. "Personal. The others were practice. This is what he's been building toward. A kill in his father’s house."

The unmarked dirt road appeared on their right—little more than twin ruts cutting through dense undergrowth. No mailbox, no sign, nothing to indicate a home lay at the end. Hailey killed the headlights before turning, navigating by moonlight filtering through the trees.

"Quarter mile in," Graham murmured, consulting his tablet's map. "Should see the structure soon."

They crept forward in darkness, tires crunching softly on fallen leaves and gravel. Through breaks in the foliage, Hailey caught glimpses of metal reflecting moonlight—a vehicle parked ahead.

She stopped the sedan, cutting the engine. "On foot from here. Silent approach."

They exited without closing the doors, drawing their weapons in tandem. The night air hung heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, the only sounds their careful footsteps and distant insects. Hailey led the way, moving from shadow to shadow with Graham covering her flank.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The Miller property emerged from the darkness—a decrepit single-wide trailer listing slightly to one side, its metal siding mottled with rust and decay. A sagging porch stretched across the front, littered with beer cans and broken furniture. No lights shone from the grimy windows, but the black Lexus parked haphazardly in the overgrown yard confirmed they were in the right place.

Hailey signaled to Graham, pointing toward the rear of the trailer. He nodded, breaking off to circle while she approached the front. The porch steps groaned beneath her weight despite her careful movements. She pressed her back against the trailer's metal wall, inching toward the slightly ajar door.

From inside came a voice—low, intense, almost conversational.

"...understand what it's like, do you? To watch your mother cry while your father drinks away the rent money? To go to school hungry because there's nothing in the fridge?"

Within, the man’s response was unintelligible—a muffled groan that suggested he was gagged. Tom Haverford, according to the DMV records on his Lexus’s license plate.

Hailey peered through a gap in the filthy curtains. The trailer's interior was illuminated by a single battery-powered lantern, casting long shadows across walls stained with water damage and mold. In what had once been a living room, Tom sat bound to a kitchen chair, duct tape across his mouth, face bruised and bloodied. Hayden Miller paced before him, a carnival dart twirling between his fingers.

"Three days," Hayden continued, his voice eerily calm. "That's my rule. If I see someone like you three days in a row at the carnival, I know what you are. A waste. A parasite." He leaned close to Tom's face. "Just like my father."

Hailey assessed the situation quickly. Tom was alive but injured. Hayden was armed but focused entirely on his victim. Graham would be in position at the rear exit by now.

She keyed her radio once—their signal to move—then kicked the door open, weapon raised.

"FBI! Hayden Miller, drop the weapon!"

Hayden whirled around, his eyes widening with surprise before narrowing with calculation. The carnival cap was gone, revealing a face half-covered in stage makeup that didn't quite conceal the jagged scar running from his left temple to his jaw.

"Drop the dart, Hayden," Hailey commanded, advancing into the trailer with her weapon trained on his chest. "It's over."

Tom made frantic noises behind his gag, his eyes wild with panic and relief. Behind Hayden, Graham appeared in the rear doorway, his own weapon raised.

"Two exits, two agents," Graham said calmly. "Nowhere to go, son."

Something shifted in Hayden's expression—resignation, perhaps, or a calculation being made. He glanced at the dart in his hand, then at Tom, then back to Hailey.

He looked furious, his face twisting into a snarl, then relaxing again.

"The system failed me," Hayden said suddenly, his voice rising. "All of you—police, social workers, teachers—you all saw what was happening and did nothing!" His fingers tightened around the dart, knuckles whitening. Seventeen reports. Seventeen! And he still came home every night."

Hailey kept her weapon steady, watching as Hayden's face contorted with building rage.

"I was starving while men like him—" he jabbed the dart toward Tom, "—walked around with full bellies and empty souls—men like my father who take and take and never give anything back!"

"We can talk about this," Hailey said evenly. "Just put down the dart."

"Talk?" Hayden laughed, a harsh sound that filled the decrepit trailer. "That's all anyone ever did! Talked and filed reports and went home to their safe houses while I..." His voice cracked. "While I counted the hours until he passed out drunk!"

In one fluid motion, Hayden reached behind his back and produced a hunting knife, the blade gleaming in the lantern light.

"Stay back!" he screamed, brandishing the knife toward Hailey. "You don't understand what it's like! None of you do!"

"Hayden, drop the knife," Graham commanded, weapon trained on the young man's chest.

