i f   s h e   l i e d

(a kate wise mystery—book 8)

b l a k e   p i e r c e

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

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

Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. 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 andreiuc88, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KATE VALENTINE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE

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

PROLOGUE

Eleanor Sandoval couldn't remember the last time she had felt so exhausted yet so fulfilled. Her head was ringing a bit, and her right knee was flaring up, but her heart was full. She felt that it might actually be filled to bursting as she guided her grandson, six-year-old Marco, up the stairs of her modest two-story home. The boy's small feet dragged with each step, his eyelids heavy after their evening of celebration.

"Almost there," she said softly, her hand gentle on his back.

The custody papers were still on the kitchen counter downstairs, bearing the judge's signature that had made official what Eleanor had been fighting for since the accident three months ago. The memory of her daughter, Carmen, and son-in-law still cut like glass. Their lives had been stolen in an instant on a rain-slicked highway.

But tonight was not for grief. Tonight was for new beginnings.

"Gramma," Marco mumbled, leaning against her as they reached the landing. "Can we have ice cream again tomorrow?"

Eleanor chuckled, the sound warming the quiet hallway. "Let's not push our luck. Three scoops tonight was already breaking the rules."

"But you said it was special." His voice was thick with sleep, but a hint of cleverness remained—Carmen's spark, alive in her son.

"And it was." Eleanor guided him into the bedroom she had transformed for him over the past months, walls now painted a soft blue with glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling. "But too much sweet is still too much, even on special days."

While Marco changed into his pajamas, Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers absently smoothing the comforter featuring Marco’s favorite cartoon character. The boy had chosen it himself during their first shopping trip after he'd come to stay with her temporarily. Now, there was nothing temporary about their arrangement.

"Teeth," she reminded him when he emerged from the bathroom, and she smiled at his exaggerated groan.

While he brushed, Eleanor moved to the window to draw the curtains. The yard below was dark, illuminated only by the security light she'd had installed last month. Another expense, but a necessary one. The neighborhood wasn't what it had been when she and Teddy had bought the house thirty years ago. Before retirement. Long before cancer had taken him four years earlier.

"Is there time for a story tonight?" Marco asked, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to his chest.

Eleanor settled into the chair beside the bed, wincing slightly as her hip protested. "How about we finish the one from last night? About the boy who found the map?"

Marco shook his head, his dark hair—still damp from his earlier bath—falling across his forehead. "I want the one about the castle. The one with the dragon."

"Again?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow, but she was already reaching for the worn book on the nightstand. "That’s the third time this week."

"It's my favorite," he said simply.

“Okay, okay…”

She grabbed the book from the small bedside table and started to read. As she flipped through the pages, Eleanor found herself watching Marco more than the pages. His eyelids grew heavier with each turn, but he fought to sleep valiantly, determined to hear if the knight would once again save the kingdom. By the time she reached the final page, his breathing had deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Eleanor closed the book and set it aside, taking a moment just to look at him. In the soft glow of the night light, Marco's features relaxed into an innocence that squeezed her heart. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, my little dragon-slayer," she whispered.

Standing with the slight unsteadiness that had become her companion in recent years, Eleanor switched off the bedside lamp, leaving only the night light casting its protective glow. At the doorway, she paused for a final look.

This wasn't how she had imagined her sixties would unfold. Widowhood had been painful enough, the emptiness of the house sometimes loud enough to wake her in the middle of the night. And now she was raising a child again, this time without Teddy by her side. The responsibility weighed heavily. Marco needed stability, routine, love—all things Eleanor was determined to provide, despite her arthritis flaring in damp weather and the reading glasses she now needed for bedtime stories.

In her own bedroom, Eleanor changed into her nightgown and completed her nightly routine. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror revealed new lines etched around her eyes, silver threading more prominently through her dark hair. Teddy would have made some ridiculous compliment about how she was aging like fine wine. The thought brought a small smile to her lips as she turned off the bathroom light.

She settled onto the edge of her bed and reached for her reading glasses and the novel she'd been trying to finish for weeks. A few pages later, her eyelids grew heavy. Eleanor marked her place, removed her glasses, and switched off the lamp. She fell asleep much faster than she’d expected, sure that either the excitement of the day or all of the sugar from the ice cream would keep her up.

Sleep had nearly claimed her when a sound from downstairs pulled her back to the work of waking. She lay still, listening. There—a soft thud, like something being set down carefully. Or someone trying not to be heard.

She sat up, pulse quickening. It could be nothing—the house settling, the wind. But Teddy had always teased her about her "grandmother's hearing," acute and discerning.

But then there was another sound…a creak from the third step from the bottom, the one that had announced Carmen's late-night returns as a teenager no matter how carefully she tried to avoid it. She wondered if maybe Marco had gotten up and was wandering around the house. But he’d never done that before when he’d stayed the night.

Fear sliced through Eleanor's drowsiness. She slid from the bed, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and moved to her bedroom door. Opening it a crack, she peered into the darkened hallway.

Marco's door remained closed, opened just the slightest bit as he always requested.

Eleanor eased into the hallway. The stairs loomed ahead, descending into darkness. She tried to remember her routine before she and Marco had come upstairs—setting up coffee for the morning, locking all of the door. But had she forgotten a door? There had been so much going on today that maybe she had forgotten one.

Another sound from below, this time unmistakable. It was the slide of the kitchen drawer where she kept serving utensils. Not the wind. Not the house settling.

Someone was in her home.

Eleanor's heart hammered against her ribs as she inched toward the stairs. She should retreat, grab Marco, lock themselves in the bathroom, and call for help. But the phones were downstairs. And what if the intruder came up while she was getting Marco? What if they were caught in his room, cornered?

She figured it was better to know what she was dealing with. She descended the first few steps, testing each one before putting her full weight down. The house betrayed her at the fourth step—a creak loud enough to freeze her in place.

Silence followed. Then, movement in the darkness below—a shadow separating from the deeper shadows of the living room.

"Hello?" Eleanor called, her voice steadier than she felt. "I've called the police. They're on their way."

The shadow moved again, approaching the foot of the stairs. In the dim light filtering through the front windows, Eleanor could make out a figure—tall, wearing dark clothing, face indistinct beneath what looked like a hood or a hat.

"What do you want?" she demanded, one hand gripping the banister. "Take whatever you need and go…leave us be.”

The figure remained silent, unnervingly still at the bottom of the staircase. Then, it placed a foot on the first step.

Eleanor backed up. "I'm warning you," she said, her mind racing for what she could use as a weapon. The heavy lamp in her bedroom? One of Teddy’s old golf clubs in the closet?

The figure ascended another step. And another.

Eleanor turned to flee, but her aging reflexes betrayed her. Her foot caught on the lip of a step, and she stumbled, catching herself against the wall with a thud that seemed to echo in the quiet house. As she fell, she felt something pull and flare up in pain just behind her knee.

By the time she regained her balance, the figure was just three steps below her.

"Please," she whispered, no longer concerned about waking Marco. In fact, a scream might be their only hope now. She drew in breath to shout—

The figure lunged, impossibly fast for someone so controlled moments before. Something thin and cold wrapped around Eleanor's neck, cutting off her cry before it could form. Eleanor’s hands flew to her throat, fingers scrabbling against what felt like wire or cord, trying to get beneath it as it bit into her skin. The pressure increased, stars bursting in her vision.

Her attacker was close enough now that she could feel their breath, could smell a faint scent of something medicinal. As her lungs burned and her vision dimmed, Eleanor's thoughts weren't of her own life ending but of Marco, asleep and unaware, down the hall. Who would love him as she did? Who would remember to cut the crusts off his sandwiches or know that he needed his blue blanket on thunderstorm nights?

Her last conscious thought was a prayer that whoever this figure was, they’d spare Marco.

CHAPTER ONE

Kate Wise shifted her weight to her left hip, a reflexive dance she’d learned all over again over the past year, as she tried to soothe her fussing son. Michael, just past his first birthday, was in the midst of what Kate had dubbed his "afternoon grievances"—too tired to stay awake, too stubborn to sleep, and too vocal to be ignored.

"I know, I know," she murmured, bouncing gently. "The world is deeply unfair to one-year-olds."

With her free hand, she flipped to the next page in the case file spread across her kitchen table. The photographs showed a clean suburban living room, unremarkable except for the outline where a dead body had been removed. She'd seen thousands of similar scenes over her career, but something about this one—perhaps the family photos still arranged neatly on the mantle—made her glance instinctively at Michael, pulling him a fraction closer.

Motherhood at fifty-six was nothing like motherhood at twenty-seven. Kate had forgotten the bone-deep exhaustion, but remembered it now with vivid clarity. She had not, however, anticipated how her body would protest the constant lifting, carrying, and sleep deprivation. Her knees ached after just minutes of the rhythmic bouncing that Michael demanded. Her lower back sent warning signals if she held him too long in one position. Being a grandmother was simple: you loved on the kid until it was time to hand it back off to parents. But motherhood at this age was an absolute bitch.

But what she hadn't expected was this overwhelming fierceness—this visceral need to protect that seemed magnified by age and experience rather than diminished by it. This went beyond what her daughter, Melissa, referred to as momma bear syndrome and into some other dragon-like protectiveness.

"Let's try a change of scenery," she told Michael, carrying him to the window that overlooked their backyard. The October afternoon painted everything in amber light, leaves drifting lazily from the maple tree where Allen had promised to hang a swing once Michael was old enough. And he’d been making many promises like that ever since he’d proposed to her seven months ago.

Even after those seven months, the word engaged still felt strange in her mind. As did fiancé. He was out now, meeting with a property manager about a venue for their upcoming wedding—just six weeks away. A small ceremony, nothing elaborate, but Allen had insisted they find someplace "worthy of the occasion," as he put it. And they had both agreed not to wait longer than a year; it wasn’t like they had a surplus of years to wait.

"Look, Michael," she said, pointing to a cardinal that had landed on their bird feeder. "Red bird."

The baby followed her finger, his fussing momentarily forgotten as he watched the splash of crimson against the autumn landscape. These brief moments of wonder were what sustained her through the challenging days—when Michael was teething, or when her body reminded her that most women her age were becoming grandmothers, not mothers.

The cardinal flew away, and Michael's face crumpled, a wail building in his chest.

"Oh, come on now," Kate said, resuming her bouncing. "There'll be other birds."

She carried him back to the table, eyeing the stack of case files Duran had sent over yesterday. This was her life now—semi-retirement, or whatever one called consulting on cold cases and current investigations while caring for an infant. Once or twice a month, sometimes more if a case particularly required her expertise, Duran would have the files sent over securely. Kate would review them when Michael napped, or in the evenings when Allen took over baby duty.

It wasn't fieldwork. It wasn't chasing down killers or interviewing witnesses or putting together the pieces in real time. But it kept her mind engaged and her skills sharp. And it allowed her the boundaries she now needed—no middle-of-the-night callouts, no extended time away from home, no putting herself in physical danger. Quite honestly, she had the best of both worlds.

Sometimes, though, she wondered if she'd made the right choice. And this current case she was studying was a good example of why. The current files related to a murders targeting grandparents who had recently gained custody of their grandchildren. Three cases so far, spread across Virginia. Similarities in the method—strangulation—and timing—always within forty-eight hours of a custody decision—suggested one perpetrator. But the victims had no obvious connections to each other beyond their circumstances.

"What are we missing?" she murmured, more to herself than to Michael, who had finally settled his head against her shoulder. He was growing a bit heavier in her arm as sleep began to claim him.

It was the perfect opportunity to focus fully on the files and to put Michael down for his nap. But Kate's phone chimed with an incoming text, the sound cutting through the quiet room. Michael stirred, and Kate silently cursed herself for not silencing the device.

Shifting the baby carefully, she reached for her phone. The text was from Eliza, Director Duran's assistant:

Third grandparent murder in Charlottesville. Same MO. Director wonders if you'd reconsider coming in to consult directly with the team. DeMarco specifically asked for you.

Kate's pulse quickened involuntarily at the information. Three victims now, and in Charlottesville—closer to Richmond than the others had been. The pattern was accelerating. And DeMarco had asked for her.

Agent Kristen DeMarco had been her partner for years, the young agent initially assigned to babysit Kate during her return from retirement. They'd evolved into an effective team, eventually becoming friends despite their age difference. Since Michael's birth, they'd seen each other only a handful of times, mostly social visits where DeMarco marveled at the baby and updated Kate on bureau gossip.

Kate's fingers hovered over the phone. Part of her—the part that had thrived on the adrenaline rush of active investigation for thirty years—itched to say yes. To hand Michael off to Allen as soon as he returned home, drive to the field office, and immerse herself in the hunt. To stand in a room with other agents, piecing together the profile, following the evidence to its conclusion.

Michael shifted against her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck as if to say: Don’t even think about it. With that, the moment of temptation passed. She typed her response:

Can't come in, but happy to provide additional analysis from here. Send me everything on the latest victim when you have it.

She hit send, then immediately felt a pang of regret. Was she being overly cautious? The old Kate would have been in her car already.

But she wasn't the old Kate anymore. The woman who had chased down killers with single-minded determination, who had put career before personal life for decades, who had missed too many of Melissa's milestone moments—that woman had been reshaped by loss, by age, by the unexpected gift of this second chance at motherhood. She’d even gone back for a bit to some success and was fortunate enough to still get these consulting crumbs.

"We made the right call," she whispered to Michael, carrying him carefully to the nursery where she lay him down for his nap.

When she returned to the kitchen—her arms and hip now feeling much lighter, she saw that she had another text from Eliza: Understood. Files incoming. Director says to tell you he respects your boundaries but misses your insight in the room.

A small, satisfied smile curved Kate's lips. It was nice to be missed, to be valued. Even better to be respected enough that her boundaries weren't being pushed.

She went back to the files on the table, trying to help make sense of a case that seemed to confound the bureau more and more every day. The victims were all in their sixties or early seventies, all had recently won custody battles for their grandchildren after the parents had been removed either by the court or via death. All strangled in their homes, with no signs of forced entry.

The theory was that the killer was targeting families where grandparents had "interfered" with parental rights. But something about that didn't sit right with Kate. If the motive was rage against interfering grandparents, why not target those who were in the midst of custody battles? Why wait until after the legal decision had been made?

"It's personal," she murmured, offering another spoonful to Michael. "It's not about the concept of grandparents taking custody. It's about specific situations that mirror something in the killer's past."

She made a mental note to check if any of the victims had been involved in past custody disputes, perhaps decades ago. The killer could have been a child in one of those earlier cases, now grown and exacting revenge. Her phone buzzed yet again—a notification that the new case files had arrived in her secure email. The pull to immediately review them was strong, but she forced herself to wait a beat, not to dive in as if she were full-time. Yet, at the same time, she knew there were families out there seeking answers…that women not too much older than her were being targeted for simply trying to give children a better life.

She thought of DeMarco asking for her, out there with another partner as they tried to figure this case out. And with that picture in her head, she did have to admit to herself that she missed it. But she was also facing reality or, rather, as real as reality could be when you’d just miraculously given birth at fifty-six years of age.

All the same, knowing there were people out there who could use her help and expertise made her miss it. And she wondered if she was almost partly responsible if she was choosing her happiness and contentment over the lives of others.

CHAPTER TWO

Agent Kristen DeMarco hated warehouses. In nearly eleven years with the Bureau, she had yet to enter an abandoned industrial space that didn't reek of trouble—or worse, mold and dead woodland animals. The cavernous building on the outskirts of Fredericksburg checked both boxes, its vast interior a maze of shadows punctuated by shafts of late afternoon light streaming through broken windows.

"Remind me why we couldn't wait for backup?" Agent Wilson's whisper carried more than he probably intended, bouncing off concrete floors and corrugated metal walls.

DeMarco shot him a look. Six months as partners, and she was still getting used to Wilson's by-the-book approach. He was capable enough—good instincts, solid training, diligent with paperwork—but he lacked the intuitive leaps that had made working with Kate so seamless. Being by-the-book wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but when you were too bogged down by the rules, it could get in the way of progress.

"Because Mendez won't be here in twenty minutes," she replied, keeping her voice low. "This guy spooks easily. He's already disappeared twice."

Carlos Mendez had worked maintenance at the senior living facility where the second victim, Donald Crawford, had lived before moving in with his grandson. Mendez had quit the day after Crawford's body was discovered, and hadn't been seen since—until a tip placed him squatting in this warehouse. Add in a shady criminal record that included aggravated assault on his own grandfather, and he fit the profile.

The case had started straightforwardly enough—a single murder of a grandmother who had recently won custody of her grandson after her daughter and son-in-law were deemed unfit parents due to drug issues. Tragic but not unusual.

What made the case particularly frustrating was the lack of traditional evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses, no security footage. The killer moved like a ghost, leaving only bodies and traumatized children behind. The profile suggested someone with a deep-seated rage toward grandparents who interfered with parental rights, but every investigative angle had led to dead ends.

Wilson nodded, adjusting his grip on his service weapon. "Still. Protocol says—"

"I know what protocol says." DeMarco softened her tone. "But sometimes cases don't wait for protocol. Especially when grandparents keep turning up dead."

The latest had been just two days ago—Eleanor Sandoval, strangled in her home while her six-year-old grandson slept upstairs. Three victims now, all over sixty, all recently awarded custody of grandchildren, all dispatched with the same method: garroted with piano wire. The kind of signature that made law enforcement very, very nervous.

"Movement," Wilson mouthed, gesturing toward a stairwell at the far end of the warehouse floor.

DeMarco nodded. She'd seen it too—a shadow slipping up the metal stairs toward the second level. She motioned for Wilson to circle around while she approached directly, providing less chance for their quarry to double back unseen.

The warehouse had once manufactured auto parts, judging by the rusted machinery still bolted to the floor. Decades of neglect had turned it into an obstacle course of debris and hazards. DeMarco picked her way carefully through, keeping her footfalls light despite the tactical boots. She also had to stay alert enough not to step on discarded bolts and screws that littered the floor from whenever this place had still been in operation.

After a few more steps, there was a clatter from above, the sound of metal on metal. It was immediately followed by rapid footsteps rushing away from them.

"FBI! Carlos Mendez, we just want to talk!" DeMarco called, abandoning stealth for directness.

The footsteps accelerated. More concerning was the sound that followed—a rusty groan from what could only be aging infrastructure under sudden stress. It seemed as if he knew his way around this building—another questionable trait as far as DeMarco was concerned.

DeMarco broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind her, she heard Wilson racing along his parallel path toward the second set of stairs. He had great instincts, so she didn't bother to question him.

She came to the top of the stairs and saw that the second level was a suspended catwalk system connecting offices and storage areas. DeMarco caught a glimpse of their target—male, slight build, dark hoodie—disappearing around a corner.

"East side!" she called to Wilson through her shoulder radio. "He's headed your way!"

She didn't wait for an acknowledgment, pushing forward along the catwalk. The metal walkway swayed slightly beneath her weight, loosened bolts protesting. DeMarco registered the danger but didn't slow. Three deaths in less than two weeks demanded urgency over caution.

The catwalks formed a rough square around the main floor below, with perpendicular bridges crossing the center. As she rounded the corner, DeMarco saw Wilson emerging onto the catwalk from the opposite side. Between them, Mendez was caught in the middle, frantically looking for an escape route. He didn't appear to be armed, but he was scared out of his mind.

"Carlos Mendez," DeMarco called, aiming her weapon but keeping her finger outside the trigger guard. "I’m Agent DeMarco with the FBI. We just need to ask some questions."

Mendez looked between them, calculating odds. He looked younger than his personnel file had suggested—mid-twenties at most, with a thin face dominated by darting eyes. DeMarco supposed that if he was desperate enough, I might attempt to jump. He'd likely snap his ankles if he did it, but it was something she knew she had to be prepared for.

"I didn't do anything," he said, his voice high with stress. "I don't know nothing."

"Nobody said you did," Wilson replied, adopting the calming tone they taught at Quantico for de-escalation. He took a step forward, his hands holding his Glock steady. "We just need information about Donald Crawford."

"I told the other cops already. I never talked to the old man. Just fixed his sink once."

DeMarco inched closer from her side. "Then why did you run, Carlos? Why quit your job and disappear as soon as he was found dead?"

Mendez's eyes flicked to the catwalks spanning the center of the warehouse—his only remaining escape route. DeMarco tracked his gaze. They had him cornered, but cornered suspects made unpredictable decisions. And even though there was currently no weapon on his hand, there was no guarantee there wasn’t one hiding under his clothes.

"Immigration," Mendez said finally, his voice trembling. "I heard cops were asking questions. My visa expired last year, and I…I got family depending on me, man."

The pieces clicked together in DeMarco's mind. Not their killer—just a frightened man in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least, that's the story he was choosing to give.

"We're not Immigration," she said, lowering her weapon slightly. "We don't care about your visa, Carlos. We care about catching a murderer before someone else dies. And we have to bring you in for questioning."

Something in her tone must have registered. Mendez's shoulders sagged, the fight visibly leaving him. "I don't know nothing about no murders."

"Maybe not intentionally," Wilson said, taking another step forward. "But sometimes people see things they don't realize are important. Even if you don’t have anything to do with the murder, we still need you to come with us."

“I can’t. No…I can’t…it’s my family…”

"Just come with us, answer some questions, and we'll—" DeMarco began.

The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a horrific metallic shriek. The section of the catwalk beneath Wilson buckled, rust, and age finally surrendering to gravity. Wilson had just enough time to lock eyes with DeMarco, shock registering on his face, before the floor disappeared beneath him.

He fell with a shout, the broken catwalk collapsing after him in a cacophony of twisted metal. DeMarco lunged instinctively toward the gap but stopped short at the edge, watching helplessly as her partner fell. The entire world was frozen for a moment as Wilson fell, suspended in the air. And then he crashed awkwardly to the concrete fifteen feet below.

"Wilson!" she shouted.

The sound of pounding footsteps pulled her attention back to Mendez. He had seized the distraction, sprinting across one of the center spans toward the far side of the warehouse.

"Damn it," DeMarco hissed, torn between rushing to her injured partner and their fleeing suspect.

"I'm okay," Wilson's voice floated up, strained with pain but clear. "Go!"

DeMarco didn't waste time arguing. She ran along her section of catwalk, parallel to Mendez's path, gaining ground as his route forced him to zigzag. Unlike her, he had no training in pursuit tactics. She could still hear the echo of Wilson’s Go and was quite certain there was a great deal of pain in it.

She chased after Mendez, and when he glanced over his shoulder to gauge her position, he nearly collided with a support column. The momentary stumble was all DeMarco needed. She cut across the nearest connecting bridge, calculating her next move. The last thing she needed was to fall and take herself out of the game like Wilson had.

Mendez recovered his footing and bolted toward a door at the far end of the warehouse. DeMarco recognized it from their pre-approach briefing—a fire exit that would lead to a loading dock with multiple escape routes. After that, there was a lot of open space for him to escape into.

"Not happening," she muttered, pushing her pace. Thirty-five and in peak condition, DeMarco could outrun suspects half her age.

Ten feet from the exit, DeMarco launched herself in a flying tackle that would have made her college rugby coach proud. She connected with Mendez's back, sending them both skidding across the corroded metal floor. For a strange moment, as she pressed against his back while he slid painfully, it was almost like sledding.

Mendez fought, his panic lending him strength, but DeMarco had leverage and training. She worked quickly to wrench his arms behind his back. She knew working with handcuffs while trying to keep him still would be difficult, so she instead grabbed zip ties from her pocket.

"Carlos Mendez, you are not under arrest," she said, breathing hard as she patted him down for weapons. "But you are being detained for suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent—"

"I told you, I don't know nothing!" he cut in, struggling against the restraints.

"Then you won't have much to say, will you?" DeMarco hauled him to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. "Now we're going to check on my partner, and you're going to be very cooperative because your cooperation directly influences how interested we are in your immigration status. Understood?"

Mendez sagged in defeat, nodding. He eventually nodded, and DeMarco thought she saw a bit of hope in his eyes as he apparently decided to trust her.

DeMarco guided him back through the warehouse to where Wilson lay amid the twisted remains of the catwalk. He had dragged himself to a sitting position against a support column, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat. DeMarco could clearly see that his leg was broken, angled in a way that made her wince.

"Broke my leg," he said through gritted teeth, gesturing to where his right leg bent at an unnatural angle below the knee. He was already sweating from the pain. "Sorry about the dramatic exit."

"Don't apologize for faulty architecture," DeMarco said, securing Mendez to a stable pipe before kneeling beside Wilson. "How bad?"

"Bad enough. Clean break, I think. Hurts like a son of a—" He stopped himself, hissing back a moan of pain and resting his head against the wall. “Christ…it’s bad…”

She checked his pupils, relieved to find them reactive and even. No obvious head injury, at least. "Hang tight. I'm calling for backup and medical."

As she reached for her phone, it vibrated in her pocket. The screen displayed "Duran-Office." DeMarco frowned. Calls directly from the Director's office rarely brought good news. She almost ignored it to call from emergency medical but figured with a case like this one, ignoring any calls could be a mistake.