"You think this ends with me in prison?" Hayden's eyes were wild now, darting between the agents. "There are thousands of kids out there right now, living with monsters while the system looks away. I'm the only one who does anything about it!"

Hailey took a cautious step forward. "Your father was the monster, Hayden. Not Tom. Not Donaldson. Not Winters. They didn't hurt you."

"They're all the same!" Hayden screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "Useless! Parasites! They sit at carnivals for hours while their families wonder where they are! While their kids go hungry!" He drove the knife into the wall beside him, the blade sinking deep into the rotting paneling.

"My mother begged him to get help," Hayden continued, voice breaking. "Begged him to stop drinking. To keep a job. To be a father." His hands were shaking now, tears cutting tracks through the stage makeup on his scarred cheek. "And he laughed at her. Just like Blakely laughed at me when I told him the truth about men like him."

Tom made muffled sounds of protest behind his gag, struggling against his bonds.

"Shut up!" Hayden screamed, whirling toward his captive. "You don't get to speak! None of you deserves to speak!"

Hailey saw her opening as Hayden's attention shifted. She lunged forward, closing the distance between them in two swift strides. Her left hand clamped around Hayden's wrist as he turned, but he reacted with unexpected strength, twisting away and grabbing for her throat.

"No!" he screamed, his face contorted with rage. His fingers dug into her windpipe as they crashed into the trailer wall.

Graham surged forward but hesitated, unable to get a clear shot with Hailey and Hayden locked in combat. Tom's muffled screams provided a desperate soundtrack to the struggle.

Hailey drove her knee upward, connecting with Hayden's ribs. He grunted but didn't release his grip. His other hand clawed at her face, nails raking her cheek. She grabbed at his carnival vest, fingers curling into the worn fabric, tearing it as she fought for leverage.

The vest ripped open, exposing a collection of carnival darts strapped to Hayden's chest in a makeshift bandolier. As they grappled, one dart broke free, sticking point-down to the floor between them.

Hayden's grip tightened around her throat, black spots dancing at the edges of her vision. With desperate clarity, Hailey snatched at one of the exposed darts in the strap across his chest and drove it into Hayden's shoulder.

He howled, releasing her throat to clutch at the dart now embedded in his flesh. The momentary distraction was all she needed.

Hailey slammed her palm into his solar plexus, driving him backward. Graham closed in, weapon trained on Hayden's center mass.

"On the ground! Now!" Graham shouted.

Hayden staggered, blood seeping through his fingers where they clutched the dart in his shoulder. His eyes darted between the agents, calculating his options. For a terrible moment, Hailey thought he might charge them, forcing their hands.

Instead, he collapsed to his knees, the fight draining from him as suddenly as it had erupted. Tears streamed down his face, cutting channels through the stage makeup to reveal more of the scarring beneath.

"You don't understand," he whispered, shoulders slumping. "I was just trying to save them: the kids. I was trying to save them from men like him."

Graham moved swiftly, securing Hayden's wrists with handcuffs while Hailey kept her weapon trained on him. Once he was restrained, she holstered her gun and moved to Tom, removing the duct tape from his mouth and checking his injuries.

"Ambulance is on the way," she assured him, working to free his bound wrists. "You're safe now."

Tom gasped for air, coughing as the gag came free. "He's insane," he managed, voice hoarse. "Kept talking about his father... about men being parasites... I didn't even know him!"

"I know," Hailey said, her own voice raspy from Hayden's attack.

She released a slow, pent-up breath.

Outside, sirens wailed in the distance—backup finally arriving. Hayden sat slumped against the wall, blood seeping through his carnival vest where the dart remained lodged in his shoulder. His eyes had gone vacant, staring at nothing as tears continued to cut tracks through his stage makeup.

With Tom secured and Hayden in custody, Hailey stepped onto the sagging porch, drawing in deep breaths of night air. Her throat ached where Hayden's fingers had dug into her flesh. She could feel bruises forming, and she knew they would bloom purple by morning.

She reached for her phone, dialing Alice. Her sister would want to know they'd apprehended the carnival killer, that the case was effectively closed. The call went straight to voicemail.

Strange. Alice always answered.

Hailey tried again, frowning as the call once more rolled to voicemail. A flicker of unease stirred in her stomach. She dialed the sheriff's station instead.

"Pleasant County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Ramirez speaking."

"This is Agent Rock. Is Sheriff Rock available?"

"No, ma'am. Haven't seen her since she left to check something at the Lakeview Motel, you know, the Drake property, about an hour ago. Said she'd radio in, but we haven't heard from her."