"This is Agent DeMarco," she answered, keeping her voice professional despite the chaos around her.

"Agent, it's Eliza." The Director's assistant's voice was tense and somber. "There's been another murder. Petersburg, same MO. Grandmother, sixty-two, custody of an eight-year-old after parental rights were terminated last month."

DeMarco closed her eyes briefly, processing the implication. If it happened while they’d been chasing after Mendez, that meant Mendez absolutely was not their guy. "When?"

"The body was discovered thirty minutes ago. Which means—"

"Our witness here isn't our guy." DeMarco glanced at Mendez, who sat slumped against the pipe, looking more exhausted than dangerous. "He's been in our sights for the past three hours."

She could hear Eliza relaying the information to someone else—presumably Duran himself—before returning to the call.

"The Director wants you at the new scene ASAP."

"Wilson is down with a broken leg, and I've got a detained witness."

A pause, then: "Backup is already en route to your location. They'll handle Agent Wilson and the witness. You need to get to Petersburg."

"Understood," DeMarco said, though frustration colored her tone. How in the hell was she supposed to manage a case like this with her partner sidelined for what would likely be weeks? "ETA for backup?"

"Ten minutes out."

"Tell them to bring medical. Wilson's stable but in lots of pain." She ended the call and turned back to her partner, whose eyes were already questioning.

"Another one?" he asked.

DeMarco nodded. "Petersburg. Same signature."

"But that means—"

"Means we're back to square one." She glanced at Mendez, who was watching their exchange with growing confusion. "And this was a waste of time and a broken leg."

Wilson managed a pained smile. "Well, when you put it that way, my sacrifice seems even more heroic." He grimaced and said, “You can thank me later.”

Despite everything, DeMarco felt a smile tug at her lips. "Careful. You're starting to sound like someone I can actually stand working with."

She filled Wilson in on the backup plan Eliza had given her, then turned her attention to Mendez. He appeared smaller somehow, the fight completely gone from him. It almost seemed that he had picked up on the subtle implications of the call…that he knew he was no longer being viewed as a suspect.

"Carlos, when backup arrives, they're going to take you in for questioning about Donald Crawford,” she said. “Cooperate, answer truthfully, and this could all be over quickly. Understand?"

He nodded, resignation etched in his features. But he still looked around slowly, as if for an escape he had possibly missed.

DeMarco moved back to Wilson, lowering her voice. "I'll check in as soon as I can."

"Go catch this bastard, then,” Wilson said. “Let this busted leg be for something.”

Demarco waited impatiently, not wanting to leave an injured Wilson to look after Mendez. As she waited, her mind felt as if it were on overdrive. Multiple murders with identical signatures didn't happen by accident. Someone was hunting grandparents with systematic precision, and the FBI's usual methods to track down the killer weren't working. They needed an edge—someone who could see the connections they were missing, who could get inside the killer's head and anticipate their next move.

She grinned and shook her head in spite of herself. She knew exactly what they needed.

They needed Kate Wise.

She knew that Kate had been adamant about maintaining boundaries since Michael's birth, limiting her involvement to case file review and occasional phone consultations. But some cases demanded extraordinary measures.

And some patterns could only be unraveled by experienced eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

Kate set her mug of Earl Grey on the coffee table and tilted her head to listen to the baby monitor. It remained blissfully silent. Michael had finally surrendered to his afternoon nap after a morning of seemingly boundless energy. The quiet felt almost disorienting after hours of babbling, crying, and the constant percussion of toys being banged against the floor.

She stretched her legs out on the sofa, savoring the rare moment of stillness. Two-thirty in the afternoon, and her day already felt complete. They had gone to the park that morning, Michael squealing with delight at the ducks in the pond. Then lunch, which had ended with more puree on the floor than in his mouth. Now, with her son asleep and the house peaceful, Kate had a precious window to focus.

The case files lay spread before her, photos and reports documenting lives violently ended. Three grandparents were murdered in their homes shortly after gaining custody of their grandchildren. The crime scenes were remarkably clean, suggesting a methodical, experienced killer. No forced entry, no evidence of struggle until the final moments, and the same signature: piano wire garrote.

Kate sipped her tea, allowing her mind to slip into the analytical mode that had served her through three decades of hunting killers. Whoever was doing this had a personal connection to the scenario. That was much abundantly clear. This wasn't random targeting; it was specific, calculated, emotionally driven.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Allen, interrupting her train of thought. Just wrapped up at Magnolia Gardens. Place is perfect. Home in about an hour. Love you both.

Kate smiled, warmth spreading through her chest. Magnolia Gardens was a restored Victorian home on the outskirts of Richmond, surrounded by five acres of meticulously maintained gardens. They had driven past it once on a weekend outing soon after Michael was born and had both commented on its charm. Trust Allen to remember and investigate it as a wedding venue. And to handle all the extroversion that came with trying to book such a place.

It was hard to believe that it was just six weeks until she became Mrs. Goldman. The thought still caught her off guard sometimes. After her first husband, Michael’s murder, Kate had never expected to find love again, much less to start a second family in her fifties. Yet here she was, planning a wedding and raising a one-year-old—a life so different from the one she had imagined for herself that it sometimes felt like she had stepped into someone else's reality.

She typed back a quick response: Can't wait to hear details. Michael finally down for his nap. Love you too.

As she set her phone down, her gaze returned to the case files. The latest victim—a grandmother in Petersburg—followed the same pattern as the others. There was a logic to the killer's selection process, but what was it?

"You're missing something, Kate," she murmured to herself. But what it was, she had no idea. It was there…it had to be. But this killer seemed to be not only deadly, but crafty as well.

Her phone rang, and she looked down to see Melissa's name flashing on the screen. Her heart warmed a bit; it wasn't exactly rare for Melissa to call, but it happened infrequently enough that each time was a treat. Kate checked the baby monitor again before answering. He was still peacefully asleep.

She answered with, "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey, Mom." Melissa's voice carried its usual mix of warmth and barely concealed worry. "Just checking in. How are you both doing?"

"We're fine," Kate assured her, shifting to sit up straighter. "Michael's napping, and I'm enjoying the silence."

"And Allen?"

"Meeting with the venue coordinator. Looks like we've found our wedding location."

"Magnolia Gardens?"

"The very one. If it meets Allen's exacting standards, I'm sure it will be beautiful."

Melissa laughed softly. "He does have good taste. I mean, he chose you, after all."

Kate smiled at the compliment. Her relationship with her daughter had weathered rough patches over the years, particularly during Kate's return to FBI fieldwork. But Michael's birth had shifted something, bringing them closer as they navigated the unusual dynamic of having babies just five years apart. Now, of course, Melissa remained in a constant state of worry over her fifty-seven-year-old mother raising a baby.

"How's Michelle?" Kate asked. It felt like far too long since she’d seen her granddaughter. The grandmother of a toddler and now the mother of a newborn…it all still felt very surreal.

"Testing boundaries at every opportunity,” Melissa said. “Terry's convinced she's going to be a lawyer with how she negotiates for extra screen time."

"Speaking of Terry, how is he? I haven't seen him since your cookout last month."

"Good. Busy with the promotion." There was a pause, and Kate sensed there was more coming. "Actually, we've been doing some estate planning stuff. Life insurance, wills, all that fun adulting."

"Very responsible," Kate said, proud but also slightly unsettled at the reminder that her daughter was fully grown, making these major life decisions. And that she was already thinking about the end.

"Yeah, well, Michelle made us realize we need to have everything in order. You know, just in case."

Kate's stomach tightened at the words "just in case." It was the phrase that haunted parents, the specter of worst-case scenarios that never completely disappeared, no matter how safe and secure life seemed.

"Anyway," Melissa continued, clearly trying to keep her tone casual, "we met with the lawyer yesterday, and I realized I never told you. If…" She stopped for a moment, and Kate could practically feel the tension building on the other side of the phone. "If anything happens to both of us, Michelle would go to Terry's mom."

The statement landed with unexpected weight. Kate found herself momentarily speechless, processing the information that felt strangely like a rejection. It was odd because Kate knew instantly that it was the right decision. Terry's mom was, after all, about ten years younger than Kate. But it also stung like hell.

"Mom? You there?"

"Yes, sorry." Kate rallied quickly. "That makes sense. Jean is younger than me, and she lives closer to Michelle's school. It…yes, it makes sense."

The explanation sounded hollow even to her own ears. Jean Fischer was a lovely woman—kind, stable, devoted to her granddaughter. But the revelation that Kate wasn't the designated guardian for her only grandchild stung in a way she hadn't anticipated.

"It wasn't about age, Mom," Melissa said, clearly sensing Kate's discomfort. "It's just... Jean is already so integrated into Michelle's daily routine. She picks her up from school three days a week, hosts sleepovers on Saturdays. And with you having Michael now—"

"You don't need to explain," Kate interrupted, more sharply than she intended. "It's a good choice. Jean will be wonderful if it ever comes to that, which it won't, because you and Terry are going to live to be a hundred. Maybe one hundred and twenty because by then, medicine will be so advanced." The last bit was meant to be an attempt at comic relief but fell short.

A brief silence followed, the tension palpable even through the phone connection.

"Mom, are you upset?"

Kate took a deep breath, forcing herself to examine the reaction objectively. Why did this bother her so much? Was it pride? Fear of being excluded from her granddaughter's life? Or something deeper—a reminder of all the ways her career had created distance between herself and Melissa? Of how they had never been as close as Kate would have liked?

"No, I’m not upset," she said finally. "Just surprised, I guess. But it's the right decision for Michelle. It stings a bit, I won’t lie about that. But…no, it’s the right decision."

"You're sure? Because your tone says otherwise."

"I'm fine, Melissa. Really." Kate glanced at the case files spread before her, a convenient excuse to change the subject. "I'm actually in the middle of reviewing some consultation work for the bureau.”

"Another case?" Melissa's voice tightened. "I thought you were just doing occasional file reviews."

"That's all this is," Kate assured her. "Looking for patterns and clues. Nothing field-related."

Before Melissa could respond, Kate's phone buzzed with another incoming call. She pulled the device away from her ear to check the screen and felt a surge of surprise at the name displayed. And maybe a bit of excitement.

"Honey, I've got to take this. It's DeMarco."

"Your old partner? I thought—"

"We'll talk later, okay? Love you." Kate switched calls before Melissa could protest, a twinge of guilt at the abrupt dismissal quickly overshadowed by curiosity. Not my best moment, she thought as she took the call.

"DeMarco? This is unexpected."

"Kate. Sorry to call out of the blue." DeMarco's voice carried the strained edge Kate recognized from difficult cases—tightly controlled but with an undercurrent of frustration. DeMarco was worried about something…maybe frustrated.

"No apology needed. It's good to hear from you. How have you been?"

"Busy. You know how it goes." DeMarco paused. "How's the little one?"

"Growing too fast. He’s crawling now, which means I spend most of my day chasing him. We’ve baby-proofed nearly everything, but he’s just so fast!”

DeMarco laughed, but it sounded perfunctory. "And the wedding plans?"

"Coming along. Six weeks to go." Kate cut to the chase, sensing this wasn't a social call. "But I'm guessing you didn't call to catch up on my domestic bliss. No offense…"

A sigh came through the line. "No, I didn't. You always did see through a line of bullshit really well. Look…I need your help, Kate."

There it was—the request Kate had been both expecting and dreading since stepping back from active duty. The inevitable moment when the life she'd built and the life she'd left behind collided. It made her feel wanted, which, she supposed, was great. But it also once again brought up the constant wrestling match about wanting to continue some sort of career but also wanting to focus solely on her family.

"What's going on?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm working the grandparent murder case. The one Duran's been sending you files on."

Kate's gaze fell to the crime scene photos on her coffee table. "I know the one. The third victim was a—."

"We’re up to five now. A new one in Petersburg. I’m headed there now."

“That was…that was fast. That’s just a little over twenty-four hours between the last two.”

"We're spinning our wheels, Kate. Multiple victims, identical MO, no leads. To top it all off, my new partner just got sidelined with a broken leg, and I'm... I'm out of ideas."

There was a vulnerability in the admission that spoke to their years together. DeMarco had been assigned as Kate's partner when she returned from her first retirement—initially as a babysitter, though neither of them had acknowledged it at the time. They had evolved into a formidable team, with Kate's experience complementing DeMarco's energy and technical skills.

"Tell me what you need," Kate said, shifting into the professional mode that still fit her like a second skin, despite months of disuse.

"Your eyes on this. Your brain. Your instincts." DeMarco hesitated. "I know you've stepped back, and I respect that. But this killer is accelerating. Four victims in three weeks, and we have nothing. I need you there…not just looking at photos. And let’s be honest…Duran would back me up on this. Just as a consultant."

Kate glanced at the baby monitor, the soft rise and fall of Michael's chest visible on the screen. Her commitment to him, to Allen, to their family—it had been absolute when she made it. No more fieldwork. No more putting herself in the line of fire.

But consulting was different. Offering insights from a scene, spotting connections others might miss—that wouldn't put her in danger. It would just put her back in the game, if only temporarily.

"What specifically are you asking, DeMarco?"

"I'm headed to the Petersburg scene now. Could you... would you be willing to meet me there? Just to look, to tell me what you see. No official involvement, no reports to file, nothing dangerous. Just your insight."

The request hung between them, laden with all the complications it would introduce into Kate's carefully balanced life. Petersburg was less than an hour away. She could be there and back before Michael's afternoon routine was disrupted. Allen would understand—he always did. But it would be a step back toward the world she had deliberately left behind. A world of violence and darkness that she had promised herself would no longer touch her new family.

"Kate? Are you there?"

She looked again at the case files—at the lives ended, the children left behind. Four grandparents who had stepped up to raise their grandchildren when the parents couldn't were murdered in their homes where they should have been safe. And somewhere, a killer was planning the next attack. Selecting the next victim. Another grandparent, another child who would be traumatized.

The parallel to what Melissa had just told her wasn't lost on Kate. If something happened to Melissa and Terry, Michelle would go to Jean. And if something happened to Jean? Would the child be subjected to the foster system, to strangers, to the cold machinery of the state?

Every child deserves protection. Every grandparent who took on the responsibility of raising a second generation deserved justice.

"Text me the address," Kate heard herself say, the decision crystallizing even as the words left her mouth. "I need to wait for Allen to get home and run this by him. But if all goes smoothly, I can be there…oh, I don’t know. Maybe an hour? Two at most."

The relief in DeMarco's voice was palpable. "Thank you, Kate. I mean it."

"Just to consult," Kate clarified, as much for herself as for DeMarco. "I'll look at the scene, give you my thoughts, and that's it. I'm not coming back to the Bureau."

"Understood. Just your eyes on this, nothing more."

“See you soon.”

As they ended the call, Kate sat motionless for a moment, processing what she had just committed to. One scene visit. One investigation. One killer. It didn't have to mean a return to her old life. It was just a momentary detour, a chance to use her skills for good one more time.

She checked her watch. Allen wouldn't be home for at least another half an hour. Kate looked again at the baby monitor, at her son sleeping peacefully, untroubled by the darkness she was preparing to step back into. Then her gaze shifted to the wedding planner on the side table, filled with details for the ceremony that would officially unite their family. Allen's handwriting filled the margins with notes about music selections and meal options.

The two worlds didn't have to intersect. She could keep them separate and protect her family from the ugliness she had spent her career confronting.

The thought took root, growing in appeal as she considered it. A few hours at most, there and back. A chance to help without disrupting Michael's routine or making Allen worry that she was falling back into old habits.

She wondered, though, how he might take this. This wasn't what they had agreed to when she stepped back from the Bureau. This wasn't the clear boundary she had promised to maintain.

But four families had been shattered. Four children had lost their guardians. She knew Allen would understand her draw to it, but there was no guarantee that he’d be as supportive as she hoped. She just had to count on the fact that he’d understand this. That he would see that for her, some instincts never faded. Some callings never completely released their hold.

Besides, this wasn’t a normal thing…just a freak occurrence, really. Just one case. Just one consultation.

Just one more hunt.

Honestly, she was a little spooked by how excited she felt…and she could barely wait to get on the road to Petersburg.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kate parked her car in front of the Tudor-style home on Maple Avenue. It looked similar to all of its neighbors, right down to the struggling flower bed out front. As she brought the car to a stop, Kate realized that she'd parked behind DeMarco's government-issued sedan. Ahead of DeMarco's car, there were two police vehicles already lining the street. It was just a bit past four in the afternoon, and the sun cast long shadows across the neat lawns of the middle-class neighborhood.

DeMarco appeared at her car door before Kate had even turned off the engine, her expression a mixture of relief and residual stress.

"Kate." DeMarco's greeting was simple, but the word carried weight. "Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't have missed it," Kate replied, gathering her jacket from the passenger seat. There was an awkward moment where she thought they might hug. Yes, they had seen one another a few times since she’d stepped away, but this was different. It was almost like a band getting back together after a long time apart.

They stood for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. Three months since they'd last spoken, nearly a year since they'd worked a scene together. DeMarco looked well—tired, frustrated by the case, but still the sharp-eyed agent Kate remembered. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, her blazer wrinkled from hours of work.

"How's your partner holding up?” Kate asked, breaking the tension.

"Wilson's good. Different from working with you—younger, follows the book more closely."

Kate laughed softly and said, “I meant the leg. You said he broke it, right?”

“Oh…yeah.” DeMarco paused, clearly a little embarrassed. "He's in the hospital right now. He was on a catwalk that collapsed earlier this afternoon.”

"Jesus. Is he okay?"

"He'll heal. But it means I'm flying solo on this. Which is why I called you." DeMarco gestured toward the house. "Margaret Thornton, sixty-two. Recently gained custody of her eight-year-old granddaughter after parental rights were terminated. Found this morning by her son when he arrived for a visit."

As they walked up the brick path to the front door, Kate's professional instincts automatically cataloged details. Well-maintained landscaping, no signs of forced entry on the front door, curtains drawn but not unusual for a Tuesday afternoon in early fall. DeMarco showed her ID to the policeman at the door.

“Agent DeMarco, FBI. And this is former agent Kate Wise, working as a consultant.”

The policeman only gave them a little nod of acknowledgement as they entered the house. Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender and coffee. The living room was tidy—throw pillows perfectly arranged on a floral sofa, magazines fanned across the coffee table. In this room, at least, there appeared to be no signs of struggle.

"Same MO as the others?" Kate asked, pulling on the latex gloves DeMarco handed her.

"Identical. Piano wire garrote, no forced entry, no defensive wounds suggesting she saw her attacker coming."

They moved through the house methodically. Kate felt the familiar rhythm returning—observe, catalog, theorize. The kitchen showed signs of lunch: a single plate and mug in the dish drainer, a scattering of crumbs on the small, marble kitchen island.

"She lived alone?" Kate asked.

"Yeah. She and her husband divorced about fifteen years ago, and she never remarried. According to public records." DeMarco consulted her notes. "She has a son who lives a few towns away, and things are rather strained with them."

“Is he the father of the granddaughter?”

“Yes. He’s an only child.”

They climbed the stairs to the second floor, and Kate felt the first real surge of adrenaline. Not the panicked rush that came with active pursuit, but the focused energy that had powered her through decades of investigation. Her mind shifted gears, processing details with the intensity she'd thought she'd left behind.

The master bedroom told a clearer story. Margaret Thornton had been sitting at her vanity when she died—evidence in the overturned jewelry box and the broken picture frame that had fallen as she struggled. The piano wire was gone, taken by the killer as with all the other scenes. But the indentations in the carpet showed where she'd fought, where she'd fallen, where she'd finally succumbed. There were two small specks of blood on the light blue carpet.

"He approached from behind," Kate said, moving to stand behind the vanity chair. "She was focused on her reflection, didn't see him coming. Quick, practiced—this wasn’t his first time, after all."

"Obviously," DeMarco agreed. "But what's the connection? What makes him choose these specific victims?"

Kate studied the room again, noting the carefully arranged photographs on the dresser—Margaret with her son, recent photos of a small girl who must be the granddaughter.

“I assume the granddaughter is with Child Protective Services?”

“That’s right.”

“Not with the son…her father?”

“No. I don’t know the full story there, but he’s on his way over. I just know there’s some nasty family history. And I’m going to assume the granddaughter has something to do with it.”

"It's personal," she said finally. "Not random targeting. He has a specific scenario in mind, and he's recreating it. Or maybe…maybe trying to play out some scene he desires."

"A scenario involving grandparents taking custody?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's about something that happened when he was a child. A trauma involving custody, grandparents, family dysfunction." Kate moved to the window, peering out at the backyard. There was a. very thin grove of trees out there, separating the property from what appeared to be another lot beyond.

The thought of trauma and family dysfunction sent a cold spike through Kate's chest as she thought of the granddaughter. Another child orphaned by violence, shuffled into a system already overwhelmed. She thought of Michael back home, probably about to have an early dinner with Allen. The comfortable routine of their afternoon was disrupted by her decision to be here. Allen had been more than supportive—even encouraging when he found out there was no danger involved. But she still felt a pang of guilt.

"Kate?" DeMarco's voice held concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I’m fine." Kate shook off the momentary lapse, refocusing on the scene. "Have you run background checks on all the victims?"

"Of course. No obvious connections beyond the custody situations. Of course, this one is newer, so full details aren’t back yet."

"Something like this…that might include trauma…maybe we need to look back farther. Maybe even into the childhood histories of the victims. Maybe past custody battles they might have been involved in, either as children or as adults intervening for other family members."

Kate moved back to the vanity, crouching to examine the carpet where Margaret had fallen. The indentations told their story—initial struggle, desperate movement, final stillness. But something nagged at her, a detail that didn't quite fit.

"The jewelry box," she said, pointing to the fallen item. "Why was it open?"

DeMarco looked where she indicated. "Maybe she was putting on jewelry when he approached?"

"Possible. But look at the pattern of the spilled jewelry." Kate traced the scatter with her finger, careful not to disturb the evidence. "It fell forward, not sideways. As if she deliberately knocked it over during the struggle."

"A signal? A way to mark what happened?"

"Or a message." She shrugged and said, “Or maybe he was just pissed off.” Kate stood, her knees protesting the movement. Another reminder of age, another pull toward home and comfort. "Has anyone checked if anything's missing from the jewelry?"

"We photographed everything. Her son will need to determine if anything was taken."

The mention of the son pulled Kate's attention to their next task. She glanced toward the door, hearing voices from downstairs—law enforcement conducting interviews, gathering statements, trying to piece together Margaret Thornton's final hours.

"Maybe that’s the son?" she asked.

"Could be. And right now, he’s the only person who can give us inside information. But…I suspect there might be some drama.”

Kate nodded. Shock manifested differently in everyone. Some people became hysterical, others retreated into themselves, and some developed an eerie calm that let them function despite the horror. She wondered where the son would fall.

"Let's talk to him," she decided, moving toward the bedroom door.

As they walked down the hallway, Kate's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it—probably Allen wondering where she was, maybe concerned about Michael. The guilt tugged at her again, stronger this time. She'd promised herself this would be a quick consultation, in and out. But here she was, diving deeper into the investigation, feeling the pull of the hunt, and about to speak to someone who had just lost a loved one.

"Kate?" DeMarco had stopped at the top of the stairs. "You sure you want to do this? You've given me plenty to work with already. I can take the interview if you need to—"

"I'm fine," Kate interrupted, then softened her tone. "I promised Allen I'd be home by seven. This shouldn't take much longer."

They descended the stairs together, and Kate heard the low voices coming from the living room more clearly now. Two local officers, one asking questions in the gentle but persistent tone she knew well. And another voice, responding with careful precision, each word measured and controlled as if trying to keep in a well of emotion—almost certainly the son.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Kate caught herself checking her watch. 4:35. If she left by five-thirty, she could still make it home before Michael's dinner time. Still maintain the boundaries she'd set for herself.

But the voice from the living room drew her forward. Something in its tone—the way Daniel Thornton answered each question with such careful consideration—triggered her investigative instincts. Not quite normal for someone who'd just discovered his mother's murdered body.

"Ready?" DeMarco asked quietly.

Kate took a breath, feeling the familiar tension that preceded important interviews. The space between the personal and professional, between what she wanted to do and what she needed to do.

"Let's go," she said, moving toward the living room where Daniel Thornton—and hopefully more answers to this case—waited.

CHAPTER FIVE

Daniel Thornton sat at his mother's dining room table, his elbows braced on its polished surface, hands covering his face. From her the other side of the table across from him, Kate could see the trembling in his shoulders. He was a tall man, probably in his late thirties, with prematurely graying hair that was already starting to thin at the crown. His shirt was wrinkled, as if he'd thrown it on in a hurry.

"Mr. Thornton," DeMarco began, her voice gentle but professional. "I know this is an incredibly difficult time for you, but we need to ask you some questions about your mother. And time may very well be of the essence."

Daniel lowered his hands, revealing red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah, of course. Whatever you need. But first…where’s my daughter? Where’s Lily? Is she safe?” His voice sounded raw, like he'd been crying for hours even though no more than an hour or two could have passed since he’s learned of his mother’s death.