The unease crystallized into something sharper, colder. "Did she say what she was checking?"

"No, ma'am. Just said she had a lead she needed to follow up on personally."

Hailey ended the call, her mind racing. As she slipped the phone back into her pocket, it vibrated with an incoming text. Alice's number.

The message contained just two letters: HE.

Hailey stared at the screen, breath catching in her throat. He? He who? No, not ‘he’. Help? Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed back: "Alice, where are you?"

No response.

"Graham!" she called, urgency sharpening her voice. "We have a problem."

Graham appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed at her tone. "What is it?"

"Alice is missing. Went to the Drake property alone an hour ago." She held up her phone, showing him the cryptic text. "This is all she sent."

Graham's expression darkened. "Victor Drake?"

"Has to be." A cold certainty settled in Hailey's bones.

But just then, a voice crackled over the radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired at the carnival. All units—shots fired. Two assailants!”

Hailey’s mind spun. Everything was in chaos. The world was spinning, and her mind struggled to keep up.

"Goddamn it!" Graham's curse cut through the night air as he slammed his fist against the trailer's metal siding. The carnival. Now?"

Hailey stood frozen, caught between two emergencies pulling her in opposite directions. Alice's cryptic text burned in her mind while the radio continued squawking about chaos erupting at the carnival. Blue and red lights flickered through the trees as sheriff cruisers pulled up to the Miller property.

"We have to respond," Graham said, already moving toward their sedan. "Active shooter situation takes priority."

Hailey hesitated, watching as deputies swarmed the trailer, securing Hayden and attending to Tom. The carnival killer was caught, but something deeper, more personal, gnawed at her insides.

"Those two men," she said suddenly, her voice low. The locals with the Drakes at the motel. Remember them?"

Graham turned back, frowning. "The muscle? Yeah."

"They've been hanging around the carnival all week. I spotted them twice near the Ferris wheel." The pieces were aligning in her mind, forming a pattern she didn't like. "What if this is connected? The Drakes, Alice, the carnival..."

"Hailey—"

"I know." She cut him off, a decision crystallizing in her mind. "Go. Respond to the carnival. I'm going to the motel to find Alice."

"That's not protocol," Graham protested, though his expression showed he understood.

"My sister sent that text for a reason." Hailey's voice hardened with resolve. “Victor is up to something. I know he is.”

Graham studied her face, recognizing the determination there. "You're sure?"

"Positive." She didn't hesitate.

He nodded once, accepting her decision. "I'll handle the carnival situation, then come find you. Don't go in alone if you can help it."

"Graham..." She stepped forward, surprising them both by pulling him into a quick, fierce hug. "Be careful."

The embrace lasted only seconds before she pulled away, already moving toward one of the deputy's cruisers. "I need to borrow your vehicle," she told the startled officer. "FBI priority."

She didn't wait for his response, snatching the keys from his hand and sliding behind the wheel. As she peeled away from the Miller property, gravel spraying from beneath the tires, her stomach clenched into a tight knot of dread.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The Lakeview motel sat on the edge of town, its neon VACANCY sign flickering in the night like a warning beacon—it’s familiar horseshoe arc now sinister as Hailey returned to the parking lot where she’d been filmed ‘harassing’ the Drake brothers. She killed the headlights a quarter-mile out, coasting the final stretch in darkness. No police cars visible. No signs of disturbance.

Hailey parked the cruiser in the shadows behind the dumpsters, her hand instinctively checking her weapon before approaching the motel office. The night clerk—barely twenty, with acne-scarred cheeks and tired eyes—looked up from his phone as she entered.

"FBI," she announced, badge already extended. "I need the key to the Drake suite. Now."

The clerk blinked, hesitating. "I can't just—"

"This is a federal investigation involving a missing sheriff." Her voice left no room for debate. "Either give me the key or I'll kick the door down. Your choice."

He swallowed hard, glancing toward a back office as if hoping for intervention. Finding none, he turned to the key rack and selected a plastic card.

"Room 214," he mumbled. "But Mr. Drake doesn't like—"

Hailey snatched the key from his outstretched hand. "Call him and I'll arrest you for obstruction."

The threat hung in the air as she strode out, heading for the exterior staircase. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the distant wail of sirens heading toward the carnival. She rushed to the second floor, the end of the carpeted hallway: Drake's suite.

She approached cautiously, weapon drawn, listening at the door. Nothing. Complete silence. With practiced efficiency, she swiped the key card, pushed the door open with her foot, and entered in a tactical crouch.