“Yes, she’s fine,” DeMarco said. “She’s with a CPS worker."

Kate studied him carefully. There was grief here, certainly, but something else too. Guilt, maybe? Or relief? After all these years in the field, she could usually read people well enough to pick up on the undercurrents. Granted, it was a bit harder to do when there were tears involved.

"Can you tell us about your relationship with your mother?" DeMarco asked.

Daniel let out a bitter laugh. "What relationship? We've been fighting in court for the past eighteen months." He looked down at his hands, fidgeting with a piece of paper on the table. "Mom had custody of Lily—my daughter. She was raising her while I... while I got myself together."

Kate leaned forward slightly. "And were you getting yourself together?"

"I'm clean," Daniel said quickly, defensively. "A little less than six months sober now. I go to meetings three times a week. Got myself a steady job at the warehouse. I've been trying so hard to prove I could be a good father to Lily."

"But your mother didn't believe you were ready?" Kate prompted.

Daniel's expression hardened. "Mom thought I was still the same screw-up I was two years ago when Lily's mom died. I was already drinking a lot anyway, but when she died…I went way overboard. It was got bad…messy. And mom wouldn't give me a chance. She said I needed at least a year of sobriety before she'd even consider letting me have partial custody."

"That must have been frustrating," DeMarco said.

"Frustrating?" Daniel's voice rose slightly. "It was hell. Do you know what it's like seeing your own kid every other weekend like some weekend visitor? And even then, Mom would hover. She'd sit right there in the living room during my visits, watching every move I made. She wasn’t like a mom…she was like some goon from a government agency making sure everything went okay."

Kate wrote down a few notes, her pen moving quickly. "When did your mother get permanent custody?"

"Three days ago." Daniel's voice went quiet. "The judge ruled in her favor. Said I needed more time to prove myself. Mom walked out of that courthouse with this smug expression, and I..." He stopped, catching himself.

"You what, Mr. Thornton?" DeMarco asked.

Daniel shook his head. "Nothing. I just left. Went straight to a meeting. I wasn't going to let her drive me to drink again. In my heart, I know that’s not what she wanted but in those moments….in those moments, it’s hard to think otherwise."

Kate studied his face, noting the way he avoided eye contact when he spoke about his mother. "Did you have any contact with your mother after the custody hearing?"

"She called me yesterday morning," Daniel admitted. "Wanted to rub it in, I guess. Told me I'd get supervised visitation once a month if I was lucky."

"How did that make you feel?" Kate asked.

Daniel's hands clenched into fists. "How do you think it made me feel? She was stealing my kid from me. But I didn't do anything about it. I went to work. I covered my afternoon shift. You can check with my supervisor….you know, if that’s why you’re needing to talk to me. To eliminate me as a suspect or whatever."

DeMarco nodded and looked over to Kate. "We'll need to do that. Did your mother mention anything else during that call?"

"Yeah," Daniel said bitterly. "She said she was going to petition the court to terminate my parental rights entirely. Said it would be better for Lily in the long run. And for me, too.”

Kate felt something click in her mind—not a complete picture yet, but pieces starting to fall into place. A mother who fought for custody. A child caught in the middle. The killer's pattern of targeting grandparents who'd recently won custody battles. It seemed almost like an obvious connection at first, but she was certain there would also be something more sinister lurking underneath.

"Mr. Thornton," she said, "is there anyone else who might have been upset about your mother gaining custody? Another family member, perhaps? Or someone who disagreed with the court's decision?"

Daniel looked confused. "I don't understand. Are you saying someone might have killed Mom over a custody case?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," DeMarco said smoothly. "Was there anyone who supported your case for custody?"

"I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so. I…wait. Are you…are you saying you think she was murdered? That someone targeted her for some reason?”

Kate glanced at DeMarco. They'd deliberately kept the details vague until now.

"Yes, Mr. Thornton," DeMarco said gently. "Your mother was murdered. Someone killed her in her bedroom last night…and the case we’re working on indicates that she is not the first. So anything you can tell us would be an enormous help."

Daniel's face went completely pale. "Who…God, who’s going to tell Lily?" Daniel's voice broke. "How do you tell an eight-year-old that..."

Kate felt her chest tighten, thinking of her own Michael waiting at home. "Mr. Thornton, why did you come by yesterday if your mother had made it clear she didn’t want you to have dealings with her or her daughter?”

“I was trying to mend things. Make things right. I’ve been so messed up and…and…” He trailed off, fighting back tears that managed to sneak past his eyes.

“Can you tell us where were you last night between eight and midnight?" Kate asked.

"At home. I got off work at seven, went home, heated up leftovers, watched TV. I was in bed by ten. I have to be at work early." He stared at them both. "You really think I killed her?"

"We have to ask," DeMarco said. "Can anyone verify that you were home?"

"No, I live alone. But I swear, I didn't... I wouldn't..." Daniel's voice cracked. "She was driving me crazy, yeah. But she was still my mother. And she loved Lily. She'd do anything for Lily."

Kate made another note, her mind working through the fragments of theory forming in her head. The custody battle. The timing. The personal nature of the murders.

"Mr. Thornton, we're going to need to ask you not to leave the city anytime soon," DeMarco said, standing up. "We may need to speak with you again.”

“Of course. No problem.”

“And we'll need a detailed list of everyone who was involved in the custody case," Kate said.

Daniel nodded absently, still looking shell-shocked. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you need."

They excused themselves, walking past the cop by the door again. Outside, another patrol car had joined the scene. As they walked back out across the yard, Kate felt the familiar pull of an active case. It had been months since she'd felt this particular combination of adrenaline and focused concentration. The late afternoon sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, and she knew Michael would be getting fussy for dinner soon, but her mind was already spinning through possibilities.

"What do you think?" DeMarco asked once they were out of earshot.

"I think Daniel Thornton has motive, but something's not sitting right," Kate said carefully. "The other victims—Donald Crawford and the others—did they all have family members fighting for custody?"

DeMarco pulled out her phone, scrolling through notes. "Donald's daughter had been trying to get her kids back from him for months. And Eleanor Sandoval... yes, her son had been fighting with her about the kids being in her care."

Kate felt more pieces clicking into place. She stopped walking, turning to face DeMarco. The theory was still incomplete, but the pattern was becoming clearer. "They're targeting grandparents who've won custody battles, specifically those who've interfered with their adult children's parenting." She used air quotes—rather awkwardly—when she said interfered.

"But why?" DeMarco asked. "What's the motive?"

"I'm not sure yet," Kate admitted. "It could be someone who feels strongly about keeping kids with their parents. Or someone who's been through something similar and has developed a twisted sense of right and wrong."

DeMarco nodded slowly. "You know what might help? Coming back to the field office with me. We've got all the case files, crime scene photos, witness statements... two heads might be better than one on this."

Kate hesitated, glancing at her watch. It was already past five. She knew Allen was completely gin to handle Michael on his own, but she would actively be stepping across boundaries they had set up.

But then she looked back at DeMarco and saw the familiar eagerness in her former partner's eyes, the same look they used to share when they were on the verge of a breakthrough. The nostalgia hit her like a wave—late nights bent over case files, the satisfaction of connecting dots that no one else could see, the partnership that had always clicked so seamlessly.

"You know what?" Kate said, making the decision before she could talk herself out of it. "Yes. Let's head back to the office. I've got the files at home, but you're right. Maybe we'll see something new together."

DeMarco's face lit up with a smile that reminded Kate of why she'd always enjoyed working with her. "Great. Thanks, Kate. I know that Duran is going to appreciate it, too."

As they walked back toward their cars, Kate pulled out her phone, already composing a text to Allen. Working longer than expected. Will be home for Michael's bedtime. So sorry. Love you.

She hit send, then caught her reflection in her car window. The woman looking back at her still looked tired, still had bags under her eyes from too many nights up with Michael, but there was something else there now—a spark she hadn't seen in months.

"Kate?" DeMarco was already at her car, keys in hand. "You okay?"

Kate smiled, the gesture genuine for the first time all day. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's go solve this thing."

As she got back into the car, Allen texted her back. She smiled and found herself close to tears at his response. Sounds like fun, actually. (Not FUN, but you know what I mean). Enjoy it. Michael and I will order some pizza, have a few beers. Love you!

The smile remained on her face for quite a while. The drive back to Richmond stretched ahead of her, but Kate barely noticed. Her mind was already racing ahead to the field office, to the case files, to the pattern that was just beginning to emerge. She knew she should feel guilty for choosing this over rushing home to Michael and Allen, but instead, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.

She felt like herself again.

CHAPTER SIX

The Richmond field office looked exactly as Kate remembered it: a six-story redbrick building with stately columns framing the entrance. The FBI seal was prominently displayed on the glass over the front doors. As she entered the lobby with DeMarco, the familiar scent of industrial carpet cleaner and coffee greeted her. It had been almost a year since she'd been here in person, though she'd spent over two decades of her life walking through these doors.

"I always forget how quiet it gets after hours," DeMarco said, swiping her access card at the security gate.

Kate nodded, acutely aware of the visitor badge clipped to her blazer. After years of wearing her own credentials, the plastic visitor tag felt like a strange demotion. Almost like a piece of costume jewelry.

"Conference room three is open," DeMarco said as they stepped into the elevator. "I've already got everything set up there. It’s been sort of my base of operations since this whole case started."

Kate leaned against the elevator wall. "How's Wilson doing? Any update on his leg?"

"He texted about ten minutes ago. Clean break, thankfully. Six to eight weeks of recovery, though. He's not happy about the desk duty that’s sure to come his way."

"No one ever is," Kate said with a small smile.

The elevator doors opened to the third floor, and Kate followed DeMarco down the familiar hallway. The office had been renovated since she'd last worked here full-time—new carpeting, updated lighting fixtures, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, But the layout remained the same. Kate felt that she could navigate these corridors blindfolded.

Conference room three was midsize, with a long oval table surrounded by eight chairs. A digital projector hung from the ceiling, and a whiteboard covered one wall. Three large evidence boxes sat on the table, alongside a laptop and several manila folders.

"Command center," DeMarco said, gesturing to the setup. "I've got everything we have on both victims. Now, I guess I’ll be adding material on our third."

Kate set her purse down on one of the chairs and pulled out her phone. She'd receive a text from Allen with a picture attached. It was a photo of Michael with some sort of goo around the corners of his mouth. Michael just had dinner. All good here. Take your time.

Kate quickly typed back a response—Thanks. Will try to be home by 9—then put her phone away. She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, rolling up her sleeves.

"Let's start with basics," she said, falling effortlessly into the familiar rhythm of case analysis. With her family waiting back at home, she didn’t see the point in beating around the bush. "Three victims, including Thornton. All grandparents who recently won custody of their grandchildren."

DeMarco nodded, tapping at her laptop. "Richard Bennet, 65. Eleanor Sandoval, 62. Margaret Thornton, 62."

"And all killed within a week of gaining custody, correct?" Kate asked.

"Bennet, four days after. Sandoval, two days after. Thornton, three days after."

Kate walked to the whiteboard and picked up a marker. She divided the board into three columns and wrote each victim's name at the top. She was very aware of DeMarco’s eyes on her. "Let's get the timeline straight," she said, writing the dates of the custody rulings and the murders beneath each name. "And let's confirm cause of death for each."

"All three were strangulation with piano wire," DeMarco said, opening one of the folders. "The ME confirmed identical ligature marks on the first two, and preliminary results on Thornton show the same."

Kate nodded, writing this information on the board. The familiar task of organizing information, of creating visual connections between facts, felt like slipping into a comfortable old sweater. For months, she'd been focused on midnight feedings and diaper changes, of trying to find where the blurry line between grandmother and mother existed. This—this methodical pursuit of a killer—was something entirely different. Something she'd been missing without fully realizing it. And it had been far too easy to fall back into.

"Do we have photos of the crime scenes?" Kate asked.

DeMarco nodded, spreading several eight-by-tens across the table. Kate leaned over them, studying each one carefully. Neat room, hardly any indication that something deadly had occurred in any of them.

"No signs of forced entry in any of the homes," she noted.

"Right. And minimal disturbance at the scenes. The killer knew what they were doing."

Kate picked up a photo of Richard Bennet's living room. The elderly man lay sprawled near his armchair, a thin line of blood visible around his neck where the wire had cut into his skin. A single spilled cup of tea could be seen to the right.

"Bennet was attacked from behind while sitting in his chair, enjoying some tea," Kate said.

"Most likely," DeMarco agreed. "Eleanor Sandoval was attacked on the stairs, and Margaret Thornton at her vanity. All from behind."

Kate wrote this information on the board. "So the killer approached from behind in each case. Quick, efficient. They knew exactly what they were doing."

"And knew how to get into each home without breaking in," DeMarco added. "Either they had access, or the victims let them in willingly."

Kate nodded, turning back to the photos. "What do we know about the children involved?"

DeMarco pulled out another folder and quickly scanned through a few different documents. "Bennet had custody of his 10-year-old grandson, Tyler. Sandoval had her 6-year-old grandson, Marco. And Thornton had her 8-year-old granddaughter, Lily."

"And in each case, who were they gaining custody from?"

"This is where it gets interesting," DeMarco said, pulling out three more files. "Bennet's son is currently serving five years for drug distribution. That custody hearing was essentially unopposed."

Kate wrote this information on the board. "So Bennet's son wasn't fighting the custody ruling."

"No, and he was already incarcerated when his father was killed. Sandoval's case is even clearer—she gained custody after her daughter and son-in-law died in a car accident six months ago. The formal ruling just came through two days before she was killed."

"No custody battle there either," Kate said, adding this to the board. "What about Thornton?"

"That's the only one with an actual dispute, as we got that straight from Daniel’s mouth. Daniel was fighting his mother for custody of Lily after his wife died and he went into a downward spiral with his drinking.”

Kate nodded. "Which he admitted to us today. He said he was six months sober."

"Do you think he could be our guy?" DeMarco asked. “And we just walked away from him?”

Kate considered it for a moment. "He has motive for his mother's murder, certainly. But the timeline he gave us about work would be easy enough to check. And he would have had to move very fast to commit the murder after work. I personally don't think it's him. But what about the other two? There's no connection I can see."

"We'll verify his alibi for all three murders, but I agree. He doesn't feel right for this."

Kate paced the length of the conference room, the familiar motion helping her think. She patted the marker in her hand like a baton. "So we have three grandparents who gained custody of young children, all killed shortly after the formal custody ruling. Two cases had no opposition, one did."

"What connects them?" DeMarco mused.

"The killer has to have known about all three custody cases," Kate said. "That narrows it down. Who would have that information?"

"Court employees, social workers, maybe attorneys involved in family court," DeMarco suggested.

Kate nodded, writing these possibilities on the board. "The killer might be targeting grandparents who gain custody. For what reason? Well, that’s anyone’s guess. Maybe the killer was raised by grandparents themselves and had a negative experience."

"Or they could be a parent who lost custody to the grandparents and is generalizing their rage," DeMarco added.

Kate stopped pacing. "Could be. Either way, we're looking at someone with a deep emotional connection to this specific situation. This isn't random."

DeMarco nodded, typing notes into her laptop. "I'll get us a list of court employees who had access to all three cases. And I'll check if there are any other similar custody rulings in the past month."

Kate felt a familiar buzz of energy, the sense of a case beginning to take shape. She glanced at her watch—7:15 PM. Michael would be getting ready for his bath soon. She pushed the thought aside, focusing on the board in front of her.

"The lack of forced entry is significant," she said. "The victims either knew their killer or had reason to trust them. Or the killer is just masterful at breaking and entering.”

"It would be someone who would naturally be at a grandparent's house after a custody ruling," DeMarco suggested. "Social worker maybe?"

"Possible," Kate said. "But social workers don't typically follow up that quickly after a ruling unless there's concern for the child."

"What about a court-appointed counselor?" DeMarco suggested. "Someone who might check in on the transition?"

Kate added this to the board. "That would explain access to multiple cases, and why the victims might let them in. We should get a list of anyone in that role who had contact with all three families."

DeMarco nodded, making a note. "I'll request those records via email now. But it’ll be tomorrow morning—maybe afternoon—before we get them.”

Kate continued to study the photos, looking for any connection they might have missed. "What about the children? Where were they when the murders happened?"

"Tyler Bennet was at a friend's house for a birthday party. Marco Sandoval was asleep upstairs. Lily Thornton was also asleep inside the house."

Kate frowned. "So Tyler was the only one away during the murder?"

"Yes, but according to the police reports, the other two slept through it. In the case of Margaret, it was Lily who found her and called 9-1-1."

"Poor kid," Kate murmured. The thought of an eight-year-old finding their grandmother murdered made her stomach turn. It made her think of Michelle, who was about the same age. What if something happened to Melissa and Terry? The conversation with her daughter earlier that day came back to her and sent her mind reeling for a moment.

"Kate?" DeMarco's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "You okay?"

"Yes, just thinking." Kate shook her head slightly. "Let's go back to the profile. What do we know about our killer?"

"Organized, methodical. Knows how to get in without forcing entry. Kills quickly and efficiently from behind."

"Experience with piano wire suggests a possible musical background or something that would give them familiarity with that particular tool," Kate added. "It's not common enough to not warrant a closer look.”

"Or it could be symbolic," DeMarco suggested. "Piano lessons, childhood memories."

Kate nodded, writing these possibilities on the board. "The killer is likely male, given the upper body strength needed for this type of strangulation. Probably between thirty and fifty."

"Someone comfortable approaching elderly people, who wouldn't raise suspicion," DeMarco added.

"And someone with a deep emotional connection to grandparent custody cases," Kate concluded. "That's our starting point. It seems the strongest core, you know?"

She stepped back from the board, surveying their work. The conference room felt so familiar—the smell of dry-erase markers, the scattered crime scene photos and case files. For a moment, it was as if she'd never left, as if the past year of her life had been a dream. A very good dream, but a dream just the same.

"I should probably head home soon," she said to DeMarco. Her old partner nodded right away, understanding.

"We've made good progress," DeMarco said. "And I’ve kept you long enough. I'll follow up on the court records and social workers tomorrow. And I'll check for any similar cases in the database."

"Our killer is targeting grandparents who've 'taken' children from their parents,” Kate said. “But two of our victims gained custody because the parents were genuinely unfit or unavailable. There's a disconnect there."

"Maybe the killer doesn't care about the details," DeMarco suggested. "Maybe just the fact of grandparents raising children is enough to trigger them."

Kate nodded slowly. "Someone who believes children belong with their parents, no matter what. Or someone who had a deeply negative experience being raised by grandparents."

"I'll add 'patients in therapy for childhood trauma related to grandparent custody' to our list of angles to investigate," DeMarco said with a half-smile. “Thanks again, Kate.”

“Of course. I was happy to help. I don’t feel Ike I did much, though.”

“Oh, you did. Trust me. Have a good night, Kate.”

Kate felt a warmth in her chest, a bittersweet nostalgia for the partnership they'd shared. "You too, DeMarco. We make a good team."

As she left the building, Kate couldn't help but glance back at the illuminated windows of the third floor. Part of her wanted to stay, to dive deeper into the case, to lose herself in the pursuit. She wasn’t naïve enough to think she could pull an all-nighter, but she did feel she had at least another three or four good hours left in her.

But another part, a newer part, pulled her toward home, toward Michael and Allen. And she knew right then and there, as she reached her car, that she somehow needed to find a way to honor both.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following morning, Kate sat at her kitchen table with a mug of coffee cooling beside her laptop. Michael was still asleep, and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the old floorboards as Allen moved around upstairs. She'd been up since five, combing through court records from the three custody cases, looking for any connection beyond the obvious. The job wasn’t the reason for the early hour, tough; she’d been waking up around five for the past two years or so with just her own internal alarm. She supposed it was just one of those things that happened when you grew older.

She scrolled through the transcript from Margaret Thornton's custody hearing, scanning the list of witnesses. It had just come in overnight to both her and DeMarco. Something caught her eye as she read through it—a name that had appeared in the Bennet case as well: Dr. Phillip Grayson, family therapist. She quickly pulled up the Bennet file and confirmed it. Dr. Grayson had testified in both cases.

"Find something?" Allen asked, entering the kitchen. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he wore a faded tee shirt with a surfboard on it. “You’ve got that…I don’t know. That look.”

"Maybe," Kate said, still reading. "There's a therapist who testified in two of the custody cases I’m looking into. I just came across the name this morning.”

“Strong enough to be a lead?” Allen asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter.

“Maybe,” she said as she looked at the name, which she had also typed into Google to run a search: Dr. Phillip Grayson.

"Was he for or against the grandparents?" Allen asked.

It warmed her heart to know that he had indeed listened when she’s run him through the basics of the case last night. He truly did seem to be excited for her—not just encouraging but now openly asking questions.

"Against." Kate answered, looking up from the screen. "In both cases, he testified that the children would be better off with other relatives—siblings of the unfit parents. The judges ruled against his recommendation both times."

"That's something, right?"

Kate nodded slowly. "It could be. I need to check if he had any connection to the third case too." She typed quickly, searching through the Google results, but could find nothing. She then ran word searches through all of the digital documents she had--including the ones that had come in last night—but there was nothing there, either. "No testimony there, but that makes sense,” she said. “There was no dispute in that case."

Allen sat down across from her. "So what's your next move?"

Kate closed her laptop and met his gaze. "I should talk to DeMarco about this. We need to interview this man… Dr. Phillip Grayson."

"Today?"

"Ideally, yes. As soon as possible." Kate paused, watching Allen's expression carefully. "I know we said I'd be home more, that I'd only consult remotely..."

Allen reached across the table and took her hand. "Kate, this is who you are. I knew that when I proposed."

"But Michael—"

"Michael has two parents," Allen said firmly. "And from what you've told me, there are three children who've already lost their grandparents to this killer. If you can help stop him, you should." He grinned and said, “Plus, I have to admit. I forgot how sexy you tend to look when your brain is working overtime.”

Kate squeezed his hand. "Thanks. It would just be for today, I think. Just to interview Grayson and see where it leads."

"I don't need you to justify it," Allen said. "Just be careful. That's all I ask. No heroics, no chasing armed suspects through abandoned buildings."

"Oh, those days are far behind me now," Kate said with a small, sad smile. "And DeMarco does the running now."

"Good." Allen stood and kissed the top of her head. "I'll take care of Michael today. You do what you need to do. And we can catch up on all the missed time with him when you’re done."

Kate felt a rush of gratitude. She'd spent so much of her career choosing between her work and her family. With Allen, it never felt like a choice—he understood both parts of her. Granted, he was getting a lot more of her than her family ever had.

"I'll let DeMarco know," she said, reaching for her phone.

She sent a quick text: Found something. Dr. Phillip Grayson testified against both Bennet and Thornton in custody hearings. Seems like a pretty solid link. Available to help today if needed.

DeMarco's response came almost immediately, which was a good feeling. Great catch. Absolutely. Want me to pick you up? Maybe we can go talk to him.

Kate texted back: Give me an hour. Need to get ready and go over his background.

As she set her phone down, a cry came through the baby monitor. Michael was awake, ready for breakfast and some snuggles.

"I've got him," Allen said, heading for the stairs. "You get ready."

Kate watched him go, then turned back to her laptop. Quickly, she pulled up what information she could find on Dr. Phillip Grayson from Google and social media. He had no social media to speak of, just a LinkedIn page. He was Fifty-six years old and owned a private practice for twenty years, specializing in family therapy and child psychology. He'd also published several papers on parent-child relationships. Based on everything she could see, she saw no obvious red flags.

But something about his involvement in both cases nagged at her. Things like that often went beyond mere circumstance. She needed to see his reaction when confronted with the connection.

With that brief study of Grayson complete, she headed upstairs and changed into a navy pantsuit—one of her old FBI standards that she'd dug out of the back of her closet. It felt strange to be back in work clothes after months of jeans and sweaters. She then ventured back downstairs, where Allen had finished giving Michael breakfast. She scooped up her son, making sure to get in one big squeeze before she headed out.

“I’m going to miss you today,” she told him.

"Mama's going to catch a bad guy today," Allen told the baby. "But she'll be back for dinner."

Kate leaned over and kissed Michael's forehead. "Be good for Daddy."

She then gave Allen a kiss as well…a kiss that turned out to be a bit deeper and more sensual than she’d intended. It left her feeling a bit lightheaded—another of the many ways in which she was grateful for this man. They gave each other a knowing glance that spoke of promises of things to be done later in the day—at night, in bed. But before either of them could comment on it, Kate heard a car pull into the driveway. Through the window, she saw DeMarco's sedan.

"That's my ride," she said Allen. "I'll text you later."

"Go get 'em," Allen said.

Kate grabbed her purse and coat, slipping back into the rhythm of a workday with practiced ease. It felt both foreign and familiar, like visiting a childhood home after years away.

As she walked to DeMarco's car, she could almost imagine that nothing had changed—that she was still the lead agent, heading out to interview a suspect. But so much was different. And yet, as she settled into the passenger seat and greeted DeMarco, Kate realized that some things remained constant. The thrill of the hunt. The determination to find justice for the victims. The partnership that had always worked so seamlessly.

"Good morning, Agent Wise," DeMarco said as Kate opened the door and slid into the car.

Kate could only smile. The sound of Agent Wise had always had a certain ring to it. It was just another of those small things she didn’t realize she had been missing.

***

Dr. Phillip Grayson's office was located in a large, converted Victorian home in one of Richmond's older neighborhoods. The building had been split into professional suites, with a dentist on the first floor and Grayson's practice occupying the entire second floor. A discreet brass plaque beside the separate entrance read "Grayson Family Therapy."

It had a very cozy and warm feel to it, the sort of place that would instantly put most people at ease. The interior matched the exterior's refined aesthetic—tasteful artwork on the walls, soft lighting, comfortable seating in the waiting area. An ornate writing desk of a sort served as the reception area. A receptionist in her twenties looked up as they entered.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her smile faltering slightly when she noticed the badge clipped to DeMarco's belt.

"I’m Agent DeMarco, with the FBI," DeMarco said. “This is my partner, Kate Wise. We need to speak with Dr. Grayson."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Kate said, stepping forward. "But it's quite urgent."

The receptionist hesitated, then picked up her phone. She punched in an extension and after a pause, said: "Dr. Grayson, there are two FBI agents here to see you." She paused again, listening. "Yes, sir. I'll send them in."

She stood up and led them down a hallway lined with framed diplomas and certifications. A large painting of a rural landscape covered most of one wall. "Last door on the right," the receptionist said quickly, then retreated back to her desk.

Kate and DeMarco exchanged a glance before approaching the office. As they walked, Kate found herself unusually self-conscious. It had been a long time since she'd conducted an interview like this one; last night, speaking with an aggrieved son had been a bit different. She wondered how she must look to the others—a middle-aged woman tagging along with a younger agent. She straightened her shoulders and reminded herself that she had decades of experience that DeMarco couldn't match, regardless of age. And both DeMarco and Duran had come calling for her help on this…not the other way around.

DeMarco knocked on the door, and a male voice called, "Come in."

Dr. Phillip Grayson stood as they entered, a tall man with silver-streaked dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His office was impeccably organized, with bookshelves lining one wall and large windows overlooking the street on another. He wore a tweed blazer over a blue button-down shirt, projecting an image of academic professionalism. The room had the smell of a small library—tea, books, leather.

"Dr. Grayson," DeMarco said, "I'm Special Agent Kristen DeMarco, and this is Kate Wise, consulting for the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions concerning a case we are working on."

Grayson gestured to the two chairs facing his desk. "Please, have a seat. How can I help the FBI today?"

Kate noticed his posture; he was relaxed but alert, hands folded on his desk. Nothing in his demeanor suggested nervousness. She assumed that from time to time, he had government agencies visit concerning the well-being of patients.

"We're investigating a series of homicides," DeMarco began, "and your name has come up in our research."

Grayson's eyebrows rose slightly. "My name? In connection with homicides?” He cast them a skeptical glance and added: “There must be some mistake. Though I’m interested to hear how this has come about."

"In the past, you testified in custody hearings for both Richard Bennet and Margaret Thornton," Kate said, watching his reaction carefully. “Correct?”

"Yes, that's correct," Grayson replied. "I serve as an expert witness in many family court cases. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. It's part of my practice."

"Are you aware that both Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Thornton have been murdered within the past week?" DeMarco asked.

Grayson's expression changed, shock replacing composure. As far as Kate could tell, it appeared to be genuine. "No, I... that's terrible. I had no idea." For a moment, it looked like he was catching his breath, and then he let out a "My God."

Kate studied his face, looking for any sign that his surprise was feigned. "In both cases, you testified against granting custody to the grandparents, correct?"

Grayson thought for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yes…I made professional recommendations based on my assessment of the family dynamics," Grayson said, his tone becoming defensive. "In both cases, I believed there were better options for the children than placement with the grandparents. And I stand by my decisions."

"And in both cases, the court disagreed with your assessment," DeMarco noted.

Grayson's jaw tightened. "Judges don't always follow expert recommendations. That's their prerogative, as sad as it may seem at times."

"How did you feel about that?" Kate asked. "About having your professional opinion dismissed in a rather public way?"

"I wouldn't say it was dismissed," Grayson replied, his voice taking on an edge. "The court considered multiple factors. My testimony was just one element."

"But you stood to lose credibility when your recommendations were rejected," Kate pressed. "Professional reputation matters in your field, doesn't it?"

Grayson's eyes narrowed. It was clear that he was starting to lose his patience. "What exactly are you implying, Ms. Wise?"

"I'm just trying to understand your relationship to these cases," Kate said calmly. "There's a third victim as well—Eleanor Sandoval. Did you know her?"

To his credit, Grayson took a moment to think about it. After about five seconds or so, he shook his head. "No, I’m sorry. But that name doesn’t ring a bell.”

"But you know the other two victims," DeMarco said. "You met with them, evaluated them, testified against them in court."

Grayson leaned back in his chair. "I did my job. I assessed the situation professionally and gave my honest opinion about what would be best for the children involved. I'm sorry these people are dead, truly. But I had nothing to do with it."

"What were your objections to the grandparents having custody?" Kate asked. “Do you recall?”

"In the Bennet case, Richard was not only nearing seventy, but he was in poor health. I believed his nephew, who was younger and more active, would provide a better environment for a ten-year-old boy."

"And what about Margaret Thornton?"

Grayson's expression hardened. "Mrs. Thornton was controlling and manipulative. In my view, she was using her grandson as a weapon against her son. I saw it clearly in the family dynamics, but the judge chose to focus on Daniel's drinking problems instead, even though he'd been sober for several months—which was backed up by the leader of the AA group he attends."

Kate noted the sudden intensity in his voice, the personal investment that seemed to go beyond professional disagreement. It seemed he now felt that they were questioning his professional opinions.

"You sound angry about that decision," Kate observed.

"Wouldn't you be?" Grayson shot back. "I spent weeks with that family. I saw what was happening. These judges spend thirty minutes in a courtroom and think they understand the whole situation. And it’s nothing new. It happens all the time. They make decisions based on a snapshot rather than seeing the whole picture."

Kate thought she had a decent read on him, but couldn’t be sure. She thought the next stage of their conversation might answer that, though. And, as sure as clockwork, DeMarco took the talk in the exact same direction Kate was headed.

"Where were you last Tuesday evening, Dr. Grayson?" she asked.

Grayson blinked at the directness of the question. "Tuesday? I was here, seeing patients until seven, then I went home. Just like every Monday through Thursday."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"My receptionist can confirm when I left the office. She rarely leaves before I do. After that, I was at home. I had dinner with my wife, we read a bit in the den, I believe. And I think that’s all."

Kate watched as Grayson's professional demeanor continued to crack. His hands were no longer calmly folded but fidgeting with a pen. He was feeling the stress of the moment now.

"Dr. Grayson," she said, "would you be willing to provide us with a list of all custody cases you've testified in over the past year?"

"That information is confidential," he said quickly. "Patient privacy."

"We can get a warrant," DeMarco pointed out. She also knew that what he was saying wasn’t technically true. If he’d been summoned to court on behalf of a client, it became a public matter. But she also knew that a small loophole like that would stay locked up in the courts for far too long if Grayson truly wanted to stand by it. And time was not something she and DeMarco had much of right now.

Grayson stood up, his chair rolling back against the wall. "I think this interview is over. If you want to talk to me again, you’ll have to contact my attorney."

Kate and DeMarco exchanged glances. They'd hit a nerve, but he had essentially thrown up a shield. Two of them, in fact, if they counted his claim to patient privacy.

"One more question," Kate said, remaining seated. "And then we’ll leave. And it’s more of seeking your personal opinion on something.”

"What is it?" he asked, nearly spitting the words out.

“What do you think happens to children raised by their grandparents? In the long run, I mean.”

Grayson's expression darkened, but he gave it a bit of careful thought. "Statistically, they face more challenges. That's been proven in academic studies. But on the other hand, some also grow up much more responsible than their peers. Still…it's an unnatural family structure. Children need parents, not aging caretakers who impose outdated values and rob them of normality."

There was something in his tone that made Kate's intuition flare. His objection wasn't merely professional—it might be personal. He cared deeply about this topic. Much like Daniel Thornton, she did not think he was guilty…not a killer or an accomplice. But she also knew there wasn’t nearly enough to knock him off of a list of suspects.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Grayson," Kate said, standing. "We'll be in touch."

“Is that really necessary?” he asked.

It was DeMarco who answered, and when she did, Kate was quite proud of her partner for her bluntness and rough tact. "If you're a man who cares about families as much as you claim to, I'd think you wouldn't have a problem answering questions that would help find a killer who is currently tearing them apart. So…yes, I think it might be necessary that you take our calls if we need to ask further questions."

With that said, Kate and DeMarco took their leave. Outside the building, DeMarco turned to Kate. "He's not our guy, is he?"

“I’d be very surprised. At the end of the day, it just wouldn’t make sense. He’s too involved in his work and trying to help families…too many people would know his face. So on the level of people feeling comfortable around him, yeah…he fits the profile. Still…he did seem to get very defensive."

"And that comment about grandparents imposing outdated values?” DeMarco said. “There was real anger there."

Kate nodded. "We need to dig deeper into his background just in case. And get that warrant for his case files just in case it comes up that we do need them."

DeMarco checked her watch. "I'll head back to the office and start the paperwork. Want to come with me?"

Kate hesitated, thinking of Michael and Allen at home. She'd promised this would just be the interview. Apparently, DeMarco caught on to this moment of pause. She chuckled and shook her head.

"You know what," DeMarco said before Kate could answer, "I already feel guilty for disrupting your life. You should go home. I can handle the paperwork, and I'll call you if anything else comes up."

Kate felt a complicated mix of relief and disappointment. She was torn between wanting to stay on the case and knowing she should get back to her family. It was barely even eleven yet, so she hadn’t missed that much…but the guilt was still there.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Absolutely," DeMarco said, starting the car. "You've already given us the lead on Grayson. Let me run with it for now."

“You would have found that lead eventually,” Kate said.

“Maybe.”

As DeMarco drove toward Kate's house, Kate couldn't help feeling somewhat stung by the dismissal, even though she knew DeMarco meant well. Part of her—the part that had thrived on being in the field for thirty years—wanted to protest, to insist on staying involved. But another part was grateful for the permission to return to her new life. It made the wrestling match between the two a bit easier to manage.

Several minutes later, as DeMarco pulled her sedan back into Kate’s driveway, Kate could already feel the distance growing between her and the investigation. Part of her was already inside, ready to scoop up Michael and hear about his morning with Allen. But another part remained in Grayson’s office, watching Dr. Grayson's face contort with barely controlled anger as he spoke about grandparents raising children.

That part of her wasn't ready to let go.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The glow of the laptop screen cast shadows across the darkened room, most notably across the face of the man who sat before it. His fingers moved methodically over the touchpad, scrolling through a collection of photographs stored in a folder labeled "Guardians"—a name chosen with bitter irony.

Each photo showed an older adult, most in their sixties or seventies, smiling for the camera. Grandparents, all of them. But to the man studying their faces, they were something far more sinister.

He clicked on Margaret Thornton's photo, enlarging it on the screen. Her gray hair was styled neatly, her smile gentle as she posed with her arm around a young girl's shoulders. The child—her granddaughter—looked about eight, with a wary expression that spoke volumes to the man watching. They thought they’d won. Margaret Thornton didn’t think anyone could see through that smile.

But he knew better. Behind those grandmotherly smiles lurked manipulation, control, and destruction. He'd seen it firsthand. He knew what those gentle-looking hands were capable of.

Next to the photo folder, he had another window open displaying a PDF of a local newspaper article: "Grandmother Wins Custody Battle." The headline alone made his blood pressure rise. He'd collected dozens of similar articles, all celebrating what he considered perversions of justice. Most would see them as feel-good stories…which is really the only reason anyone ever published stories like this. But he knew the darker truths to stories like these.

He clicked back to the photo gallery and right-clicked on Margaret Thornton's image. The drop-down menu appeared, and he moved the cursor to "Move to Trash." With a satisfaction that felt almost physical, he clicked.

One more corrected injustice. One more child who might eventually understand they'd been saved, even if they couldn't see it now.

He opened the browser and checked his bookmarked news sites, methodically scanning for custody case updates. This had become his routine—finding them online had proven surprisingly easy. Proud grandparents couldn't resist sharing their "victories" on social media. Local newspapers loved these human-interest stories, often including photos of the triumphant grandparents with captions celebrating their "selfless devotion" to their grandchildren.

Selfless. The word made him nauseous.

He navigated back to his folder, clicking through the remaining photos. Three down, but work still to be done. The system was broken. Family court judges didn't understand what they were enabling, what kind of people they were empowering. The evil of it all.

He walked to the closet on the other side of the room and opened it. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, hanging clothes created a perfect screen for what lay behind. He pushed them aside and knelt down, pulling out a small duffle bag from the back corner.

Inside the bag were various tools, each selected with care. He removed several items, laying them out on the floor: latex gloves, a flashlight, dark clothing. From a shoebox on the closet shelf, he retrieved a coil of nylon cord—piano wire was becoming too distinctive, too easily connected to the previous cases. Adaptation was necessary…. anything to throw off the authorities.

With practiced hands, he measured out a length of the cord. Three feet should be sufficient. He coiled it carefully, his movements slow and deliberate. There was no rush. He knew that precision mattered more than speed. The cord felt smooth between his fingers as he wrapped it, forming a perfect coil. He could almost feel the tension it would hold, the swift efficiency with which it would complete its task. Not cruel—merciful, really. Quick and decisive, unlike the slow poison of living under a tyrant's roof. He placed the coiled cord into the duffle bag alongside the gloves as a feeling purpose settled over him.

Children belonged with their parents, not with controlling grandparents who undermined and destroyed the natural order of families. Sometimes that natural order needed help being restored. And far too often, the systems put in place to protect families were often rotten at the core.

The memory surfaced unbidden—a small bedroom with faded wallpaper, the sound of a door locking from the outside, the whispered promise that "this is for your own good."

His hands stilled for a moment, the past washing over him like a cold wave.

No child deserved that fate. No child should be handed over to a monster by a system too blind to see the truth.

He zipped the duffle bag closed and returned it to its hiding place at the back of the closet. Returning to his laptop, he opened a new browser tab and searched for more information about his next target. Social media provided limited results—the man wasn't active online. But a community newsletter mentioned his involvement with a local veterans' group that met Thursday evenings.

Perfect. He saved the information to a text file, then cleared his browser history. Careful. Methodical. These were the qualities that had kept him undetected. Emotion might fuel his mission, but logic guided its execution.

The work energized him. Each step brought him closer to balancing the scales that the courts had left tipped in favor of monsters disguised as loving grandparents or guardians. Each name crossed off his list—each photo found on social media and sent to the trash—meant one fewer child subjected to the subtle cruelties he knew too well.

His gaze fell on a framed photo sitting on his bedside table—the only personal item in the apartment. A young boy with solemn eyes stared back at him. The past and present merged in that gaze, reminding him why this work was necessary. Why he was willing to risk everything to see his work through.

He got up and turned off the light, leaving the room in darkness. Soon, another grandparent who thought they could steal a child's life with the court's blessing would be taught a lesson.

The scales of justice moved slowly, but they were moving. Thanks to him.

CHAPTER NINE

The aroma of homemade chicken parmesan lingered in the kitchen as Kate scraped leftover marinara sauce from a plate into the trash. Behind her, Allen loaded glasses into the dishwasher, the quiet domesticity of their evening routine warm and familiar but also a bit jarring in comparison to thoughts of the case that was still heavy on her mind.

Michael sat in his Sit n' Play in the corner of the kitchen, gnawing contentedly on a teether shaped like a little lion. Occasionally, he would look up and babble, as if contributing to a conversation only he could hear. He seemed incredibly happy and healthy…which made Kate feel the same way. But her mind was still scattered—partly on the case and partly here at home.

"You've been quiet since you got home," Allen said, closing the dishwasher and leaning against the counter. "Was the interview that bad?"

Kate handed him the rinsed plate. "Not bad, exactly. Illuminating. This Dr. Grayson—he testified against two of our victims in their custody hearings and even though there’s no other direct evidence against him…he feels slippery."

"You think he could have actually done it?"

Kate wiped her hands on a dish towel. "I don't know. He became defensive when we questioned him. When we mentioned the connection between the victims, he practically threw us out of his office."

She moved to the refrigerator, putting away the leftover salad. The routine tasks helped ground her, but her mind kept replaying the interview with Grayson, searching for clues in his expressions, his body language, the way his voice had hardened when discussing the custody cases he'd lost. She wondered if she and DeMarco had let him go too easily.

"There's something else bothering you, though," Allen observed, handing her a glass of wine. "I can tell."

Kate took the glass, grateful for his perceptiveness. They moved to the kitchen table, where they could still see Michael playing happily. He eyed them both and smiled, now banging his teether lion against the side of the little counter platform on the Sit n’ Play.

"I had a conversation with Melissa yesterday," Kate admitted. "It's been on my mind a bit."

"About?"

"About Michelle." Kate took a sip of wine. "If something happened to Melissa and Terry, Michelle would go to Terry's mother Jean. Not me."

Allen's expression softened with understanding. "I think it makes sense that would bother you."

"Yes, but it shouldn't. It makes sense. Jean is younger, she's been in Michelle's life since birth. She babysits regularly." Kate shook her head. "I don't know why it stings so much."

"Because you're her grandmother too," Allen said simply.

"Yes, but I've been an FBI agent most of Melissa's life. I missed so much because of work. Maybe this is just... karma."

Allen reached across the table and took her hand. "It's not karma. It's practical decision-making. And it doesn't mean Michelle wouldn't still have you in her life."

Kate nodded, but the ache remained. "This case, Allen—all the victims are grandparents who recently gained custody of their grandchildren. They stepped up when their adult children couldn't parent for whatever reason." She glanced over at Michael. "And someone is methodically killing them."

"That's hitting close to home."

"Yes, that’s putting it mildly." Kate squeezed his hand. "I keep thinking about those kids. First, they lose their parents—either to death or addiction or incarceration. Then, just when they've found stability with their grandparents, those grandparents are murdered too."

Allen was quiet for a moment, watching her. "You want to help solve this case."

"I do," Kate admitted. "More than I expected to. When DeMarco first approached me, I thought I'd just consult from home. Look at files, offer suggestions. But being back in the field today...it felt right." Kate met his gaze. "And I feel guilty about that. I'm supposed to be focusing on Michael, on us, on planning our wedding. Not chasing a serial killer."

"Kate," Allen said, his voice gentle but firm, "you can't compartmentalize who you are. Being an investigator is part of you, just like being a mother and a grandmother."

Michael made a loud squeal, drawing their attention. He was attempting to pull himself up, using the edge of the Sit n' Play for support, his little face scrunched in concentration as he flexed his legs.

"Look at him," Allen said with a smile. "He's determined, focused. Wonder where he gets that from?"

Kate felt a rush of love for them both. "I just don't want to be absent from his life the way I was from Melissa's."

"You won't be," Allen assured her. "Times are different. You're different. We'll find the balance. Besides…while you’re awesome and all, I don’t see you still working hard on these case files when he’s ten. Right?"

She chuckled and said, “Probably not.” She took another sip of wine, considering his words. "The pull of this case wouldn't be so strong if it wasn't about families, about keeping them safe. These victims—they were trying to provide stability for children whose lives had already been upended once. And then someone took that away too."

"It's personal for you," Allen observed.

"In more ways than one," Kate agreed. "Not just because they're grandparents my age, but because..." She hesitated, organizing her thoughts. "I've spent my career catching killers, protecting families. But I was often away from my own family while doing it."

"And now you have a second chance with Michael."

"And with Melissa and Michelle, in a way." Kate looked over at their son again. "When Melissa was growing up, I missed school plays and soccer games because I was tracking down murderers. I told myself it was worth it, that I was making the world safer for her. But now I wonder if I was just running away from the harder work of everyday parenting."

Allen considered this. "Do you regret your career…all the time you put into it?"

"No," Kate said immediately. "I've helped a lot of people. But I do regret some of the choices I made, the times I prioritized a case over Melissa when I didn't have to."

They were quiet for a moment, the only sound Michael's soft babbling.

"The thing is," Kate continued, "I look at these victims and how they were all stepping up for their grandchildren despite their age, despite having already raised their own kids. They were giving those children stability, love, a second chance at family. And someone decided they didn't deserve that chance."

She stood up and walked over to Michael, who immediately reached for her. Kate lifted him from the Sit n' Play, inhaling the sweet baby scent of his hair as she held him close. "I want to help catch this killer, Allen. I want to stop him before he destroys another family." She turned to face him. "But I don't want to neglect our family to do it."

Allen joined them, putting an arm around Kate's shoulders. "Then we'll figure it out together. Maybe you work on the case during Michael's nap times. Maybe I adjust my schedule so you can have a few hours with DeMarco each day. There are options."

Kate leaned into him, grateful for his understanding. "I used to think compartmentalizing my life was the answer—being Agent Wise at work and just Kate at home. But it never really worked that way."

"Because you're not two separate people," Allen said. "You're Kate Wise, the whole package—FBI agent, mother, grandmother, and soon-to-be wife."

"The whole package is pretty complicated." Kate smiled wryly.

"The whole package is pretty amazing," Allen corrected, kissing her forehead.

Michael reached out and patted Allen's face, making them both laugh. "What do you think, little man?" Kate asked the baby. "Should Mama help catch the bad guy?"

Michael gave a gurgling laugh in response.

"I think that's a yes," Allen said. "Besides, I'm doing most of the wedding planning anyway."

Kate gave him a grateful smile. "True. Though I should probably at least pick out my own dress."

"Probably," Allen agreed. "Although I do have excellent taste."

Their laughter eased some of the tension Kate had been carrying since her interview with Grayson. She knew the conflict wasn't resolved—the pull between her responsibility to this case and her commitment to her family would continue. But Allen's support made it feel less like a war and more like a balance she could potentially achieve.

"I'll call DeMarco in the morning," Kate decided. "See where they are with Grayson, if they've made any progress."

"Good," Allen said. "And I'll handle Michael's morning routine so you can focus."

Kate kissed him, then turned so they were both looking at Michael, who was beginning to doze against her shoulder.

"Solving this case won't fix everything," she said softly. "It won't change the fact that Jean is Michelle's designated guardian, or erase the times I wasn't there for Melissa."

"No," Allen agreed. "You’re right…and I know all of that has to hurt. But if you stick with this case…it might save several families from being torn apart. And maybe that's enough for now."

Kate nodded, her gaze fixed on Michael's peaceful face. The war still raged quietly in her heart—the investigator who wanted to dive deep into this case, the mother who wanted to savor every moment with her son, the grandmother who wished for a stronger bond with her granddaughter. All parts of her, sometimes competing, sometimes complementing each other.

As she stood there in Allen's embrace, watching Michael drift toward sleep, Kate knew she wouldn't resolve this tension tonight. Perhaps it was never meant to be fully resolved. Perhaps the best she could hope for was to honor all parts of herself without letting any single one consume her completely.

For now, that would have to be enough.

CHAPTER TEN

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows as Kate poured herself a second cup of coffee. Allen stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, while Michael sat in his highchair. He had just woken up and was still a bit sleep-fogged…but not enough to keep from methodically smashing banana pieces between his fingers before attempting to get them into his mouth.

"I think maybe half of that banana is actually being eaten," Kate observed, sliding back into her chair.

Allen glanced over his shoulder with a smile. "A fifty percent success rate is pretty good for a one-year-old. I'd call that a win."

Kate reached over to wipe Michael's sticky hands with a damp cloth. "At this rate, he'll need another bath before noon."

"Such is the glamorous life of parents," Allen said, transferring a fresh stack of pancakes to a plate. "More?" he asked, gesturing with the spatula.

Kate shook her head. "I'm good. These were perfect." She took a sip of coffee, allowing herself to savor the moment—the domestic tranquility of a family breakfast, something she'd never imagined would be part of her life at fifty-seven.

Michael babbled something unintelligible, his hands reaching toward her coffee mug.

"Sorry, buddy," she said. "Not until you're at least sixteen."

Allen laughed as he joined them at the table with his own plate. He started to wipe some of the excess mush from their son's cheeks. At about the same time, Kate's phone vibrated on the table. DeMarco's name appeared on the screen, and Kate reached for it right away. She stopped short, though, glancing at Allen.

"Go ahead," he said, nodding toward the phone. "Could be important."

Kate picked up the call. "Good morning, DeMarco. You're up early."

"Been up for hours," DeMarco replied, sounding tired. "I wanted to update you on a couple of things. And I…oh God, did I wake you up?”

“No. We’re old farts with a baby in the house. We’ve been up for about an hour. What have you got?”

"The official coroner's report on Margaret Thornton came in," DeMarco said. "It confirms what we thought—all three victims were strangled with the same type of material. Piano wire."