"FBI! Alice?"

The suite remained silent—living area clear, kitchenette empty, bathroom door ajar revealing nothing but gleaming tile. The bedroom door stood half-open, revealing rumpled sheets but no occupants.

Hailey moved through the space methodically, checking closets, behind imported furniture, under the bed. Nothing. No one. The suite was empty of people but full of expensive possessions—Victor's designer suits hanging in perfect alignment, half-empty glasses of amber liquid on the coffee table over Persian rugs and expensive furnishings.

A folded piece of paper rested squarely on one pillow.

Hailey approached cautiously, using her pen to flip the note open. Two words in elegant script, followed by a crude smiley face: Welcome home...

She frowned, staring at the note.

A taunt. It had the feeling of a taunt anyway.

Her radio crackled, calling out, “Shooter’s on foot. Fleeing the scene…”

Victor’s doing. It had to be.

She returned her attention to the note, refusing to be distracted.

A cold shiver ran down her spine as understanding clicked into place. Home. Not this motel room—Alice's home. The sheriff's house on Oakridge Drive.

"Son of a bitch," she snarled, already sprinting for the door. Her boots hammered against the metal stairs as she raced back to the cruiser, tires squealing as she peeled out of the parking lot.

The radio crackled with chaotic reports from the carnival—multiple injuries, officers engaging armed suspects, requests for additional ambulances. But Hailey's focus narrowed to a single point: Oakridge Drive. Alice's craftsman bungalow with its meticulously tended garden and cheerful yellow door.

The cruiser skidded to a stop half a block from Alice's house, tires hissing against wet pavement. Hailey killed the engine, assessing the scene with practiced vigilance. The street lay silent and empty, porches dark, neighbors long since retired for the night. Alice's craftsman bungalow sat midway down the block, windows dark.

No vehicles parked in the driveway. No lights visible inside.

Something felt wrong. Had she made a mistake?

Hailey drew her weapon, moving from shadow to shadow across neighboring lawns. The rain-soaked grass muffled her footsteps as she approached from the side, avoiding the front path with its motion-sensor lights. She paused beneath an ancient oak tree, its branches stretching protectively over Alice's carefully tended garden.

Had she misinterpreted the note? Was this another of Victor's games?

A quick glance at her phone showed no further messages from Alice. The carnival situation continued according to radio chatter, but she'd silenced it to maintain stealth.

Hailey circled to the rear of the house where French doors opened onto a small back porch. She tested the handle. It was unlocked. A warning bell sounded in her mind—Alice never left doors unlocked, not even in sleepy Pleasant.

Drawing a slow breath, Hailey eased the door open, wincing at the faint squeak of hinges. She slipped inside, gun extended, moving in a tactical crouch through Alice's darkened kitchen. Moonlight filtered through lace curtains, casting web-like shadows across gleaming countertops.

Nothing was disturbed, nothing out of place.

She moved deeper into the house, checking corners, sweeping each room with methodical precision. Living room clear. Dining room empty. Home office untouched.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the note meant something else entirely.

A floorboard creaked overhead—so faint she almost missed it. Hailey froze, eyes darting to the ceiling. The master bedroom was upstairs, along with a guest room Alice had converted to a home gym.

Someone was up there.

Hailey approached the staircase, each step carefully placed to avoid the spots she knew would betray her presence. Third step from the bottom always groaned under pressure. Fifth step had a loose board at the edge. Alice had complained about fixing them for years.

Halfway up, she paused, listening. Nothing but the house's normal settling sounds—the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the soft whisper of the heating system.

She continued upward, reaching the landing. The master bedroom door stood ajar, darkness beyond.

A soft shift of weight. Movement in the shadows.

Hailey turned, weapon raised, just as something hard and heavy crashed against the back of her skull. White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled as the world tilted sideways.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Cold water shocked Hailey back to consciousness, splashing across her face and soaking her shirt. Her head throbbed with nauseating intensity as her eyes struggled to focus in the dim light.

Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. The musty scent of earth and neglect. A basement?

She was in Alice's basement.

"Welcome back, Agent Rock." Victor Drake's smooth voice slid through the darkness like oil on water. "So glad you could join our little family reunion."