"That's what we suspected," Kate said, meeting Allen's gaze across the table. "Any other forensic connections?"

"Similar pattern of bruising, angle of attack consistent with the killer approaching from behind. No fingerprints, no DNA, no fibers. This guy is very careful."

"A professional," Kate murmured. "Or at least well-prepared."

"There's more," DeMarco continued. Kate heard traces of fatigue in her voice, but that same cold determination was there, too. "I did some digging into Dr. Grayson last night."

Kate sat up straighter. "And?"

"And he has a solid alibi for Bennet's murder. He was giving a lecture at a psychology conference in DC at the exact time Bennet was killed. There are dozens of witnesses, plus photos of him at the event posted online. Time-stamped."

“But he told us he was with his wife.”

“I know. Jerking us around just for the sake of it.” She shook her head, angry, and said, “But this other alibi…the new one…it checks out.”

Kate sighed, feeling the momentary hope of a lead slipping away. "So he's not our guy. And he was sort of yanking us around by not just telling us." She felt old yet familiar stirrings of anger; one of her pet peeves had always been when someone intentionally tried to slow down the progress of a case.

"Not unless he hired someone, but that seems unlikely given his financial records,” DeMarco said. “He's comfortable but not wealthy. No unusual withdrawals or transactions."

"The fact that he didn't just tell us about this alibi when we interviewed him, though—"

"I know," DeMarco cut in, frustration evident in her voice. "It pisses me off, too. He could have saved us a lot of time. Instead, he acted evasive and suspicious."

"Some people just don't like cooperating with federal agents on principle," Kate said, though she shared DeMarco's irritation. "So we're back to square one with suspects."

"Pretty much," DeMarco admitted. "I've got the team checking for connections between the victims beyond the obvious custody battles, but nothing so far. Different social circles, different churches, different healthcare providers."

Kate glanced at Michael, who was now attempting to catch a stray sunbeam with his pudgy hands. He gave a simple clap of satisfaction with his banana-smeared hands.

"You sound exhausted, DeMarco," she observed.

"Been staring at these files for too long, I think. Everything's starting to blur together. But you know how all of that goes."

Kate made a split-second decision. It was one of those ideas that seemed so smiley and easy at first. "Why don't you come over? We can go through the files together and maybe spot something fresh. Sometimes a change of scenery helps."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Are you sure? I don't want to impose on your family time."

Kate looked at Allen, who nodded his approval. "We're sure. As long as you don’t mind a little mess from breakfast.”

"Tell her we’ll save her some pancakes." Allen added.

DeMarco laughed, sounding lighter than she had a moment before. "I heard that! And I’ll hold you to it. What time works for you?"

"Whenever you can make it.".

"Then I’ll see you in about an hour," DeMarco said. "I'll bring everything we have so far."

"Perfect. See you then." Kate ended the call and set her phone down. She then looked to Allen with a small frown. "Sorry for volunteering our house as a command center without asking first. She just sounded so burned out…”

He waved off her concern as he collected their empty plates. "Are you kidding? I'm thrilled you're engaged with this case. And honestly, I'm curious to meet the partner I've heard so much about."

“Allen…you’ve met her before.”

“Oh, I know. But I’ve never really seen her in action, you know?”

Kate stood to help clear the table. "DeMarco's good people. One of the best agents I've worked with, honestly." She stood and began to wipe down Michael's tray as he squirmed in his highchair. When she was done, she lifted him from his highchair, balancing him on her hip. Michael chose that moment to smear a leftover bit of banana in Kate's hair, making Allen laugh. Kate had to admit…yeah, it was funny. But she’d rather not have DeMarco see her in such a state.

"You take care of that," Allen said, still chuckling and pointing to her hair. "I'll finish the kitchen and run Michael patrol."

As Kate hurried up the stairs, she heard Allen speaking to Michael. "Come on, little man. Let's get you cleaned up before Agent DeMarco arrives. We need to look professional."

Michael babbled happily in response, seemingly unconcerned about impressing anyone.

Upstairs, as she leaned over the sink and washed the banana away, Kate found her mind drifting back to the case. The piano wire was significant—a specific choice, not something most people would have readily available. And the killer's careful approach, leaving no evidence behind, suggested planning and forethought. Or an almost intimate familiarity with the victim.

She found it strange to try creating a profile out of grandparents who gained custody of their grandchildren. Surely, it had to be someone with a painful history…someone who would be made angry by situations that, at their core, were heartwarming. She was sure there were going to be some dark and twisted answers uncovered as she and DeMarco got closer to the center of this case.

By the time Kate had washed the banana out of her hair, Allen had transformed the kitchen back to its usual orderly state. He was wiping down the countertops as she descended the stairs. Micael was at play on. Large blanket on the living room floor, getting in what Kate had always referred to as “tummy-time.” And after this, it would be time for his morning nap.

"Kitchen's done," he announced. "And I cleared off the dining room table so you two have space to spread out your files."

"Thank you," Kate said, genuinely touched by his support. "You know, most men might be less than thrilled about their fiancée diving back into murder cases a few weeks before their wedding."

Allen set the cleaning cloth aside and approached them, ruffling Michael's now-clean hair. "Most men aren't engaged to Kate Wise. You catch killers. It's what you do, and I know you’ve missed it. It's part of why I love you."

"Just part?" Kate teased.

"A significant part," Allen clarified with a smile. "Along with your charm, intelligence, and tolerance for my terrible puns. And your butt.”

Kate found herself blushing as she leaned in to kiss him.

"I'll take Michael to the park while you and DeMarco work," Allen offered. "Give you some space to focus and let him conk out in the stroller."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I want to. Besides, this little guy needs to burn off some energy, don't you, buddy?" He tickled Michael's tummy, eliciting a delighted giggle.

Kate felt a surge of gratitude. Allen's understanding and support made it possible for her to consider helping with this case without the guilt that had plagued her throughout her career.

"Maybe we'll actually make some progress today," she said. "Three victims, all grandparents who recently gained custody, all killed the same way. There has to be a connection we're missing."

"If anyone can find it, it's you," Allen said with confidence. "And DeMarco."

Kate glanced at the clock, seeing that DeMarco should arrive any time now. With Allen's encouragement and support, she felt a renewed sense of determination. This killer had destroyed three families already; she’d be damned if she would let them take a fourth.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DeMarco arrived at precisely 9:05, balancing a stack of file folders in one arm while juggling her laptop bag with the other. Kate greeted her at the door, taking some of the files to lighten her load. DeMarco had visited several times in the past—for a few dinners and to make a big fuss over Michael after the pregnancy. This allowed them to skip over the small talk and pleasantries.

“We’ll be working in the living room,” Kate said, leading the way.

The living room was bright and comfortable, with large windows overlooking the backyard. A coffee table sat in the center, surrounded by a sofa and two armchairs. Kate had already set up a makeshift workstation—legal pads, pens, and her own laptop ready to go. Michael’s blanket and toys from tummy time had been picked up and put away.

“Um, excuse me, lady,” DeMarco said. “Part of the allure of coming over here was to get some baby snuggles. Where is Michael?”

"Oh, he and Allen are at the park. Allen wanted to make sure we weren't distracted."

DeMarco frowned a bit but then said, "Speaking of Allen," DeMarco said, setting down her belongings, "he mentioned something about leftover pancakes?"

Kate smiled. "In the kitchen. Help yourself. Coffee's fresh, too."

"You're a lifesaver. I've been running on caffeine and determination since four this morning."

While DeMarco headed to the kitchen, Kate began arranging the files on the coffee table. The familiar ritual of organizing information and creating a workflow felt like slipping back into a well-worn groove. She was only a single day back into it, but it felt like weeks. Maybe even months. She could hear DeMarco moving around in the kitchen, the microwave humming as she reheated pancakes.

"These are incredible," DeMarco declared as she returned with a plate of pancakes and a mug of coffee. "Allen could open a restaurant."

"I'll tell him you said so," Kate replied.

DeMarco nodded, settling onto the sofa and balancing the plate on her lap. "It seems you’ve got a good man,” DeMarco said. “How's the little guy doing?"

"Growing too fast. Starting to pull himself up on furniture. I swear he's going to be walking before we're ready for it."

"Time flies," DeMarco agreed, taking a bite of pancakes. Kate admired her for trying to at least have a bit of small, normal conversation. But she was also terrible at transitions—as evidenced by her next question: "Okay, so where do you want to start?"

Kate gestured to the files. "Let's lay everything out chronologically. Richard Bennet, Eleanor Sandoval, Margaret Thornton. See if we can establish any pattern beyond the obvious."

DeMarco set her plate aside and pulled her bureau laptop from its bag. "I've got access to the FBI's mobile database. We can cross-reference as we go…it’ll save a lot of time."

“Oh, I remember. I haven’t been gone that long.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, spreading documents across the coffee table and sorting them into relevant piles. Kate found herself falling into the familiar rhythm of case analysis, the methodical process of examining facts and looking for connections that others might miss. She refreshed herself on everything she’d learned yesterday before digging into the official autopsy files DeMarco had brought along.

Kate leaned back in her chair, thinking. "The killer must be selecting victims based on the custody cases. That's the only common thread. But how would they know about all three cases?"

"Court records are public," DeMarco pointed out. "But you'd have to be looking for them specifically."

"Someone with a professional interest in custody cases, then," Kate mused. "We already ruled out Grayson. What about other court personnel? Clerks, stenographers..."

"I've got a team checking those angles," DeMarco said. "No obvious connections so far, but they’re still looking."

Kate picked up the Bennet file again, flipping through the custody hearing transcript. Each of these reports was like its own sad little story, and scanning it made her heartbreak for the families involved. As she read though, Kate paused, her attention caught by a mention of home visits.

"DeMarco, look at this," she said, pointing to a paragraph. "As part of Bennet's custody evaluation, Child Protective Services conducted a home study. A social worker visited his home multiple times to assess its suitability for the child. I know that’s pretty much standard practice in these situations, but still…”

DeMarco picked up the Thornton file, scanning quickly. She leafed through the files as if she had committed most of them to memory already. "Same here. Margaret Thornton had regular visits from a social worker as part of her petition for custody."

Kate grabbed the Sandoval file and looked through quickly. "Yep, it’s here too. All three victims had to be monitored in their homes and interviewed by a licensed social worker from an accredited child welfare agency."

DeMarco looked up, her expression sharpening. "That's our connection. Someone from a child welfare agency would have access to all three homes, would know the layouts, and would also likely be trusted by the victims."

"And they would know exactly when custody was granted," Kate added, excitement building.

DeMarco turned to her laptop, typing rapidly. "Let me check which agency handled these cases." Kate wasn’t sure if she was looking somewhere online or if she was using the database. But it was nice to see her old partner hard at work, so intently scanning for one little kernel. After about a minute or so, DeMarco looked up. "All three went through the same agency—Fairfield Children's Services. It's a private agency contracted by the state for child welfare cases."

Kate felt a surge of adrenaline, the kind that came with a significant breakthrough. "We need to get over there. See their records, find out which social workers were assigned to each case."

"I'll drive," DeMarco said, already closing her laptop and gathering her things. Kate nodded, already to her feet and feeling the surge of adrenaline blasting through her. It took about five seconds before she even thought that she'd be leaving home without first informing Allen. Not that she thought he'd mind; it just felt like the right thing to do.

She sent him a text as she and DeMarco headed out of the door. It occurred to her that DeMarco had only been over for twenty minutes before they’d come across what felt like a significant lead. She could only hope it was a sign of things to come—that this case might be wrapped much sooner than she’d thought.

***

Twenty minutes later, DeMarco pulled her bureau sedan into the parking lot of Fairfield Children's Services, a brick building in a modest office park. The agency's logo—a stylized tree with outstretched branches that ended in children’s and prints—adorned the glass front doors.

Inside, the reception area was decorated in soothing blues and greens, with children's artwork framed on the walls. It was small and welcoming, giving off a bright, fun feel. A young woman at the front desk looked up as they entered. She had a warm and practiced smile that fit the feel of the place well.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

DeMarco presented her badge. "We’re with the FBI,” she said. “We need to speak with the director, manager, or whoever's in charge."

The receptionist's eyes widened slightly, but she did a great job of remaining calm and professional. "That would be Ms. Dawson, our director. Let me see if she's available."

She stood up from her desk and made her way down a long hallway to the left. While they waited, Kate surveyed the office. It was professional but welcoming, designed to put families at ease. Photographs on the walls showed children of various ages with what appeared to be foster and adoptive families, all smiling broadly. A small play center was tucked away in the far corner with a brightly colored carpet and a variety of toys and puzzles.

"Agents?"

The sound came from behind them as Kate was looking at the play area. When she turned with Demarco, she saw a woman in her fifties approaching them. As she got closer, she extended her hand. "I'm Patricia Dawson, director of Fairfield. My assistant said you needed to speak with me.”

DeMarco shook her hand. "Thanks. Special Agent Kristen DeMarco, and this is Kate Wise, consulting with the Bureau. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

“Of course. We can chat in my office.”

Dawson led them back down the same hallway the assistant had gone down. The hall was brightly lit and, like the rest of the building, cheerful in a non-assuming way. She stopped at the third door along the hall and allowed them to enter first. Her office was small but pleasant, with a well-organized desk pushed against the back wall with just enough room for Dawson’s chair. Only a single chair sat on the opposite side, which neither Kate nor DeMarco took.

Noting that neither agent was sitting, Dawson also remained on her feet. "So what is it that I can do for you?"

"We're investigating the murders of three grandparents who recently gained custody of their grandchildren," Kate explained. "All three were clients of your agency."

Dawson's face paled. "My God,” she said as tears almost instantly came to her eyes. Which families? Am I…am I allowed to ask that?"

"Richard Bennet, Eleanor Sandoval, and Margaret Thornton," DeMarco said.

Dawson finally sank into a chair, visibly shaken. "I knew about Mrs. Thornton—it was in the news. But I had no idea about the others. This is... this is horrifying." A few tears ran down her face in rapid succession, and she quickly wiped them away. "What can I do to help?"

Kate leaned forward and kept her tone as soft as possible. "We need to know which of your social workers conducted home visits for all three families."

"Oh, well I…I can't just release that information," Dawson said, regaining her composure. "These files contain sensitive data about minor children. There are confidentiality laws."

DeMarco's expression hardened slightly. Kate also felt a tightening in her gut, but she had expected this. Dawson wasn't a bad guy here, and she wasn't trying to stall them in any way. She was simply going by the book. "I understand that and respect it," Kate said. "But three people are dead, Ms. Dawson. Not only that but three kids are going to have to relocated back into the system yet again. There could be more victims if we don't identify the killer quickly."

"I understand the urgency, but I still need to follow protocols. You'll need a warrant for those records. Once you get it, I will bend over backwards to make sure you get what you need as quickly as possible but…I’m sorry. My hands are sort of tied here."

Kate tried a different approach. "Ms. Dawson, we're not asking for details about the children. We just need to know which staff members had access to all three victims' homes."

Dawson shook her head. "I'm sorry. I sympathize with your investigation, but I can't violate our confidentiality policies, even for the FBI. These policies exist to protect vulnerable children." Her eyes were pleading, and Kate could see the moral tug-of-war in her stare. She felt bad for Dawson, she really did.

DeMarco exchanged a glance with Kate. "We can get a warrant," she said. "But that will take time. Time we may not have if the killer is planning another murder."

"I'm sorry," Dawson repeated, wiping more years away. "But I need that warrant."

Kate stood up. "Can we at least see your staff directory? Just names and positions?"

Dawson hesitated, then nodded. "That's public information. I can provide that."

She pulled up something on her laptop, which sat perfectly in the center of her desk. After a few clicks of her mouse, she turned the laptop screen to face them. Kate looked at the spreadsheet she had pulled up quickly—nearly thirty names, all with titles like "Family Support Specialist" or "Child Welfare Counselor."

“Can we get a print-out of this?” DeMarco asked.

Still clearly wrestling with the moral dilemma of it all, Dawson nodded and sent the document to the printer—a small relic-like thing in the other corner, sitting on top of a well-organized end table.

"Thank you for this," Kate said. "We'll be back with a warrant as soon as possible."

And when you do, I’ll make sure it’s one hundred percent the top priority within this building.”

The meeting ended in a sort of tense stalemate. Kate noted how upset DeMarco seemed to be and hoped she’d not burn herself out over this case. The wear in her eyes and slight darkness beneath them spoke of exhaustion. She needed some sleep.

Outside in the parking lot, DeMarco's frustration was even more evident. "That's at least half a day wasted,” she spat. “I'll call the U.S. Attorney's office, but even with the urgency of the case, it'll take time to get that warrant."

As DeMarco stepped away to her side of the car to phone the attorney’s office, Kate studied the staff list. Without knowing which social workers were assigned to which cases, they were still shooting in the dark. But something about the list caught her attention—a name she vaguely recognized from one of the custody hearing transcripts. She couldn't place it exactly, but it nagged at her.

DeMarco's call was over five minutes later, and she wasted no time getting into the car. "Anything good?" Kate asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Yes, actually,” DeMarco said, her expression slightly more optimistic. "Good news. Judge Randall is available this afternoon. She's dealt with these kinds of emergency warrants before and understands the time sensitivity. We can probably have the warrant by three o'clock this afternoon."

"That's something, at least" Kate acknowledged.

"What are you thinking?" DeMarco asked, noting Kate's focused expression.

"One of these names seems familiar from the transcripts. I just can't place it yet." Kate folded the list and tucked it into her pocket. "I think we should review the files again while we wait for the warrant. We might find something we missed."

As they drove back to Kate's house, Kate couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time. The methodical nature of the killings, the careful selection of victims—this wasn't a killer who would stop until forced to. And somewhere in those confidential files at Fairfield Children's Services could be the key to identifying them.

Kate stared out the window at the passing neighborhoods, picturing the three victims in their homes, opening their doors to someone they trusted, someone they believed was there to help their families. The betrayal was almost as horrifying as the murders themselves.

"Three o'clock," she murmured. "That's five hours from now. Feels like forever with what could be on the line."

She thought of Allen and Michael, likely on the way back home from the park by now. As before, thinking of them created an odd counterpoint to their grim investigation. In a strange way, it reinforced the stakes—they were working to protect families, to stop a killer from destroying more lives like the ones that had already been lost.

The warrant couldn't come soon enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Harold Webber watched his grandchildren dash toward the brick elementary school building, their matching backpacks bouncing as they ran. They turned at the door, waving enthusiastically, and Harold felt the familiar tug of emotion in his chest. At sixty-five, he'd never expected to be raising nine-year-olds again, but life had a way of surprising you.

And damn, this had been a good surprise.

"Have a great day," he called, forcing brightness into his voice despite the early hour. "Grandpa will pick you up at three!"

He knew his own kids would have hidden their faces in embarrassment at such a thing. But his grandkids—both nine years old—weren’t quite old enough to be mortified at a grandpa yelling out to them in from of their classmates. The twins, Ellie and Ethan, gave one final wave before disappearing into the building. Harold lingered a moment longer, then turned back to his silver Buick. The morning air carried a spring chill that made his knee ache—an old injury from his second tour in Afghanistan.

As he drove home, Harold's thoughts drifted to his thirty years of military service. He'd retired as a colonel five years ago after serving in operations from Desert Storm to Operation Enduring Freedom. The discipline and structure of Army life had shaped him, given him purpose. He'd commanded hundreds of men, made life-or-death decisions under pressure, earned commendations that now hung modestly on his home office wall.

None of that had prepared him for becoming a parent again at this stage of his life.

After ignoring a craving to stop by the local donut shop, Harold pulled into the driveway of his modest ranch-style home less than fifteen minutes after dropping the kids off. The twins' bicycles lay on their sides near the garage door—he'd remind them again about proper storage. Structure and discipline were important lessons, especially for children who'd experienced so much upheaval and trauma.

Inside, he moved through his morning routine with military precision—rinsing his coffee mug, wiping down the breakfast table, straightening the children's drawings magnetized to the refrigerator. He paused at a crayon portrait labeled "Our Family" in a child's wobbly script. Just the three of them, holding hands under a yellow sun. No parents in the picture.

Harold sighed. The custody hearing had concluded three weeks ago, granting him full guardianship of the twins. Their father—Harold's son Robert—had been discharged from the Army for substance abuse issues. The judge had cited Robert's "pattern of neglect" and "inability to maintain stable housing" following his dishonorable discharge. It was heartbreaking as hell because Harold felt the majority of Robert’s issues came from trauma he’d endured while serving, making him mentally unfit to raise children.

Their mother had left when the twins were barely two, unable to cope with Robert's increasingly erratic behavior. Harold had stepped in gradually at first, providing childcare when Robert couldn't, then financial support, then a place to stay. Until the day eight months ago when Robert simply didn't come back from what he'd called a "quick errand."

The police found Robert's car abandoned near the state line three days later. There had been no sign of him since. The court had determined abandonment, and with no other relatives stepping forward, custody was granted to Harold.

He didn't regret it. The twins gave him purpose. And truth be told, they made him feel young again. He knew there would be long, hard days ahead, but that was fine. It would all be well worth it.

Harold settled into his armchair, unfolding the morning newspaper. He had two hours before he needed to begin preparations for lunch. The twins preferred their sandwiches cut into triangles—an easy accommodation that gave them a small sense of control.

The doorbell rang unexpectedly.

Harold frowned, glancing at his watch. 9:17 AM. Too early for package deliveries, and he wasn't expecting visitors. Solicitors rarely ventured this far into the neighborhood. He frowned, figuring it was probably Terry, his neighbor, wanting to borrow something else. He still hadn’t returned his set of screwdrivers. Figuring it was likely Terry, Harold chose to ignore it.

But then the doorbell rang again, more insistent this time—two blasts in a row. Harold sighed and got to his feet.

"Coming," Harold called, folding his newspaper and setting it aside. He was quite irritated now and honestly didn’t care if it ended up coming across when he answered the door. Before opening the door, he looked through the peephole. On the other side, he saw a young man in a light blue polo shirt and khaki pants. The stranger shifted from foot to foot, looking anxiously over his shoulder.

Harold opened the door cautiously, security chain still engaged. The polo made him think it was a solicitor of some kind—probably one of those hundred companies around the city pushing solar.

"Can I help you?" Harold asked through the crack in the door.

The young man—maybe early thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a clean-shaven face—looked relieved. "I'm so sorry to bother you, sir. I am, really. My car broke down at the end of your street, and my damned cell phone's dead. Could I possibly use your phone to call for help? It would really save me. I tried the two other houses between here and the intersection where the stupid car stalled out, but no one was home. And I was—"

“Slow down, slow down,” Harold said. He’d assessed the young man quickly. Good posture, respectful tone, appropriately apologetic for the intrusion. Nothing immediately concerning.

"What's the problem with your car?" Harold asked.

"Engine just died completely." The young man shook his head. "Smoke started coming from under the hood. I barely got it to the curb."

Harold hesitated. In his day, neighbors helped neighbors without question. And this poor kid—if he was like the other younger men he’d come across lately—probably didn’t know the first thing about car maintenance.

But things were different now. He had the twins to consider. "Tell you what," Harold said. "I can call someone for you. Who do you need to reach?"

The young man's smile faltered slightly. "That's really kind, but my roadside assistance information is in my phone contacts. I just need to make a quick call, sir. I won't be any trouble."

Harold considered the situation. The man was well-spoken, appeared harmless, and was clearly in distress. His military training had given him confidence in his ability to assess threats, and this young man didn't register as one.

"Alright," Harold said, unlatching the chain. "You can use the phone in the kitchen."

"Thank you so much, sir. I really appreciate it." Relief washed over the stranger's face as Harold stepped back, allowing him entry.

The young man wiped his feet thoroughly on the welcome mat—another point in his favor—and followed Harold to the kitchen.

"Phone's right there on the wall," Harold said, pointing to the landline. One of his few concessions to old technology, kept for emergencies. "Help yourself." He made himself sound polite and casual, but he would, of course, be watching this guy like a hawk.

"Thank you," the man said, moving toward the phone. He stopped suddenly, looking around the kitchen. "Beautiful home. You live here alone?"

Something in his tone made Harold pause. "No," he lied instinctively. "My son's upstairs. Now…if you’d just make your call and be on your way."

The young man nodded, a strange smile playing at his lips. "Your grandchildren's artwork is lovely," he said, gesturing to the refrigerator.

Harold felt a chill, and he wished like hell he had his pocketknife on him. But it was upstairs on his dresser. And the steak knives were on the other side of the kitchen—and the young man was standing between him and the blades.

"How did you know those were from my grandchildren?" Harold asked.

"The twins, right? Ellie and Ethan?" The man's voice had lost its anxious edge, replaced by something colder.

Harold's body tensed, combat instincts awakening after years of dormancy. His fists clenched, and he told himself he didn't need a knife. If this guy mentioned the twins by name again, he'd start throwing fists. "Who are you?"

"Someone who believes children belong with their parents, Colonel Webber."

Harold's mind raced through possibilities. Was this about Robert? Had his son sent someone? "My son abandoned those children," he said firmly. "The court agreed they're better off with me. Now, how do you know ab—"

"Courts make mistakes," the man said simply. "You should have let those kids go to their father."