Hailey blinked away water and disorientation. Four men stood before her in a loose semicircle. Victor in the center, immaculate in his tailored suit despite the hour and surroundings. To his right loomed Thomas, massive shoulders straining against his plain t-shirt, thick neck supporting a face carved from violence. Marcus stood to Victor's left, wire-framed glasses reflecting what little light existed in the basement, his lean frame motionless, observant. Both of Victor’s brothers had the same look of hatred in their eyes. Their henchman, Raymond Voss completed the tableau, standing slightly apart, his stocky build and perpetual scowl a study in controlled menace.

Behind them, illuminated by a single hanging bulb, sat Alice and Mindy. Both bound to wooden chairs, duct tape across their mouths. Alice's sheriff uniform was torn at the shoulder, blood matting her hair above her right temple. Her eyes burned with fury and desperation as they locked onto Hailey's. Beside her, Mindy trembled violently, her slight frame seeming to collapse inward, eyes darting between her sisters and her captors.

Hailey tested her own bonds—zip ties, professional grade, cutting into her wrists where they secured her to a metal support column. Her ankles were similarly bound.

"You've been quite the nuisance," Victor continued, approaching with casual confidence. "Running all over Pleasant, playing hero." He crouched before her, close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne. "All while ignoring the real threat to your family."

Hailey spat in his face. "The carnival shooter. Your men."

Victor smiled, slowly wiping his cheek with a monogrammed handkerchief. "A simple diversion. Amazing how easily law enforcement can be manipulated with the right stimulus." He glanced toward Thomas. "Though I believe they've been apprehended by now. Expendable assets."

"What do you want, Victor?" Hailey's voice was raw, her throat still tender from Hayden Miller's attack hours earlier.

"Originally? Just to conclude my business in Pleasant." Victor stood, straightening his already perfect cuffs. "Your family's interference complicated matters. Particularly when your sister here—" he gestured toward Alice, "—decided to investigate my operation independently."

Hailey's gaze shifted to Alice, whose eyes communicated a silent apology.

"And what operation would that be?" Hailey asked, buying time, assessing options.

Marcus stepped forward, adjusting his glasses with slim fingers. “You,” he said simply. “Victor doesn’t like you very much. Not after what you did to our family.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s your fault we wasted so many years behind bars.”

Victor stepped forward now, a gun in his hand. Hailey tensed. But he didn’t point it at her.

He had a crocodile leer as he turned, aiming the gun at Alice. A second gun appeared in his other hand, trained on Mindy.

“Stop!” Hailey yelled. “Don’t you touch them. Don’t you dare!”

He just snickered. But the sound of mirth didn’t reach his eyes—only cold hatred existed there. "Let's play a game, Hailey," Victor said, his voice almost gentle. "I believe in symmetry: balance. You took something from me—my family, my freedom, my legacy." His fingers tightened around both weapons. "So I'll take something from you."

Realization crashed through Hailey like ice water. "No."

"It's simple," Victor continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Choose which sister lives and which dies. Say it aloud. Right now."

Hailey's mind raced, searching for options, angles, anything. "This is insane, Victor. You don't have to—"

"Five seconds," Victor cut her off, pressing the barrel of one gun against Alice's temple. She didn't flinch, her eyes locked on Hailey's with fierce determination. The second gun pressed against Mindy's forehead, causing her to whimper behind her gag.

"Five..."

"Stop this!" Hailey strained against her bonds, feeling the zip ties cut deeper into her wrists.

"Four..."

Alice's eyes softened, a message passing between them: take care of Mindy.

"Three..."

Mindy's muffled sobs filled the basement, her entire body shaking. The years of captivity had broken something in her that might never fully heal.

"Two..."

Hailey forced herself to calm. No time. Only action.

She held Alice’s gaze, gave a brief nod. A quirk of an eyebrow.

Please…

She tried to pour every ounce of connection they’d ever had or ever would have.

And while the Rock sisters hadn’t always seen eye to eye… the two of them had always been bonded by one thing.

They were both women of action.

"One."

The word hung in the air for a fraction of a second before Alice lunged.

Despite her restraints, Alice slammed her body sideways into Mindy's chair, toppling them both to the floor just as Victor's fingers tightened on both triggers. The shots cracked through the basement, bullets embedding in the concrete wall where their heads had been a moment before.

Hailey seized the distraction, driving her body weight forward against the metal column. Years of field training had taught her to keep her core tight, her muscles engaged even when bound. The column groaned, decades-old rust giving way just enough to create a critical inch of space.

"Kill them!" Victor screamed, his composure shattering. "All of them!"

Thomas and Raymond surged forward while Marcus retreated, fumbling for his own weapon. Thomas reached Alice first, massive hands grabbing for her fallen chair. Alice twisted, her bound legs sweeping upward with desperate strength, catching him in the groin. He doubled over, howling.

Hailey wrenched against the column with renewed desperation, feeling something give. The support beam wasn't completely secured to the floor—Alice's renovation project from last summer had included basement reinforcement that was never quite finished. With a final heave, the column shifted, concrete crumbling around its base.

Raymond aimed his weapon at Mindy, who lay frozen in terror beside Alice's struggling form. Before he could fire, Hailey threw her weight backward, toppling the column completely. It crashed into Raymond, knocking him sideways as his shot went wild, splintering wood from the basement stairs.

Victor's face contorted with rage. "Enough games!" He strode toward Hailey, weapon raised. "I should have done this years ago."

But just then, Mindy’s foot lashed out.

Victor tripped. And Hailey lunged forward with the column still attached to her wrists, driving her bound feet into Victor's knee. Bone snapped with a sickening crack. He screamed, collapsing sideways as his gun skittered across the concrete floor.

"You bitch!" Victor howled, clutching his shattered kneecap.

Hailey rolled, still bound to the fallen column, positioning herself between her sisters and the remaining threats. Marcus fired wildly, his shot ricocheting off the metal support beam inches from her head. Thomas recovered from Alice's blow, lumbering forward with murder in his eyes.

A knife appeared in his hand, but he stumbled the cut going wide.

“What the hell?” Thomas snapped, looking down.

It was Mindy. Her feet had shot out, trying to trip the murderous Drake brother—trying to help her sisters.

He snarled, reaching down and grabbing Mindy by the hair. He pressed the knife to her throat.

Two shots rang out.

Alice held a gun in her grip. Hailey didn’t know which of the Drake brothers the fallen weapon came from, only that it was not in her sister’s grasp—the muzzle flash lighting up the cramped space.

Thomas stumbled forward. Twin red marks spread across his chest, blooming like crimson flowers. His eyes widened in shock, staring down at the spreading red stain before his massive frame crumpled to the floor.

Raymond spun toward Alice, weapon raised. Hailey twisted violently, the column scraping across concrete as she used it like a battering ram. The heavy metal slammed into Raymond's legs, toppling him backward. His head cracked against the concrete with a sickening thud.

"Alice!" Hailey shouted.

Alice fired at Marcus, who had taken cover behind a storage shelf.

The bullet splintered wood inches from his face. He ducked, panic replacing his usual calculated composure.

"It's over, Victor!" Hailey called. Her hands coming free.

Victor's eyes darted around frantically, taking in the chaos—Thomas bleeding out on the floor, Raymond unconscious, Marcus pinned down. His own shattered knee throbbed with white-hot pain. Survival instinct kicked in.

"This isn't finished," he hissed, dragging himself backward.

Hailey struggled to free herself completely from the column as Victor flung himself at the wall, clambering up towards the low window.

"No!" Hailey shouted, finally breaking free from her restraints.

Victor crawled through the opening, disappearing into darkness. Hailey lunged after him, ignoring the sharp pain in her temple where she'd been struck.

She caught a glimpse of his silhouette against the night sky before he vanished. Pain lanced through her skull as she pulled herself through the narrow basement window, fresh air washing over her face as she emerged into Alice's backyard.

Movement to her right—Victor limping desperately toward the wooden fence, his injured leg dragging uselessly behind him. Hailey pushed to her feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. She sprinted across the wet grass, closing the distance between them with each stride.

Victor reached the fence, clawing at the wood, trying to haul himself over despite his shattered knee. The pain must have been excruciating, but desperation drove him forward. Hailey lunged, tackling him just as his good leg cleared the top. They crashed to the ground together, Victor howling as his injured knee absorbed the impact.

"It's over," Hailey growled, pinning him with her body weight. "You're done."

Victor thrashed beneath her, all elegance and composure abandoned. He was animal now, cornered and dangerous. His elbow connected with her temple, sending fresh waves of pain cascading through her skull.

His fist connected with her jaw, stunning her just enough to break her grip. Victor scrambled away, dragging his useless leg through the wet grass. Hailey lunged again, fingers grazing his ankle before he kicked free.

A car engine roared to life—headlights suddenly blazing from behind the tall hedge that separated Alice's property from her neighbor's. Hailey hadn't noticed it there before—Victor must have planned his escape route meticulously.

"No!" Hailey shouted, pushing to her feet.