In that moment, Harold understood he'd made a terrible mistake. This wasn't about his son or his grandchildren. This was something else entirely.

"Who sent you?" Harold demanded, scanning the kitchen for weapons, exits, anything. The training was still there, but his body couldn't respond as it once had.

"No one sent me," the stranger replied. "I'm simply correcting an injustice."

Harold backed away. If he could reach the hall, he might make it to his bedroom, to the lockbox where he kept his service pistol. God, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d held it…

"The police know about the custody arrangement," Harold said, trying to keep the man talking. "They'll connect the dots if anything happens to me."

"Like they connected the dots for the others?" The man's smile was pitying now. "You're just another tragic case of a grandparent who couldn't handle the stress of raising young children. A sad story, but not an uncommon one."

Others? The word slammed into Harold's consciousness. There were others.

The man moved with unexpected speed, blocking his path. He'd apparently read the shocked expression on his face. "Oh yes. Three so far..."

Harold tried to dash for the living room. There, he could grab his cellphone and retreat out of the back door. But as he made the sudden movement to run, his knee buckled completely this time, sending him crashing to the floor.

As the stranger loomed over him, Harold thought of Ellie and Ethan, waiting at school for a grandfather who would never arrive. He thought of Robert, who might be forced to take responsibility for his children after all. He thought of his years in combat, the countless threats he'd faced and survived, only to die on his kitchen floor.

"The twins deserve better," Harold gasped, a final act of defiance.

"That's not for you to decide," the man said quietly, kneeling beside him. "It never was."

The last thing Harold Webber saw was the man’s hands coming for his throat, holding something thin and like string. After that, there was a bit of pain and then a rushing, obliterating darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Back at her house, after another hour or so of digging, Kate collapsed, shut her laptop lid, and looked over to DeMarco. She still looked absolutely exhausted, sipping on a cup of reheated coffee. Still, the morning had been productive, despite the frustration of waiting for the judge's warrant. She and DeMarco had narrowed their focus to Fairfield Children's Services, where that nagging familiarity of a name on the staff list continued to elude her. Even after returning home and diving back into the files, she'd not been able to scratch that itch.

"Are you sure you don't want to take some files with you?" Kate asked, stacking the remaining case folders on her dining room table. "I can make copies."

DeMarco, already packed and ready to leave, shook her head. "Keep them here for now. I’ve got them all digitally anyway. If you’re going to assist, I want to make sure you have everything you need." She checked her watch. "Two more hours until Judge Randall signs that warrant. I'll head back to the office and push to expedite it."

Allen appeared in the entryway between the living room and kitchen, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt, his version of work-from-home attire. His laptop was tucked under one arm while he held Michael in the other.

"Heading down to the salt mines?" Kate asked, nodding toward his basement office.

"Conference call at noon," he confirmed. "How's the case going?"

Before either woman could answer, a delighted squeal erupted from the living room. Michael, who had been contentedly playing in his activity center, began babbling excitedly. Apparently, he also wanted to take part in the conversation.

DeMarco glanced over with a polite smile. "He seems happy this morning."

"He's been in a good mood," Kate replied. "Slept through the night, which means I did too. And he ate a decent breakfast.”

"The park got him all riled up, though," Allen said. "I need to put him on for his afternoon nap before my call."

“Oh, I can do that,” Kate said, “You go one and prep for your mee—”

DeMarco's phone rang, interrupting the domestic moment. Kate’s full attention also went to the phone, hoping it was a bit of good news in terms of the case. She lifted Michael out of the activity center and onto her hip.

"Maybe it's Randall with that warrant early," DeMarco said hopefully, then answered. "Agent DeMarco."

Kate watched as DeMarco's expression shifted, the warmth fading into professional focus. Her posture straightened, and she started to nod as she gave a series of “Yes…uh huh…okay, sounds good.”

There was another pause, and then came another series of brief responses and comments that told Kate all she needed to know: something new had developed in the case.

"Address?" DeMarco asked tersely. "Yes. I'll be there in twenty." She ended the call and turned to Kate, her face grim. "That wasn't the judge. It was a police officer at a crime scene. There’s been another murder, seems to be the same MO. A man named Harold Webber. Killed in his home this morning."

Kate felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. "Broad daylight?"

"Found by a neighbor thirty minutes ago." DeMarco was already gathering her things, slinging her computer bag over her shoulder. "I'm heading there now."

"I'm coming with you," Kate said automatically, reaching for her purse. But then, as soon as she said it, she turned to Allen. “Shoot…your meeting. I can stay…DeMarco can update me when she gets there.”

"No, ma'am," Allen said, walking to her and taking Michael. "I've got another twenty minutes before my meeting. I'll put him down for his nap. The meeting should only last about an hour, and we both know he'll sleep well past that for his afternoon nap. Go…do what you do, Agent Wise.”

“You’re certain?”

Allen shifted Michael to his shoulder, clearly concerned but not upset. "Positive. Just…I mean, if this is recent—this new murder, I mean—I just ask that you use your head and be careful."

"I will," she promised, reaching up to kiss Allen quickly. She stroked Michael's cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Allen then looked to DeMarco and said, “Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Take your time," Allen said. "Do what you need to do. Just... come home safe."

DeMarco was already at the door, keys in hand. Kate grabbed her jacket and followed her out. She took one last look back to Allen and said, “You’re being far too kind about this.”

“I know. I’m pretty awesome like that.”

She blew him a quick kiss, even though it made her feel childish, and then closed the door behind her. She and DeMarco then hurried to the car, and when DeMarco pulled out of the driveway, the car protested with a slight squeal of tires.

"Webber," Kate said, trying to recall the name. "Was he on our list?"

DeMarco shook her head. "Not that I remember. The officer said he was raising twin grandchildren. Recently gained custody after his son abandoned them."

"Same pattern," Kate noted. "What do we know about him?"

"Sixty-five. Retired military. The twins are in kindergarten—they weren't home when it happened."

Kate processed this information, building a mental timeline. "The killer must have known the children would be at school. He's researching his victims, learning their routines."

"And getting more brazen," DeMarco added. "Middle of the morning in a residential neighborhood."

"Or more desperate," Kate countered. "The escalation could mean he's losing control, acting on impulse rather than careful planning."

As they continued on to the address, DeMarco broke several speed limits and had Kate place the mobile flasher in the windshield. The high-octane energy of it all almost had Kate feeling dizzy. She caught herself grinning as she braced herself against the dashboard as DeMarco took a corner sharply.

The address was that of a modest ranch house on a quiet, suburban street. Three police cruisers were parked in front, lights flashing silently. Yellow crime scene tape already cordoned off the property. A small cluster of neighbors had gathered across the street, watching with that particular mix of horror and fascination that accompanies violent death in a peaceful neighborhood. It would be murmured about from home to home throughout the neighborhood all day, posted on Facebook, and then pretty much forgotten in a few days. Kate knew how it worked.

DeMarco parked behind one of the cruisers, and they approached the house. A uniformed officer at the perimeter recognized DeMarco as they got out of the car, nodding to her. He lifted the crime scene tape for them as they approached.

"Agent DeMarco," the cop said with a little nod as she and Kate made their way up onto the porch.

"And this is Kate Wise, FBI consultant,” DeMarco said. “You were the one who made the call, right?”

“Yes, that was me,” the cop said.

“Thanks for getting in touch with me as soon as you did. We're investigating a series of similar homicides, as I’m sure you know."

Another man came out of the front door just as he said this. Kate pegged him at once as a detective. He simply had that…that look about him. He was a compact man with salt-and-pepper hair, a severe look on his face. He nodded grimly to them, standing by the door.

"Detective Simmons, Richmond PD. Victim's in the kitchen. ME's on the way."

Kate and Demarco quickly introduced themselves as Simmons led them into the house. "Has the scene been disturbed at all?" Kate asked.

"Minimally. The neighbor who found him checked for a pulse, but otherwise, it's intact. He was able to show me exactly where he touched the victim."

Inside, the house was meticulously organized. Photos lined the entryway—many showing twin children, a boy and girl with identical round faces and dark hair. Others were clearly a bit dated—at least twenty years old, Kate guessed. Most of them showed a man in military uniform standing rigidly beside tanks and helicopters in desert landscapes. Harold Webber, Kate assumed.

The living room held a glass display case containing medals and commendations. Kate paused, noting several Bronze Stars and a Purple Heart.

"This guy was a decorated veteran," she murmured to DeMarco. "Not an easy target."

They followed Detective Simmons to the kitchen, where Harold Webber lay sprawled on the linoleum floor. He was positioned in the area directly between the living room and kitchen; his lower half was in the living room, the top half on the kitchen’s tiled floor. He was a solidly built man, even at sixty-five, with close-cropped silver hair and the physique of someone who maintained military habits long into retirement. He wore khaki pants and a button-down shirt, casual but neat.

Kate crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb anything. She noticed the ligature mark around Webber's neck right away. It was distinctive but also a bit wider than the previous victims, with less defined edges.

"Not piano wire this time," she observed. "Something softer. Nylon cord, maybe."

DeMarco knelt beside her. "Why the change?"

"Adaptation," Kate said without hesitation as she studied the wound. "Piano wire is effective but distinctive. Maybe he's worried we've connected it to him somehow. And if that’s the case, he’s already thinking ahead. It makes me worried that he’s got plenty more of these planned.”

She noted other details: bruising on Webber's hands and forearms, suggesting he'd fought back, at least a bit. A single toppled chair nearby, indicating a struggle—though not much of one.

"He didn't go quietly," Kate said, pointing to the defensive wounds. "Our previous victims were surprised and overpowered quickly. Webber put up at least a bit of a fight, it seems."

"Military training," DeMarco agreed.

Kate stood slowly, surveying the kitchen. It was clean and very neat…likely more evidence of military training and habits. A folded newspaper lay on the table. It was a snapshot of this man’s life, a still image he’d left behind. Kate looked up to where Simmons stood just a few feet away, typing notes down into his phone.

“You’ve already checked the doors?”

“Front and back. No sign of forced entry at all. Windows, either.”

"He let the killer in," DeMarco said. “What the hell?”

Detective Simmons stepped closer, joining them in a tight huddle around the body. "The neighbor says he saw a young man at the door earlier. Thought it was a delivery person."

"Did he get a good look? A description?" DeMarco asked.

"White male, thirties, average height and build. Nothing distinctive. Wearing a light-colored shirt, maybe blue."

"Generic enough to blend in, professional enough to seem trustworthy," Kate commented. "Our killer knows how to present himself."

She got to her feet and moved through the kitchen, noting small details. The landline phone was off the hook, lying on the counter. A set of keys were in a bowl near the door. A calendar on the refrigerator, marked with school events and doctor's appointments.

"Where are the children now?" Kate asked.

"At school,” Simmons said. “We’ve got a sergeant headed over there now to let the school resource officer know. Social services has already been called from what I’ve been told."

Kate felt herself wanting to weep for those poor children, but she also felt a chill at the mention of social services.

"Social services,” she echoed. “Fairfield Children's Services?"

"I believe so. They handle most of the custody cases in this district."

Kate and DeMarco exchanged significant looks. The connection they'd been pursuing was solidifying. And right now, it seemed almost as important as the dead body lying on the floor in front of them.

"So you have any idea when Webber was granted custody?" Kate asked.

"Um…one second." Simmons consulted his notes, flicking through files on his phone. "It looks like it was….yeah, made official three weeks ago. But he's had them living with him for about eight months since the father disappeared. You want me to forward you guys what I have?"

“Please, that would be helpful,” DeMarco said.

Kate moved to the refrigerator as DeMarco and Simmons coordinated. Children's artwork was displayed on the main door with magnets. Crayon drawings of three stick figures—a tall one and two small ones—holding hands. She briefly had a bittersweet flashback to when Melissa had kept her fridge loaded down with similar drawings.

A thought struck her. She turned to Simmons and asked, “Has anyone notified the parents who abandoned them?"

“That would be the father,” Simmons said “Former army. In and out of therapist’s offices and very unstable based on the scant notes I have. But it seems no one has any idea where he is right now. There’s no record of his whereabouts," Simmons replied. "Court documents list him as location unknown."

Kate frowned, piecing together the scenario. "So the killer approaches when the grandparent is alone. No witnesses other than a nosy neighbor, and no interruptions. He must monitor the houses and learn the patterns of when children leave for school or activities." He knows the kids as well as he knows his victims, she thought, and it sent a spike of ice right through her heart.

She stood, synthesizing what they were seeing. "This changes things. Our killer is evolving, learning from each murder. The switch from piano wire to nylon cord, striking in broad daylight and, if the neighbor is to be believed, actually knocking on the door.”

"He’s getting more confident," DeMarco added. "The previous murders were at night or early morning. This one happened after he'd dropped the kids at school—what, around nine or ten in the morning?"

“Closer to ten based on what the neighbor told us,” Simmons said.

Kate nodded. "More neighbors awake, more potential witnesses." She surveyed the kitchen again. "He's taking bigger risks. That suggests escalation."

“Maybe he’s on some sort of a timetable," DeMarco suggested

Kate considered this for a second, nodding in agreement. "The custody arrangements…they’ve all been recent. All within the last few months." She glanced at the children's drawings again, frowning deeply as she thought it all over. "What if our killer is targeting cases based on when custody is granted? Working through a list, maybe…"

"That would mean he has access to court records," DeMarco said. "Or..."

"Social services files," Kate finished. "Fairfield Children's Services, which handled all the victim families." She hoped it was a wrong hunch, seeing as how they’d already been there. Kate hated the idea of running around in circles while there was a killer out there, actively taking lives.

Behind them, the crime scene technicians arrived. They began crowding the small kitchen, waiting for their turn. Kate and DeMarco stepped further into the living room to continue their conversation, not wanting to be in the way.

"We need that warrant," DeMarco said urgently. "If the killer has a list, there could be more targets already selected."

Kate nodded, her mind working through the implications. No warrant, no progress. And all they could do for now was wait. "The change in method suggests he's concerned about the authorities catching on to him. He has no delusions that he can fly under the radar. And I wonder if he maybe even has some sort of idea how an investigation like this one would work.”

DeMarco's phone rang before she or Simmons had a chance to respond to this. DeMarco answered quickly, not even bothering to look at the caller display. "This is DeMarco... Yes, Judge. Yes, thank you." She hung up and turned to Kate. "Randall signed the warrant. We can access the Fairfield records as soon as we get there."

"Let's go, then," Kate said, already headed for the door. They both gave a polite nod to Simmons, but before Kate left the house, she took one last glance at Harold Webber's body. The ME had also arrived and was angling for position as the technicians photographed and cataloged evidence. For some reason, the sight of it all made it seem more real to her. She knew she was on an active case; she had known this since she’d agreed to help DeMarco. But it was real now in a way it hadn’t before.

She then took one last look into the kitchen at the drawings on the fridge. Seeing them in this new light, Kate knew there was no way in hell she'd be able to rest until this killer was found.

As they headed for the door, Kate paused at the display case of military medals. A photo beside it showed a younger Harold Webber in desert camouflage, arms around two other soldiers, all three smiling despite the harsh environment.

"He survived war zones only to be killed in his own kitchen," she said quietly. "And now two five-year-olds have lost another parent."

“So let’s go get the bastard,” DeMarco said.

Kate nodded, forgetting the icy steel DeMarco could sometimes inflict into her voice. Like the starting gun to a race, it got Kate hurrying out of Webber’s house, more determined than ever to find this killer before he could strike again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kate and DeMarco sat in the small waiting area of Fairfield Children's Services, the freshly signed warrant tucked securely in DeMarco's portfolio. It had been sent via email and they’d stopped by the file office on the way over to get a print-out. They weren’t sitting too far away from the little play area Kate had noticed upon their first visit. When Kate looked at it, she couldn’t help but think of the displaced children who had sat there while their fates were being decided by grown-ups and courts.

Patricia Dawson emerged from down the hall off the waiting area, just two minutes after they’d sat down. Her expression was markedly different from their previous encounter. Gone was the defensive posture and guarded eyes. Now, with a legally binding warrant in play, she was all professional cooperation. Kate recalled how she’d seemed legitimately heartbroken to have to follow the rules when they had been here earlier.

"Agents," she said, gesturing them into her office. "I have my assistant pulling the files you requested. I apologize for the inconvenience, but confidentiality protocols are strict with these cases. I only hope you understand."

“Of course we do,” Kate said, nodding politely as they followed Dawson into her office. "Thanks for accommodating us now."

They found her office mostly unchanged, though there was a small, slightly untidy stack of papers at the edge of her desk. Kate also noticed the faint smell of food, indicating that Dawson had eaten lunch in her office today.

"Please, sit," Dawson said, gesturing to the chairs opposite her desk. "Once I have the files, I can walk you through our case management system. Each victim would have been assigned a specific social worker who conducted home visits and filed reports."

"We'll need names of all personnel who had contact with the victims,” DeMarco said. “Particularly anyone who visited their homes in the weeks preceding their deaths."

"Of course," Dawson said, typing rapidly on her laptop keyboard. "I'm pulling up our assignment logs now. Give me just a moment."

As Dawson worked, something clicked in Kate's mind—a dark thought that made her blood run cold. She thought of her conversation with Melissa two days ago, the revelation that if anything happened to her daughter and son-in-law, Michelle would go to Terry's mother Jean, not to her. The unexpected sting of that knowledge, the feeling of being overlooked despite her experience and love for her granddaughter. Yes, it had stung, and it still hurt. But she hated to admit it because it made her feel slighted and even selfish.

What if the killer was someone with similar feelings in the past? What if it wasn't someone who worked in the system but someone the system had failed? Not a social worker with access to files, but a grandparent who had lost a custody battle? Someone who watched other grandparents succeed where they had failed?

The theory settled heavily in her stomach. It was just a hunch, but her hunches had saved lives before. And sometimes, such a hunch seemed to grow claws and latch itself onto her brain—and this was one of those times.

Kate glanced at DeMarco, who was focused on Dawson's computer screen as the director navigated through database entries. She decided to keep her theory to herself until she had something more concrete to offer. For now, there just wasn’t enough of a foundation. But she thought it might be rather simple to find out if there was one.

"Patricia," Kate said, interrupting the technical conversation between Dawson and DeMarco. "I need to step outside for a moment to make a call. Is there somewhere quiet I could go?"

Dawson looked up, momentarily surprised by the interruption. "Of course. There's a small garden with benches on the east side of the building. Most of our staff use it for lunch breaks. It should be empty this time of day."

"Thanks. DeMarco, can you continue here alone? I won't be long."

DeMarco gave her a questioning look but nodded. "Sure. We'll start cross-referencing staff assignments with the victim list."

Kate slipped out of the office, through the waiting area, and found the side exit that led to the garden Dawson had mentioned. It was a modest space—a small rectangular plot with flowering shrubs, a narrow stone path, and two wooden benches. Dandelions and morning glories speckled a few flowerbeds that had been well maintained. The late afternoon sun warmed the area, and the faint scent of something floral—lavender, maybe—permeated the air.

She settled onto one of the benches and pulled out her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found the number for the Richmond City Courthouse. This one and several others like it had remained in her contact list mainly because she’d found it surprisingly hard to delete them; even when she’d known her career was likely over, it had been hard to clear out her phone of these relics of her past. Taking a deep breath, she pressed call.

"Richmond City Courthouse, Records Division," a woman's voice answered after the second ring.

"This is Special Agent Kate Wise with the FBI," Kate said, the familiar introduction rolling off her tongue despite her semi-retired status. "I need information on custody cases from the past year, specifically instances where grandparents were granted custody of grandchildren."

"Do you have a case number or specific names you're looking for?" the clerk asked.

"No, I need a comprehensive list," Kate replied. "This is part of an urgent investigation related to multiple homicides."

A pause on the other end. "I'll need your badge number and authorization for such a broad request, as I’m sure you know."

Kate hesitated for only a fraction of a second before reciting her old badge number. It wasn't officially hers anymore, but it would still be in the system, associated with her name. The small deception felt justified, given the stakes. It also sent a little thrill through her.

"Agent Wise, I can compile this information, but it will take some time to process. These records are spread across our family court database. I can perhaps get the help of an assistant and speed it along, but I can’t promise anything."

"I understand. But this is an extremely time-sensitive matter—we have reason to believe more lives are at risk." Kate kept her voice steady and professional. "How quickly could you email the information?"

The clerk's voice softened slightly. "I'll prioritize it. Given the nature of your request... I can probably have something to you within the hour."

Kate let out a small sigh of relief. That was much faster than she’d been expecting. "That would be extremely helpful," Kate said, relief evident in her voice. "Please be sure to include any cases that were contested or appealed as well."

"I'll do my best. What email should I send this to?"

Kate provided her personal email, thanked the clerk, and ended the call. She remained on the bench for a moment, organizing her thoughts as she breathed in the sunshine and flowers. If her theory was correct, the next step would be to alert both the Bureau and local police, have them contact recent custody winners and warn them not to admit strangers into their homes.

A protective detail for each potential victim would be ideal, but resources were always stretched thin. It would take a lot of work and, sadly, some convincing. At minimum, they needed a warning system in place while they narrowed down the killer's identity. While she waited, she knew there would be plenty of obstacles along the way, but she also felt that they were now one step closer. Coming at it from two completely separate angles would only increase their chances of finding the right answer…and hopefully the right answer that would lead them to their killer.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kate rejoined DeMarco in Dawson's office just as they were wrapping up. Several manila folders were stacked on the desk, and Dawson was handing a final printout to DeMarco. Kate noticed that Dawson looked a bit pale; she’d clearly been stressed out over the entire ordeal. But now that it was done, she looked almost satisfied that she’d finally been able to properly help.

"All set?" Kate asked, glancing at the collected materials.

DeMarco nodded, gathering the folders into a neat pile. "Just about. Patricia has been very helpful with the records. What about you? Did you get what you needed outside?"

"I'll tell you in the car," Kate replied with a meaningful glance. She didn't want to discuss her courthouse call in front of Dawson, not until she knew what the records might reveal.

They thanked Dawson for her assistance and made their way out of the building. The afternoon sun was warm after the air-conditioned offices, and Kate squinted against the brightness as they crossed the parking lot to DeMarco's car. "So, were you able to find anything?" Kate asked.

“Yes, actually. Maybe something pretty big. But you go first.”

Once settled in the car with doors closed, Kate said, "I called the Richmond City Courthouse while I was outside. I requested records of all custody cases involving grandparents from the past year. I know it might seem random, but I can’t help but wonder if our killer might be a disgruntled grandparent who was denied custody at some point. Even if I’m wrong on that, we could literally use that as a list to use for suspects and potential victims."

"Good call," DeMarco said, starting the engine. "Those could be valuable. What did they say?"

"The clerk was hesitant at first—asked for my badge number." Kate winced slightly. "I might have implied I was still a full agent without actually saying it. But she agreed to pull everything she could find. And if all goes well, we should have it soon.”

"Well, look at you with a little creative badge flashing," DeMarco said with a small smile. "Nobody needs to know the details."

"It felt justified," Kate replied, looking out at the Fairfield building as they pulled away. "Those records could help us identify potential victims to warn—or potential suspects if I’m right about the killer being someone who lost a custody battle."

"Exactly." DeMarco navigated through the parking lot and onto the main road. "Speaking of suspects, my big takeaway…I found something interesting while you were making your call."

"Tell me," Kate said, turning her full attention to DeMarco.

"Using Fairfield's records, I was able to determine that two of our victims had the same social worker perform their in-home visits—a woman named Valerie Winters."

Kate raised her eyebrows. "Which two?"

"Bennet and Thornton," DeMarco replied, stopping at a red light. "She conducted all the home evaluations, interviewed family members, the whole process."

"That's a solid connection," Kate noted. "What about our other victims?"

"Different social workers," DeMarco explained as the light changed. "One of whom has an airtight alibi. She was five months pregnant the last time she did a home visit, and she delivered her baby just two days ago."

“Yeah, I’d say that’s solid.”

 “But going back to Valerie Winters, it gets even better. It seems that Winters didn't show up for work today."

"And on the day a victim was killed during the day for the first time,” Kate said slowly, the coincidence too significant to ignore.

"Exactly. According to Dawson, Winters called in with a migraine. Apparently, she gets them occasionally, but the timing..."

"Feels convenient," Kate finished. "Did you get contact information for her?"

"Address, phone number, everything," DeMarco confirmed, taking a right turn. "She lives in Chesterfield, not far from here, actually."

Kate tapped her fingers against her knee, thinking. "She would have had opportunities to learn the victims' routines, observe their home security, gain their trust."

"She'd be let into their homes without question," DeMarco agreed. "A social worker with official ID, someone they'd already met multiple times during their custody cases—they'd never suspect a threat."

"It fits part of the profile," Kate admitted. "But I'm still not convinced."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, she was only the social worker for two of our victims. How would she have selected the others? And Webber—" Kate gestured with her hand, "—he was a retired Army colonel, physically fit despite his age. I have trouble seeing a female social worker overpowering him without assistance."