Victor hauled himself into the driver's seat, face contorted with pain and hatred. The tires spun against wet grass before finding purchase. Gravel sprayed as the vehicle lurched forward, engine screaming as Victor floored the accelerator.

Hailey sprinted after it, but the sedan was already pulling away, taillights disappearing around the corner. She stood panting in the middle of the street, blood trickling from her temple, watching as Victor Drake escaped into the night.

Behind her, sirens wailed as backup finally arrived. Too late. Always too late.

Hailey stumbled back toward Alice's house, her body suddenly acknowledging every injury, every strain of the past hours. She found her sisters in the yard—Alice supporting Mindy's trembling form as they emerged from the basement.

"He got away," Hailey said, the words bitter on her tongue.

Alice nodded grimly. "He won't get far. Not with that knee. I've already called it in—every patrol car in three counties will be looking for him."

Mindy clung to Alice, her eyes wide with lingering terror. "Is it over?" she whispered, her voice so small it broke Hailey's heart.

"Almost," Hailey promised, moving to embrace them both.

The three sisters huddled together, quiet. Backup arrived moments later, swarming past them, but none of the Rock sisters moved as the cops surged into the house, shouting.

The three sisters collapsed onto Alice's front porch steps as emergency vehicles crowded the street, their flashing lights painting the night in alternating red and blue. Mindy sat between her older sisters, trembling but present in a way Hailey hadn't seen in too long. For several minutes, none of them spoke—the simple act of breathing together seemed communication enough.

“I knew you’d come,” Alice said at last, letting out the phrase like an ‘amen’.

Hailey nodded, her lips tight with frustration and unasked questions. Thankfully, Alice seemed willing to talk.

“Victor got Mindy first,” she said. “He has been planning this endgame, and the carnival was the perfect distraction to execute it. If it wasn’t tonight, it would have been the music festival or the spring fair. He just wanted something to occupy the police while he got us all alone.” With a rattling breath, she showed Hailey a text on her phone.

It was from Mindy’s number, showing the Lakeview Motel from inside what Hailey now recognized as Victor Drake’s owner’s suite. The text read, I just wanted to say thank you. I think I’m ready for my new life to begin… with him.

Hailey’s stomach clenched. It was a precision strike designed to lure Alice out alone. The text implied Mindy was going to run away with Victor, perhaps even elope. It wasn’t the sort of issue Alice could devote police resources too, not with Victor’s image as the upstanding businessman that he pretended to be.

But she could go alone… she could try to stop it as a sister.

"I thought—" Mindy's voice cracked. She swallowed hard and tried again. "I thought I was going to die down there. He wrote that text… took that picture while I was tied up. I felt sure I was going to die."

Alice's arm tightened around Mindy's shoulders. "Never. Not while we're breathing."

Hailey watched a paramedic emerge from the house, wheeling Raymond on a gurney. Another team followed with Marcus in handcuffs, his glasses missing, a vacant expression on his face. Thomas wouldn't be coming out. She knew that without asking.

"I keep failing you both," Hailey whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "I'm always too late."

Mindy's hand found Hailey's, fingers intertwining with surprising strength. "You came. That's what matters."

"I should have been there sooner." The guilt Hailey had carried for years threatened to overwhelm her.

"Stop." Alice's voice was firm but gentle.

Mindy shook her head, tears streaming freely down her face. "No. I chose Victor. I believed him over both of you."

"You were deceived," Hailey insisted.

Alice took Mindy's free hand, completing the circle.

They fell silent again, watching as Graham's sedan pulled up. He approached cautiously, respecting the bubble of privacy surrounding the sisters.

"Victor?" Hailey asked, not moving from her position.

"Still looking," Graham replied. "Roadblocks on every exit from Pleasant. He won't get far." He hesitated. "You three, okay?"

Hailey looked at her sisters—Alice with her bloodied temple and torn uniform, Mindy with her tear-streaked face and trembling hands, herself with zip-tie cuts on her wrists and a concussion throbbing behind her eyes. None of them were okay, not really. But they were together.

EPILOGUE

The early morning sunlight spilled through the windows of Mabel's Café, casting soft golden rectangles across the worn linoleum floor. Three cups of coffee sat on the table, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the light. The Rock sisters had claimed the corner booth—the one with the best view of both the entrance and the back door.

"Thomas is dead," Hailey said, her fingers curled around her mug. "Marcus is in federal custody. But Victor—"

"Got away," Alice finished, her voice flat. Her sheriff's uniform had been replaced by civilian clothes—jeans and a flannel shirt that couldn't quite hide the bandage on her temple. "Highway patrol found his car abandoned at a rest stop near the county line. Blood on the driver's seat. He couldn't have gotten far on that knee."

Mindy stared into her untouched coffee, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. "He'll come back," she whispered. "He always does."

Three days had passed since the basement confrontation. Three days of hospitals and statements and the slow, painful process of picking up the pieces. The carnival had packed up and moved on, taking Hayden Miller's bloody legacy with it. Pleasant was returning to normal—or what passed for normal in a town that had seen two serial killings and a Drake family revival in the span of a single week.

Hailey's phone buzzed against the table; it was Graham's number. She answered immediately.

"Tell me you found him," she said without preamble.

Graham's sigh carried through the speaker. "No sign yet. But we found something else. A cabin registered to a shell company we've linked to the Drakes. Thirty miles north in the national forest."

"And?"

"Evidence someone was there recently. Medical supplies. Bloodied bandages."

Hailey's fingers tightened around the phone. "He's treating his own injuries."

"Looks that way. We're expanding the search perimeter."

"Keep me posted." Hailey ended the call, meeting her sisters' questioning gazes. "Victor's holed up somewhere in the forest. Marshals are closing in."

Alice nodded, professional mask slipping into place. "I should join the search."

"No." Hailey's response was immediate, instinctive. "We stay together until he's caught."

Mindy set down her coffee cup with a decisive clink. "I can't do this anymore."

Both sisters turned to her, concern etching their features.

"Can't do what?" Hailey asked.

"Talk about him. Think about him." Mindy's voice strengthened, surprising them both. "I won't give him another minute."

Alice and Hailey exchanged glances, something like hope flickering between them.

"Mom and Dad are safe," Alice said, reaching for Hailey's hand across the table. "I've got deputies watching their place around the clock. Nobody's getting near them."

"Are you sure?" Hailey couldn't keep the worry from her voice.

"Positive. Ramirez is personally coordinating their protection detail." Alice's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "And you know how seriously he takes his assignments."

Hailey nodded, some tension easing from her shoulders. "Okay."

"Remember when we used to come here after school?" Mindy asked suddenly, looking around the diner. "Dad would order those terrible cheese fries, and Mom would pretend to be mad about the grease."

A genuine smile touched Hailey's lips. "And you'd always steal my chocolate milk."

"You never drank it fast enough," Mindy replied, the ghost of her old teasing tone returning.

"Because I was savoring it, you little thief."

Alice leaned back, watching her sisters with quiet wonder. "I used to save my allowance all week just to buy those apple fritters."

"The ones with the cinnamon sugar on top?" Mindy's eyes brightened. "Those were amazing."

"Still are," said a voice beside their table. Mabel herself stood there, older now, her once-black hair streaked with silver, but her smile unchanged. "Been making them the same way for forty years." She set a plate of golden-brown fritters in the center of the table. "On the house. For the Rock girls."

"Thanks, Mabel," Alice said, genuine gratitude warming her voice.

When Mabel retreated, Mindy reached for a fritter, breaking it into smaller pieces with methodical care. "I want to go back to school," she announced quietly. "Maybe get my GED first, then... I don't know. Something with plants, maybe."

Hailey felt her throat tighten. "That sounds perfect."

"The community college has a horticulture program," Alice offered. "I know someone in admissions."

Mindy nodded, taking a small bite of fritter. Her eyes closed briefly, savoring the familiar taste. "This is exactly how I remembered it," she whispered.

The morning light continued its slow crawl across their table, illuminating three coffee cups, three faces marked by different kinds of pain but sharing the same resilience.

NOW AVAILABLE!

CLAIMING YOU

(A Hailey Rock FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 16)

Small-town sanctuaries become scenes of macabre murders as victims are found poised in prayer, uncovering sins of the past. FBI Agent Hailey Rock must delve deep into the realm of fervent faith and concealed truths, where a killer seeks retribution for a holy rite turned fatal and justice hidden by the righteous.

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—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

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CLAIMING YOU

(A Hailey Rock FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 16)

Rylie Dark

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

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

SERIES BY RYLIE DARK

HANNAH MERCY

SLOANE RIDDLE

HAYDEN SMART

ARIA BRANDT

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BECCA THORN

JESSIE REACH

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MAEVE SHARP

ALEX QUINN

TARA STRONG

HAILEY ROCK

SADIE PRICE

MIA NORTH

CARLY SEE

MORGAN STARK