DeMarco considered this as she navigated through traffic. "Maybe she didn't work alone. Or maybe she used some kind of weapon or sedative to gain an advantage."

"Possible," Kate acknowledged. But something still didn’t feel quite right about it.

"And as for the other victims," DeMarco continued, "maybe she had access to their files somehow, even if she wasn't assigned to their cases. Or maybe there's another connection we haven't found yet."

They drove in silence for a moment, both processing the implications. Kate gazed out the window at the passing neighborhoods. The streets were quiet in the late afternoon, an ordinary day for most residents, unaware of the predator moving among them.

"What did Winters' personnel file tell you?" Kate asked finally. "Anything in her background that raises flags?"

"Nothing obvious," DeMarco replied. "Thirty-four years old, master's degree in social work from VCU, employed with Fairfield for six years. No disciplinary actions, generally positive performance reviews. Lives alone, never married, no children."

"Family?"

"Her file mentioned parents in Norfolk, a brother somewhere. Dawson didn't have those deep details."

Kate frowned slightly. "No children of her own, but works closely with custody cases. I wonder if there's something personal driving her interest in that field."

"I think it's an angle worth exploring," DeMarco agreed. "But first, we need to find her and talk to her directly."

Kate checked her watch—nearly three o'clock. The courthouse records would be arriving soon, and she was eager to cross-reference them with what they knew about their victims—and what they might learn about Winters. It was a matter of everything coming together for them, just not quickly enough.

"What about the other social worker? Not Winters, and not the new mom?”

"Ah, her name is Amy Phillips. She handled Sandoval. But she moved to Nashville two months ago. Relocated with her husband for his job. She'd given notice well before any of the murders took place.”

Kate processed this information. "So Winters is our only viable lead from the social services angle. What about her relationship with the victims? Did Dawson indicate how Winters felt about the Bennet and Thornton custody decisions?"

"Professionally supportive, according to the case notes," DeMarco said. "She recommended that both grandparents receive custody in her official assessments. No indication of disagreement with the outcomes."

Kate shook her head slightly. "That doesn't align with a motive for murder. If she supported the grandparents getting custody, why target them afterward?"

"Maybe it's not about the specific custody decisions," DeMarco suggested. "Maybe it's something more personal, something not in the official records."

DeMarco turned into a residential neighborhood, rows of modest homes lining quiet streets. The middle-class suburb seemed worlds away from the violent deaths they were investigating, yet the connections led them here, to one of these unremarkable houses.

"Do you think our courthouse records might shed some light on this?" DeMarco asked. "If Winters has some personal connection to a custody case, it might appear there."

"It's possible," Kate replied. "I requested everything from the past year—granted and denied petitions. If Winters or someone close to her lost a custody battle, it could establish motive."

DeMarco slowed as they approached an intersection. The female voice on her GPS instructed her to make a left at the next light. Kate considered what they knew of Winters. Something about the connection felt both promising and incomplete, like a puzzle with missing pieces. If Winters was their killer, what had driven her to murder these specific grandparents? And if she wasn't, how did she connect to the broader pattern they were seeing?

"What's your gut telling you about this?" DeMarco asked, as if reading Kate's thoughts.

Kate considered the question carefully. In her decades with the FBI, she'd learned to trust her instincts, the subtle signals her subconscious picked up before her rational mind could process them.

"Honestly? I'm not sure Winters is our killer," she admitted. "But I think there’s a. very good chance that she knows something—maybe without realizing it. She's connected to at least two victims, and that can't be coincidence. At minimum, she might have observed something that could lead us to the real killer."

"And her absence today?"

"Could be nothing, could be significant," Kate said. "We won't know until we talk to her." But speaking it out loud, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was trying to eliminate Valerie Winters a bit too quickly.

DeMarco nodded, accepting Kate's assessment. "Fair enough. We'll approach this as an interview first and see where it leads."

They continued toward Chesterfield, the suburban landscape rolling past their windows. Kate's phone remained silent—no email yet from the courthouse, no text updated from Allen. She hoped those records would arrive soon, potentially providing the missing piece they needed to make sense of these killings…and how to prevent more.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kate watched the houses slide by as DeMarco drove through the Chesterfield neighborhood where Valerie Winters lived. The area was neither wealthy nor poor—a solid middle-class enclave with modest homes on small but neatly maintained lots. Most of the houses were 1970s constructions, single-story ranches or split-levels with vinyl siding in subdued colors.

"According to Dawson, Winters has been at this address for about four years," DeMarco said, slowing to check the numbers. "Move to Richmond from Fairfax. She lives alone, rents rather than owns."

Kate nodded, scanning the street. Children's bicycles leaned against garage doors, and here and there, a basketball hoop stood sentinel over a driveway. Working families who'd found affordable housing within commuting distance of Richmond. On one small porch, an elderly man smoked a cigarette, staring idly at the minimal flow of afternoon traffic.

DeMarco finally brought the car to a stop in front of a blue split-level with white trim. She parked behind a gray Honda Civic that had seen better days. Its bumper bore the fading remnants of a "Coexist" sticker and what looked like a parking permit for a local community college.

The lawn was mowed but not manicured, with a few dandelions poking through the grass. A small concrete porch held two plastic chairs but no other decoration. The blinds were drawn on all visible windows. Rusted windchimes hung from the ceiling of the little porch, making no noise.

"Seems innocent enough,'" DeMarco commented as she turned off the engine.

Kathe gathered up the notes they'd brought from Fairview before opening her door. She had spent the drive reviewing Winters' case files on the Bennet and Thornton families. The reports were thorough and professional, with no obvious red flags. If anything, Winters seemed genuinely concerned for the welfare of the children in both cases.

They approached the front door, noting the absence of security cameras or sophisticated locks—just a standard deadbolt and a peephole. DeMarco knocked firmly.

The sound of movement came from inside right away—a chair scraping across floor, murmured voices, then approaching steps. The door opened to reveal a woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wore jeans and a faded Virginia Commonwealth sweatshirt, her face bare of makeup. Dark circles underlined her eyes.

"Valerie Winters?" DeMarco asked, holding up her badge.

“Yeah…that’s me.” She looked both curious and cautious at the same time, her eyes darting back and forth between DeMarco and Kate.

"I'm Agent DeMarco with the FBI, and this is Kate Wise, consulting with our investigation. We'd like to ask you some questions if you have the time."

Valerie's eyes widened with surprise, darting from DeMarco's badge to Kate's face and back again. "FBI? I don't understand."

"May we come in?" Kate asked gently, noting the woman's obvious nervousness. “It’s about the safety of families working with Fairfield.”

Valerie looked slightly shocked at this, but nodded her head. "I... yes, of course." She stepped back, opening the door wider.

As they entered Valerie’s home, Kate caught a glimpse of movement in what appeared to be the kitchen. She saw a man's profile, tall and lean, turning away from them as they entered. The living room they stepped into was sparsely furnished but clean, with a worn beige sofa, a coffee table with a few books, and a small television on a simple stand. A bookshelf held an assortment of paperbacks, their spines cracked from use. The walls were painted a flat off-white, adorned only with a couple of framed prints of abstract landscapes.

"Please, sit down," Valerie said, gesturing to the sofa while pulling a wooden chair from a small desk in the corner for herself. She perched on its edge, hands clasped tightly in her lap. "What's this about?"

DeMarco remained standing, positioning herself where she could see into the kitchen. Kate decided to sit, not wanting to come off as too aggressive. "Ms. Winters,” Demarco said, “we're investigating a series of homicides involving grandparents who recently gained custody of their grandchildren."

Valerie's face paled slightly. "Homicides? I don't understand what this has to do with me."

"Two of the victims were families you worked with," Kate explained, watching Valerie closely. "Richard Bennet and Margaret Thornton."

"Oh my God," Valerie whispered as genuine shock registering on her face. That look of confusion came back over her eyes as they grew wider. "They're dead? Both of them?"

“I’m afraid so,” Kate said.

"Along with several others," DeMarco added. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you. But… Ms. Winters, we noticed you called in sick to work today, the same day another victim was killed—Harold Webber."

Valerie shook her head, confusion evident. "I don't know a Harold Webber. I've never worked with him."

"No, but the pattern matches your other cases," Kate said. "A grandparent who recently gained custody of their grandchildren…murdered in their home."

A sound from the kitchen drew their attention—the scrape of a chair, followed by footsteps. A man appeared in the doorway, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. It was the same figure Kate had seen when they’d come into the house. He was taller than Valerie by several inches, with the same brown hair, though his was cut shorter and showed early signs of thinning. His face bore several days' worth of stubble, and his eyes—also brown like Valerie's—held a wariness that Kate recognized from countless interviews with people who had reasons to distrust authority.

"What's going on, Val?" he asked, his voice deeper than Kate had expected.

Valerie gave a small sigh. "Lucas, these are FBI agents. They're asking about some of my cases." She turned back to Kate and DeMarco. "This is my brother, Lucas. He's staying with me for a few days."

Lucas nodded curtly at them but didn't move from the doorway. He had a slightly distrusting gaze that instantly raised alarms in Kate’s gut. Still, she only nodded politely at him and turned her attention back to Valerie.

DeMarco shifted slightly, her stance subtly more alert. "Ms. Winters, you told your office you were sick today. Was that not the case?"

Valerie glanced at her brother, then back to DeMarco. "I... I called out because Lucas needed me. He's going through a difficult time, and I didn't want to leave him alone."

"I don't need a babysitter, Val," Lucas muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich. "I told you to go to work." He then eyed DeMarco and Kate, repeating it. “I told her to go to work.”

Kate noted the tension between them—familiar but strained, the dynamics of siblings navigating difficult circumstances. "Do you live here, Lucas?" she asked.

"Nah," he replied, leaning against the doorframe. "Got my own place in Petersburg. Just staying a couple days, like Val said."

"Why did you need your sister's support today specifically?" Kate asked, keeping her tone conversational.

Lucas looked to Valerie again, who answered for him. He looked angry for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure why he was being questioned. Kate took quick note of the fact that Lucas didn’t bother answering; Valerie answered for him.

"Today is the anniversary of Lucas losing custody of his children." Her voice softened with sympathy. "His ex-wife died of cancer last year, and her parents were granted custody of their kids instead of Lucas."

Kate felt a chill of recognition. The very scenario they'd originally theorized—a parent denied custody, watching their children go to grandparents instead. She exchanged a glance with DeMarco, who had subtly shifted her jacket to make her weapon more accessible if needed. Kate thought it was a bit much in terms of a reaction but kept her cool.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kate said carefully. "That must have been difficult."

Lucas shrugged, but the tightness around his eyes belied his attempted nonchalance. "Courts do what they want. Everyone knows that. It never really matters what might actually be best for the kids.”

"Lucas…" Valerie warned softly.

"It's fine," he replied, retreating back into the kitchen. "You talk to your FBI people. I'm just gonna be over here with my sandwich, out of the way."

Kate waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. She still wasn’t sure what it was about him that had her guard up. "Valerie, we're trying to understand why someone would target these specific grandparents,” she said. “Did you notice anything unusual during your work with the Bennet and Thornton families?"

Valerie shook her head, still visibly processing the news of their deaths. She looked slightly dazed, shocked. "No, nothing unusual. They were standard custody cases. Both grandparents were well-qualified to take custody—stable homes, adequate incomes, strong emotional bonds with the children."

"Did you share details of these cases with anyone?" DeMarco asked. "Discuss them outside of work, perhaps?"

Valerie frowned. "No, of course not. That would be a violation of confidentiality."

"Even with family members?" Kate pressed gently, inclining her head toward the kitchen.

Valerie's eyes widened with understanding. "You think... Lucas? That's absurd. He wouldn't—"

"We're just collecting information at this stage," DeMarco interjected smoothly. "Your brother experienced a similar situation to our victims, just from the other side. You said so yourself. It's a connection we need to explore."

"Lucas has had some problems," Valerie admitted, lowering her voice. "Minor stuff—unpaid tickets that turned into warrants, a DUI a few years back. That's what the in-laws used against him in court. But he'd never hurt anyone. He’s been clean for a few years now, but it has been a struggle for him."

Kate leaned forward. "How did he handle losing custody?"

"He was devastated," Valerie said. "Angry at the system, at his in-laws. He felt they'd used their money and connections to paint him as unfit." She glanced toward the kitchen. "But he's been working through it. Getting his life back on track so he can petition for visitation rights."

"Would you mind if we spoke with him directly?" Kate asked.

Valerie hesitated, then nodded. "I suppose that's fine. He just…I don’t know how he’ll respond if you approach him like he’s a suspect. His emotions are already pretty tense.” She shrugged, turned her head toward the kitchen, and said: “Lucas! The agents would like to ask you some questions."

But there was no response.

"Lucas?" Valerie stood, moving toward the doorway. "Hey, they just want to talk."

Kate and DeMarco followed her into the kitchen—a small, functional space with laminate countertops and aging appliances. A plate with the remains of a sandwich sat on the table. The back door stood slightly ajar, a cool breeze stirring the curtain beside it.

"He's gone," Valerie said, her voice caught between surprise and embarrassment. She moved to the door and pushed it open wider, looking out into the small backyard. "Lucas!"

Kate joined her at the door. The yard was empty, bordered by a chain-link fence with a gate that stood open, leading to an alley beyond. The door being slightly open was an indicator that yes, Lucas had made a run for it and had opted not to shut the door so they wouldn’t have heard his escape.

"Why would he leave?" DeMarco asked, her hand now resting more openly on her weapon.

Valerie shook her head, genuine confusion on her face. "I don't know. This doesn't make sense."

Kate stepped into the yard, scanning for signs of which way Lucas might have gone. The gate beyond the yard led to a dusty looking alley that ran behind the row of houses, providing multiple escape routes.

"Ms. Winters," DeMarco said firmly, "when was the last time you saw your brother before today?"

Valerie remained in the doorway, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. "A couple of weeks ago. He stops by when he's having a hard time. Like I said, today is the anniversary."

"And where was he this morning, around nine?" Kate asked, returning to the kitchen.

"Here," Valerie said. "We had breakfast together around eight, then watched some morning shows. He hasn't left the house all day—until now, apparently." She sounded pissed off and maybe even a little concerned.

"Could he have accessed your work files?" DeMarco asked bluntly. She asked quickly, too…wanting to get started on a chase after Lucas, no doubt. "Client information, addresses, custody details?"

Valerie's face tightened. "No. I don't bring work home. Besides, Lucas wouldn't even know what to look for."

"Unless you discussed your cases with him," Kate suggested. "Maybe not intentionally sharing confidential information, but commiserating about similar situations to his own."

A flicker of doubt crossed Valerie's face. "I... I may have mentioned some cases in general terms. Just talking about work, you know? But never specific names or addresses. I mean…no, there’s just no way."

"Your brother just fled at the mention of FBI questions," DeMarco pointed out. "That suggests he has something to hide."

"Or he has warrants," Valerie countered defensively. "Like I said, he's had legal troubles. Maybe he panicked."

“Damn,” DeMarco said. “Kate…I’m going after him. Are you good here?”

“Yes, of course.”

DeMarco gave Valerie a sour glance, and they bolted out of the back door. Lucas already had about a minute or so head start, but Kate knew DeMarco had to at least try.

“I swear,” Valerie said, “Lucas is not involved in this case of yours.”

“Let’s hope not,” Kate said as she moved back into the living room, looking at the space with fresh eyes. Family photos on the bookshelf showed Valerie with an older couple—presumably her parents—and a few with Lucas and two children, a boy and a girl around eight and six.

"Those are Lucas's kids," Valerie said, following Kate's gaze. "Ethan and Olivia. They live with their maternal grandparents in Brandermill now."

"When did Lucas arrive here?" Kate asked.

"Yesterday evening," Valerie replied, sitting down in the couch. "More like last night. Eight or nine, I guess. He called and said he was having a rough time thinking about the anniversary. I told him to come over."

Kate sat beside Valerie in DeMarco’s absence. "Valerie, think carefully. Has Lucas ever expressed particular anger toward grandparents raising children? Not just his in-laws, but as a general concept?"

Valerie stared at her hands. "He believes children belong with their parents, not their grandparents. He thinks the system is biased against young fathers. And in my line of work, with the things I’ve seen…yeah, I agree with that. " She looked up at Kate. "But that doesn't make him a killer. That’s absurd."

"We're not making accusations," Kate assured her. "We're following connections. The victims were all grandparents who gained custody of their grandchildren, often after the courts deemed the parents unfit or unstable."

"Like Lucas," Valerie whispered.

"Yes," Kate confirmed. "And you provided home evaluations for at least two of the victims."

Valerie shook her head, clearly still in denial that this could be the case.

“I think maybe he could have somehow without you even knowing it,” Kate added. “It wouldn’t be a—”

The back door opened as DeMarco came back inside, interrupting her. “There are too many damned alleyways. I lost him before he even started,” she said. “But I called in for a few units to keep a lookout. Gave his description…”

"This…this is really happening, isn't it?” Valerie asked. “You think my brother is killing people."

Kate watched the woman's genuine distress. Either Valerie was an exceptional actress, or she truly had no knowledge of her brother's potential crimes. The shock and confusion in her eyes seemed real, the dawning horror as connections formed in her mind.

“We have absolutely no evidence of that right now,” Kate said. “But as I already said, his running does make it look very bad.”

"Valerie, when did Lucas lose custody of his children?" Demarco asked.

"The final ruling was last April," Valerie replied quietly. "Almost exactly a year ago. The hearing was on the 18th."

Kate made a mental note to check this date against their timeline of murders. "And how did he handle it?"

"He was angry," Valerie said. "Depressed. For months, he barely functioned. I nearly had him placed on suicide watch. Then he seemed to... I don't know, accept it? He started talking about getting his life in order and proving himself worthy. And once he committed to that, there was a very apparent change in him."

"When did that change happen?" Kate asked.

Valerie thought for a moment. "January, maybe? After the holidays. He seemed different, more focused." She shook her head, tears starting to flow. "I can't believe this," she said, looking toward the open back door. "Why would he run if he's innocent?"

The question hung in the air between them, unanswered. Lucas Winters had fled at the first sign of FBI interest, leaving his sister to face their questions alone. Whether from fear of outstanding warrants or something far more sinister, his behavior had transformed him from a person of interest to their prime suspect in a matter of minutes.

Kate watched DeMarco carefully, wondering if they’d been standing right in front of their killer and then let him slip away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kate and DeMarco stood beside the bureau sedan, its hood still slightly warm from their drive to Valerie's house. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the modest front yard as DeMarco pulled out her phone. They’d decided to remain at Valerie’s house, as it had more or less become the primary hub of operations ever since DeMarco had called in the APB for Lucas Winters.

"I’m going to go ahead and get a background check on Lucas while we're here," DeMarco said. "Something about his reaction doesn't sit right. And maybe Valerie really does think he’s as innocent as he seems…but I’d rather know for sure."

Kate nodded in agreement. After Lucas's abrupt exit through the back door, they'd left Valerie inside, visibly shaken by the implications of her brother's behavior. She had continued to insist that there must be some explanation—perhaps old warrants, perhaps simple panic at seeing federal agents—but even she couldn't entirely dismiss their concerns. Moment by moment, excuse by excuse, she seemed to grow more and more concerned.

Kate watched Demarco place the call to Records and Research. It was answered on the second ring, just as DeMarco set the call to speaker mode.

"Records and Research," came the answer.

"This is Agent DeMarco. I need a background check run on a Lucas Winters, originally from Fairfax, with a current address in Brandermill, Virginia."

"One moment, Agent DeMarco," came the response from the other end of the line.

While they waited, Kate noticed a police officer walking up the sidewalk toward Valerie's house. Two others had already arrived and gone inside to look through Lucas's belongings—the small duffle bag he'd packed for his stay at his sister's. It was all standard procedure after a person of interest fled questioning.

Less than thirty seconds had passed before the line was picked back up. It was a male voice, deep and calm. "Agent DeMarco? This is Kevin Reeves from Records. I've got information on your subject, Lucas Winters."

"Go ahead," DeMarco said, pulling a small notepad from her pocket.

"Lucas Winters, age thirty-seven. Several minor offenses on his record, including a DUI three years ago and various unpaid traffic citations. More notably, there was an altercation at a gas station in Fairfax about fourteen months ago where he and another man came to blows. Charges were filed but then ultimately dropped.

"Anything else?" DeMarco asked.

"Yes, and it's recent. There's an outstanding warrant for his arrest following a hit-and-run incident two days ago. Minor injuries to a pedestrian in a parking lot, but Winters fled the scene.”

"Thanks. Send all this to my email," DeMarco instructed.

“Will do. I’ve got it on file here. You’ll have it shortly.”

DeMarco ended the call and looked to Kate. "We need to talk to Valerie again. Want to bet that she knows absolutely nothing about the hit and run?"

Kate was already moving toward the house, her mind racing. She supposed the hit-and-run explained Lucas's flight—he was already wanted by police. And with the smaller offenses to boot, maybe it was natural that he would freak out on them on a day that was already admittedly stressful for him.

But was he also their killer?

Inside, they found Valerie sitting stiffly on her sofa, a cup of untouched tea on the coffee table before her. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. A cop sat on the other end of the couch with a notepad open in his hand. Valerie looked up as they entered, hope flashing briefly across her features.

"Did you find him?"

"Not yet," DeMarco said. "Ms. Winters, did you have any clue that your brother was involved in a hit and run two days ago?"

Valerie's eyes widened. "What? No, that's not... he never mentioned..."

"According to police records, he’s actively being sought after because of it. He also has a few dings on his record that are much more recent than his so-called clean act.”

“This includes an altercation at a gas station that turned violent just fourteen months ago,” Kate said, watching Valerie's reaction carefully.

"I... I didn't know," Valerie insisted. "Lucas never told me about that." Her hands twisted in her lap. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Kate confirmed.

Valerie covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh God," she whispered. "Is that why he ran? Because of the hit-and-run? Maybe he thought you were here secretly for that?"

"Possibly," DeMarco said. "But that incident, as well as his violent history, does not pair well with him making a run for it in the presence of federal agents."

One of the police officers emerged from the hallway, approaching them with a serious expression. He was an older man with a hardened look, and Kate could tell he had news for them just based on the set of his brow.

"Agents? You might want to see this," he said as he held up a manila envelope. "Found this in the subject's overnight bag."

DeMarco took the envelope and opened it, with Kate looking over her shoulder. Inside were several photographs; they looked to be surveillance-style shots taken from a distance. They showed an older couple, in their sixties perhaps, standing on the porch of a Tudor-style home. Another photo showed the same couple with two children, a boy and girl, walking into what appeared to be a large grocery store.

Kate took the photos and showed them to Valerie. "Do you recognize the people in these photos?"

Valerie’s face drained of color. "That's... those are Lucas's former in-laws. Robert and Diane Clarkson. And those are…Jesus, those are his children with them."

DeMarco and Kate exchanged alarmed glances. The implications were clear—Lucas had been surveilling his former in-laws, the people who had custody of his children. Valerie also seemed to understand the weight of what they were looking at. Her face crumpled and she began to weep openly.

"When did he take these?" DeMarco demanded.

"I don't know," Valerie said, her voice small. "I've never seen them before."

“You’re certain?”

“Yes!” Valerie nearly squealed.

"Where do the Clarksons live?" Kate asked.

"In Brandermill, right outside of the city. Lucas said they moved there to be closer to better schools for the kids…to keep them in a familiar place." She then hitched a breath and said, in nearly a whisper as if to herself: "I can't believe this. He wouldn't... he couldn't..."

"Ms. Winters," DeMarco said firmly, "given what we've found and your brother's hurry to get away from us, the Clarksons may be in danger. We need their exact address."

Valerie looked stricken, tears forming in her eyes. "Lucas isn't a killer," she insisted. "He's angry, yes, and he's made mistakes, but he wouldn't hurt anyone, especially not his children's grandparents."

"The evidence suggests otherwise," Kate said gently. "If we're wrong, no harm done. But if we're right, lives are at stake."

Valerie stared at the photos for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I honestly…I don’t know the address. I’ve never spoken openly with them."

“It’s fine,” DeMarco said. “I can get it from the database.”

"Please don't hurt him,” Valerie pleaded. “He's been through so much."

Kate nodded. "We'll do everything we can to resolve this peacefully."

Meanwhile, DeMarco was already on her phone, making a request for the address of the Clarksons. And if this went according to usual protocols, the next call would be to a police force in Brandermill, asking for backup units. Kate gathered the photos up, the evidence that Lucas Winters was apparently targeting his children's grandparents.

In the back of her head, Kate heard a small warning bell…a slight suggestion that maybe this wasn’t the full picture. That something here didn’t quite fit. But even still, it was evident that the Clarksons could very well be in danger.

"I’ve got the address," DeMarco said as she got off the phone. "We need to go. Now."

Kate gave Valerie one last look, wondering if there might be one last piece of information she was withholding—whether intentionally or not. But the woman was slowly folding in on herself, trying to process all she’d just learned about her brother.

Outside, they hurried to DeMarco's car. As DeMarco unlocked the doors, Kate thought of Michael at home with Allen, safe and loved. Then her mind turned to Eleanor Sandoval's grandson, Margaret Thornton's granddaughter, Harold Webber's twins, Richard Bennet and his child—children who had lost their grandparents to violence, their lives upended once again.

Lucas's children still had their grandparents. And Kate intended to keep it that way.

"If we take the bypass, we can be on Brandermill in fifteen minutes," Kate said as she slid into the passenger seat and buckled in.

"Less," DeMarco replied grimly, starting the engine and reaching for the emergency lights switch.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Clarkson home sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in one of Brandermill's more established neighborhoods. It was a two-story Tudor with cream-colored siding and navy blue shutters, surrounded by mature oak trees that cast long shadows across the manicured lawn. A basketball hoop stood at the edge of the driveway, and colorful chalk drawings decorated the sidewalk leading to the front door. Both the hoop and the drawings looked to be very recent additions.

As they slowly drove by the house to get an initial sense of the scene, Kate took in the peaceful location with a growing sense of unease. Children lived here. The drawings on the sidewalk, a bike parked at the very edge of the porch – these were signs of a normal family life, one that Lucas Winters might be planning to shatter.

"Looks quiet," DeMarco said as they coasted by.

Kate nodded, doing her best to figure out if anyone was home. The door to the garage was closed, making it impossible to know if there was a car parked inside.

During their drive to Brandermill, Kate had called in backup units, requesting they maintain a discreet presence in the area. "Keep your distance," she'd instructed them over the phone. "We have reason to believe there's a threat to the family, but children are involved. We don't want a show of force that might escalate the situation."

Now, as dusk began to settle over the neighborhood, she scanned the surrounding streets for signs of their backup. A dark sedan was parked two blocks down – likely one of their units – and she thought she glimpsed another unmarked car turning onto a side street just ahead of them.

"How do you want to approach this?" DeMarco asked as she parked her car at the end of the block; she’d parked so that they were facing the end of the cul-de-sac. 

Kate hesitated. When she'd agreed to consult on this case, she'd promised Allen she wouldn't put herself in danger. No heroics, no chasing suspects through abandoned buildings – those had been his exact words. Yet here she was, preparing to approach a home that might be targeted by a killer. It was a bit reckless, but she’d be damned if she’d just sit on the sidelines.

And she was unarmed. The realization hit her with unexpected force. After decades with the Bureau, the weight of a service weapon had been as familiar as the weight of her car keys. But she'd left that part of her life behind – or so she'd thought. She still had a gun, but it was her personal one, and it was at home, tucked away in a safe in her closet.

"Let's check the perimeter first," Kate decided. "See if there's any sign of Lucas or any indication he's already been here."

They exited the car and began a casual but thorough circuit of the property, attempting to look like neighbors out for an evening stroll. Now that they were closer to the house and could take their time to get a better look, Kate saw that the backyard was enclosed by a wooden privacy fence with a gate that appeared untouched. No windows showed signs of forced entry. Perhaps most notable, she saw a light on through one of the front-facing windows…a decent sign that someone was home.

As they rounded the side of the house, Kate noticed a woman's silhouette moving past a kitchen window. She appeared to be preparing dinner, unaware of any potential threat.

"We should talk to them," DeMarco whispered. "Warn them. Seems pretty evident Lucas hasn't come by yet."

Kate nodded, but something caught her attention before they could approach the front door. Across the street, partially hidden behind a large rhododendron bush in a neighbor's yard, stood a figure watching the house. Even in the fading light, Kate could make out the shape of a backpack slung over one shoulder. They were crouched down, and, truth be told, it was a decent hiding spot. It just so happened that from the exact position where Kate and DeMarco stood, the entire left side of the figure was visible.

Kate touched DeMarco's arm and nodded discreetly in that direction. "Three o'clock. Behind the bush."

DeMarco followed her gaze, her body language shifting instantly into alert readiness. "Lucas?"

"Could be. The build looks right."

"I'll circle around behind him,” DeMarco said. “You keep walking…seem natural. But make your way back here in about thirty seconds.”

Kate wanted to protest; old instincts died hard, after all. But she knew DeMarco was right. Without a weapon, she'd be a liability in a direct confrontation. Still, she couldn't help feeling sidelined as DeMarco moved casually across the street, seemingly absorbed in her phone while gradually working her way behind the concealed figure.

The neighborhood seemed to have grown quieter as dinnertime approached. No children played outside, and the streets were empty except for the occasional car returning home from work.

Kate watched as DeMarco made her way along the opposite street. As Kate continued on, the shape of the suspicious figure slowly disappeared from view. But it did seem that they were so transfixed on the Clarkston home that they’d never even seen DeMarco at all. The last Kate saw of DeMarco was as she disappeared behind a neighbor's hedge, positioning herself to approach the suspect from behind. She felt her heart rate increase, the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with operations like this. She might be little more than a consultant now, but her body remembered what it was like to be an agent in the field.

Kate did as DeMarco asked and continued forward. And when she came to a small side street several yards ahead, she turned around and headed back to the end of the cul-de-sac where a dark figure was watching the Clarkton home.

Suddenly, everything happened at once and very quickly.

DeMarco emerged from behind the bush, weapon drawn. "FBI! Don't move, Lucas!"

The figure—unmistakenly Lucas Winters now that Kate could see him clearly--froze for half a second, then bolted in the opposite direction. His backpack bounced as he sprinted down the street away from them.

"Stop! Federal agent!" DeMarco shouted, giving chase.

Kate reacted instinctively, running toward the street to cut off any potential escape route should Lucas try to double back. She watched as DeMarco closed the distance between herself and Lucas with impressive speed. Despite being in her mid-thirties, DeMarco had maintained the physical conditioning that the Bureau demanded, and it showed in how quickly she gained on their suspect. She’d always been fast, but Kate was slightly awed as she watched her move.

Lucas glanced over his shoulder, panic evident even from Kate's position. He veered suddenly, attempting to cut between houses, but DeMarco anticipated the move. She lunged forward, tackling him around the waist and bringing them both down onto someone's front lawn. Even from about twenty feet away, Kate heard the thud of his body slamming into the ground.

Kate ran toward them as Lucas struggled beneath DeMarco's weight. "I didn't do anything!" he shouted, thrashing wildly. "Get off me!"

DeMarco had managed to grab one of his wrists but was struggling to secure the other as Lucas bucked and twisted beneath her. He made a few attempts to connect his left fist with the side of DeMarco's head, but he couldn't get the angle right.

"Stop resisting!" DeMarco commanded, her voice authoritative but strained with effort.

As Kate approached, she saw Lucas's free hand reaching toward the waistband of his jeans. Old instincts kicked in, resurfacing, and Kate realized Lucas could be reaching for a weapon.

Without hesitation, Kate rushed over to them and dropped down beside them. She grabbed Lucas's arm and wrenched it away from his body with a control technique that had been drilled into her throughout her career. Using her weight and leverage, she pinned his arm to the ground while DeMarco secured his other wrist with handcuffs. For a single, dizzying moment, Kate felt nearly overcome with the rush of it all.

"Don't even think about it," Kate warned, her breath coming in short bursts. "You're only making this worse for yourself."

Lucas continued to struggle for a few more seconds before finally going limp beneath them. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," he insisted, his voice muffled against the grass. "You can't arrest me for standing on a public sidewalk."

"We can arrest you for the outstanding warrant from your hit-and-run," DeMarco countered, finishing with the handcuffs and checking to make sure they were secure. "And we have a few questions about the pictures the police found in your overnight bag back at your sister’s house.."

At the mention of the photos, Lucas's body tensed again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kate moved back as DeMarco pulled Lucas to his feet. Neighbors had begun to appear on porches and in windows, drawn by the commotion. In the distance, Kate heard the wail of approaching sirens – their backup, responding to DeMarco's call for assistance when the chase began.

"What's in the backpack, Lucas?" Kate asked, nodding toward the bag that had fallen to the ground during the struggle.

"Nothing. Personal stuff," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

DeMarco retrieved the backpack with her free hand while maintaining a firm grip on Lucas with the other. "We'll need to check that."

"You need a warrant," Lucas protested. “I know my rights!”

"Not with probable cause," DeMarco replied coolly.

Two police cruisers pulled up to the curb, and officers emerged with hands on their weapons, assessing the situation.

"We're good," DeMarco called to them, displaying her badge. "Suspect is secured."

As one of the officers approached to take custody of Lucas, Kate found herself surveying the scene with a complex mixture of emotions. The rush of the chase and capture still coursed through her veins, a reminder of the life she'd led for decades. God, she'd missed this – the intensity, the clarity of purpose, the satisfaction of bringing a dangerous suspect into custody.

Yet simultaneously, guilt tugged at her. She'd promised Allen she wouldn't put herself in danger, and while she hadn't been the one to tackle Lucas, she'd certainly placed herself at risk by assisting with his restraint. What if Lucas had been armed? What if he'd been their killer, prepared to take another life? What if Kate had found herself caught in crossfire?

One of the officers began searching the backpack while another secured Lucas in the back of a cruiser. Kate moved closer to DeMarco, who was brushing grass stains from her pantsuit.

"You okay?" Kate asked.

DeMarco nodded, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Never better. Like riding a bike, right?"

"Something like that," Kate agreed, watching as the officer examining the backpack pulled out clothing, toiletries, and what appeared to be a single photograph. "What's he got?"

DeMarco approached the officer. "Anything relevant?"

"Looks like he was planning to leave town," the officer replied, holding up the backpack. "Change of clothes, toothbrush, about three hundred dollars in cash. And this." He handed her a small, worn photograph showing Lucas with two children, their faces bright with laughter. Despite what they’d just gone through, Kate felt her heart warm at the sight.

"His kids," Kate murmured.

"No weapons?" DeMarco asked.

The officer shook his head. "Nothing that could be used as a weapon. No wire, no cord, nothing matching your killer's MO."

Kate felt a flicker of doubt. Lucas had been surveilling his former in-laws, and had immediately fled when confronted by the FBI. But nothing in his possession suggested he was preparing to commit murder. Maybe he was just a broken man who missed his kids fiercely.

The streetlights had come on fully now, casting pools of yellow light across the darkening neighborhood. In the Clarkson home, Kate could see figures moving about, likely wondering about the commotion outside.

DeMarco opened the cruiser door, leaning in to address Lucas as a pair of cops guided him in. "Why were you watching the Clarkson house, Lucas?"

He looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and resignation. "I wanted to see my kids. Is that a crime now?” He was crying but doing his best to hide it. “They live with my in-laws, and I'm not allowed within a hundred yards of the property according to the custody agreement. So I was waiting, hoping to see them playing outside or something. Anything."

"With a backpack full of clothes and cash?" Kate interjected, stepping closer.

Lucas's shoulders slumped. "I was going to leave town after….after I saw them. Maybe even get to speak with them.”

“You were willing to break court rules…getting into more trouble?” Kate asked.

“I don’t give a shit about that. I just wanted to see them…Look, I knew the cops were looking for me because of that hit-and-run. It was an accident – I panicked. I was coming to say goodbye, that's all."

"And the violent altercation at the gas station a little over. year ago?" DeMarco pressed. "Was that an accident too?"

Lucas scoffed. “That was nothing. Just some nosy woman saw it happen, filmed it with her phone and made a big deal about it. There were no charges pressed.”

A second officer approached, holding up a smartphone to show DeMarco and Kate. "We've got the suspect's phone. No messages or searches related to the victims you mentioned. Mostly texts with his sister and some job search sites."

Kate and DeMarco exchanged glances. The evidence they'd found at Valerie's house had seemed damning, but there was absolutely nothing in Lucas's possession suggesting he was their serial killer. Nothing connected him to the other victims or matched the methodical nature of the murders.

"We still need to bring him in," DeMarco said quietly to Kate. "The warrant is legitimate, and we need to question him further about the victims."

Kate nodded, though doubt had begun to creep into her mind. Was Lucas Winters a grieving father who had made a series of poor decisions, or was he a calculating killer who had managed to hide the evidence of his crimes? Also…the murders so far didn't seem to be overly personal, whereas Lucas was literally spying on his own kids, his own situation.

As the officers prepared to transport Lucas to the station, Kate looked back at the Clarkson home. The lights glowed warmly in the windows, the family inside unaware of the drama that had unfolded just outside their door. For now, at least, they were safe.

But if Lucas wasn't their killer, someone else was still out there. Someone who had already taken four lives and might be planning a fifth. The thought sent a chill through Kate as the police cruiser pulled away, carrying Lucas Winters toward what would likely be a long night of questioning.

She turned to DeMarco. "Nice tackle, by the way."

DeMarco grinned, her teeth white in the gathering darkness. "Thanks for the assist. You've still got it, or so it seems."

"Maybe," Kate conceded, trying to ignore the lingering adrenaline that made her feel more alive than she had in months.

As they walked back to DeMarco's car, Kate pulled out her phone to call Allen. He deserved to know she would be later than planned – and that despite her promises, she was back in the thick of danger after all.

But that was the nature of this work, she reflected as she slid into the passenger seat. No matter how carefully you planned and how firmly you set boundaries, the pull of the hunt was always there. The need to protect, to pursue justice, to stop those who preyed on the vulnerable. And now that she was knee-deep in it, she knew she'd not be satisfied until this case was properly closed.

It was what had driven her for thirty years. And apparently, it wasn't done with her yet.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The field office was unusually quiet for a weekday evening. Most agents had gone home for the day, leaving only a skeleton crew of personnel and the occasional cleaning staff member pushing a cart down the corridor. Kate sat outside the interrogation room, a cup of lukewarm coffee in her hands, still riding the wave of adrenaline from Lucas Winters' arrest. She glanced at her watch and saw that it had somehow come to be 7:15 already.

Allen had texted her back and told her to take her time—as encouraging as ever. Even when she’d texted him a second time to let him know she’d be taking part in an interrogation and would, therefore, be home much later than planned, he’d been understanding and supportive. The text he’d sent back in response had read: Well, if you’re home too late, I’ll just crash on the couch watching a Netflix documentary. Not sure if I’d be able to sleep in the bed without you there. It was both romantic and funny, and a little cheesy. In other words, a perfect summary of their relationship…and another reason she could not wait to marry him.

She was rather anxious to share her takedown with him whenever she managed to get back home. It had been nearly three years since she'd assisted in taking down a combative suspect. Though technically she was just a consultant on this case, the muscle memory had kicked in without hesitation when she'd seen Lucas reaching toward his waistband. The familiar rush, the hyper-focused clarity of those moments – they were like old friends she hadn't realized how much she'd missed. If given the chance, she'd head out into the field and do it again right then and there. Allen would be scared out of his mind, but she was pretty sure he'd also get a laugh out of it.

DeMarco emerged from the observation room, holding a manila folder. "They're ready for us," she said, nodding toward the interrogation room door. "Local PD processed him, but since we're handling the serial case, they've handed him over to us."

"Has he said anything else?" Kate asked, standing.

"Just more protests of innocence." DeMarco shrugged. "They all say that at first, of course. Well, most of them…"

They entered the interrogation room together. Lucas Winters sat at the metal table, his hands cuffed in front of him. In the harsh lighting, he looked younger than Kate had initially thought – mid-thirties perhaps, with dark circles under his eyes and a day's worth of stubble on his chin. His shoulders were hunched forward, and he glanced up briefly as they entered before returning his gaze to the table.

"Mr. Winters," DeMarco began, setting the folder on the table and taking a seat across from him. "I'm Agent DeMarco, and this is Kate Wise, consulting with the FBI. We—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “You went through all of this at Valerie’s house.”

“Ah, that’s right. I just wanted to make sure you heard it all, seeing as how you made a run for it.” Demarco let the jab settle in for a moment before continuing on. “We have some questions for you regarding a series of homicides."

Lucas shook his head, a weary gesture rather than one of defiance. "Like I told the other cops, I don't know anything about any murders. I was at my sister's because I’d been having a hard time. This day…it hurts. That's it."

Kate studied him as she sat beside DeMarco. His body language wasn't that of a hardened killer – no cold calculation, no practiced charm. Just exhaustion and resignation. Yes, he was mad, but if he was indeed not their killer, she supposed he had a right to be.

"Tell us about the hit-and-run," Kate prompted, her tone deliberately conversational.

Lucas sighed, running his cuffed hands through his hair. "It was stupid. And a total mistake. Two days ago, I was backing out of a parking space at the grocery store. I was distracted, thinking about my kids, and honestly trying my best to stave off a fucking panic attack. I wasn't paying attention, and I hit someone's cart. The cart hit a woman – knocked her down." He paused, swallowing. "I panicked. I've got priors – that DUI from three years back, some unpaid tickets. I knew if I got arrested again, I could kiss any chance of seeing my kids goodbye. So I drove off. It seemed like the only thing to do at the moment, but looking back…yeah, it was stupid."

"And is that when you decided to go your sister's?" DeMarco asked.

"Yeah." Lucas nodded. "I didn't tell her why I was there. I mean, yeah, I am legitimately struggling with the anniversary of all that happened. That’s not a lie. But I didn’t tell her about the hit-and-run. I just said I needed a place to crash for a few days. Valerie's always been there for me, even when I screw up." His voice cracked slightly. "She's probably furious with me now."

Kate leaned forward. "Lucas, why were you watching the Clarkson house tonight?"

His eyes finally lifted to meet hers, and Kate was surprised by the raw pain she saw there. "I already told you. I wanted to see my kids. Just one more time before I left town. Is that so hard to understand?"

"You had a backpack full of clothes and cash," DeMarco pointed out. “And you left another bag back at Valerie’s.”

"Because I was running!" Lucas's voice rose, then immediately dropped again as he visibly tried to control himself. "Look, I know I messed up with the hit-and-run. I was going to head to my cousin's place in North Carolina until I figured out what to do next. But I couldn't leave without seeing Ethan and Olivia, even if it was just from a distance. And I left the bag back at Val's as a sort of backup. If I couldn't make it to North Carolina, I'd just head back there."

Kate glanced at DeMarco, then back to Lucas. "Mr. Winters, we're investigating a series of murders involving grandparents who have custody of their grandchildren. Given your situation with the Clarksons—"

"Whoa, wait." Lucas straightened, genuine alarm crossing his features. "You think I would hurt them? My kids' grandparents? That's crazy. I'd never do that to my children. Are you out of your damned mind?"

"Where were you two nights ago, between 8 PM and midnight?" DeMarco asked abruptly.

Lucas blinked at the sudden change in topic. "At work. I stock shelves at Harris Teeter on the night shift. Clock in at eight, off at four in the morning."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"My supervisor, Jeff Kendall. The whole night crew. Plus, there are security cameras everywhere." Lucas leaned forward. "Why? What happened two nights ago?"

Kate exchanged a look with DeMarco, who nodded slightly. "A man named Harold Webber was murdered in his home that night. He is the fourth victim."

Lucas's face paled. "And you think I... Jesus." He shook his head vehemently. "I don't even know who that is."

"What about Tuesday night, last week?" DeMarco continued. "Between nine at night and three in the morning?"

"Same thing. Working. I haven't missed a shift in months. I need the money for my lawyer. I’m doing a little side gig, too…doing car renovations. I'm trying to get visitation rights to see my kids."

Kate studied him carefully. Either Lucas was telling the truth, or he was an exceptional actor. And to point out such verifiable details for his alibis made Kate think he was not telling lies. The grief and exhaustion etched into his features also seemed genuine, as did his shock at being accused of murder.

"We'll verify your alibis," DeMarco said, her tone neutral. “And then that should be the end of it.”

"Please do," Lucas replied. "I've done some stupid things in my life, but I'm not a killer."

Kate glanced at the folder DeMarco had brought in. "What about the photos we found in your sister's house? You were surveilling the Clarksons. And you can call it what you want, but you were hiding in a bush across the street when we found you."

Lucas's shoulders slumped. "I took those about a month ago. I just wanted to see my kids. I don’t know how many more times I have to say that until you understand! The custody agreement says I can't approach within a hundred yards of the house, so I stay back. Take pictures sometimes so I can look at them later." His voice grew softer. "Olivia lost a tooth last month. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't seen her smiling in their front yard." He looked up, a flash of defiance crossing his features. "I know it sounds creepy, but what else am I supposed to do? They won't let me see my own children."

DeMarco's expression remained professionally neutral. "What about your relationship with the Clarksons? Your sister mentioned there was tension."

Lucas gave a humorless laugh. "That's putting it mildly. They never thought I was good enough for their daughter. After Caroline died, they used every mistake I'd ever made against me in court. The DUI, the time I lost my temper at Ethan's teacher conference, every missed child support payment when I was between jobs." His hands clenched into fists. "But I never threatened them. I never would. I don't like them personally, but they're taking good care of my kids. I know that…"

They pressed on with the interrogation, but the remaining five minutes were little more than a formality. They both knew he was not their killer; a few phone calls to his work would verify it. When it was all over, DeMarco stepped out to make those phone calls, leaving Kate alone with Lucas.

The room fell silent for a moment before Lucas spoke. His voice was lower now, calmer than before. "You have kids?"

Kate nodded. "A grown daughter, thirty-one. And a son who's just over a year old...believe it or not."

Surprise flickered across his face, and she thought she saw him biting back an expression of doubt. "That's quite an age gap."

"Life is full of surprises," Kate replied with a small smile.

"I bet." Lucas's expression softened. "Then maybe you understand. I just want to be part of my kids' lives. That's all I've ever wanted."

Before Kate could respond, DeMarco returned, her expression telling Kate everything she needed to know.

"We've confirmed with Harris Teeter," DeMarco said, closing the folder and looking at Lucas. "It seems that you were indeed working during all four murders. Security footage and multiple witnesses place him at the store for his entire shifts."

Kate felt a complex mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that this troubled man wasn't a killer, but disappointment that they were back to square one in their investigation.

Lucas sagged in his chair. "I told you."

"You're still facing charges for the hit-and-run," DeMarco reminded him. "But as far as our homicide investigation goes, you're no longer a person of interest. And you’re going to really start having to take those court orders more seriously."

A visible wave of relief passed over Lucas's face. "Yeah, I know. I never meant to hurt her. I just…panicked."

DeMarco nodded and said, “Hold tight, Mr. Winters. An officer will be here in a moment to take you back to holding.”

As DeMarco left the room again. Kate found herself torn over her feelings regarding Lucas. She hated to leave him alone, dealing with the heartache around his kids. But she also knew she had a job to do, that she would have never been sidelined by such feelings when she was an active agent. She followed Demarco outside, and they walked down the hall in silence for several seconds.

"Back to square one," DeMarco said after a while as they neared a corridor that led to Kate’s old office.

"Which means our killer is still out there, possibly planning the next murder," Kate said. The building had grown even quieter, with only the occasional murmur from the skeleton staff manning the overnight shift.

"I believed him," Kate admitted as they waited for the elevator. "About his kids, about just wanting to see them."

DeMarco nodded. "Me too. But it doesn't excuse the hit-and-run or stalking his in-laws, but..." She trailed off.

"But he's not a murderer," Kate finished. "Just a troubled father who's made some bad choices."

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. As they stepped inside, Kate found herself thinking about Lucas Winters' children – Ethan and Olivia – who had already lost their mother and now had a father who might be facing jail time. More children are caught in the painful aftermath of adult decisions and mistakes.

Kate stared at the illuminated numbers counting down. "We need to look at this case from a different angle. If it's not a parent who lost custody, then what's the connection? Who else would target grandparents specifically? We can’t be blinded by what seems obvious."

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, nearly deserted at this hour. As they walked toward the exit, Kate checked her watch – just slightly past 8:00. Allen would be putting Michael down for bed right now. She wished she was there but was also glad she was here. It was a very polarizing feeling.

“Want me to drop you off at home?” DeMarco asked.

“No, that’s fine. I’ll order an Uber.”

“That’s ridiculous. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

Kate nearly took her up on it, but she felt the sudden need to be alone—to go over what she knew about the case in silence, by herself. It was something she used to fall back on all the time during the height of her career.

“No, really, it’s okay,” she said.

DeMarco shrugged and said, “If you’re certain…”

Outside, the night air was cool against her skin. The adrenaline from earlier had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue that reminded Kate of her age. But underneath the exhaustion was a familiar determination. They'd eliminated one suspect, but the real killer was still out there. And they had no ideas as to who it might be.

This was one thing Kate had not missed about the job—feeling lost with no light in the darkness while she knew there was a killer on the loose, several steps ahead of her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kate stared out the window of the Uber she'd called after leaving the field office, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of amber as they passed. Lucas Winters wasn't their killer. His alibis were solid, his motives understandable if not excusable. A troubled father, not a murderer.

She'd lucked out and got a driver who seemed completely uninterested in idle chit-chat. Kate wondered if sometimes these drivers could simply tell when someone needed peace and quiet. The silence allowed her mind to work through the case, picking at loose threads, searching for connections they might have missed.

Four victims dead, and they were no closer to catching the killer than when they'd started. What had they missed? Even after getting the warrant and necessary files from Fairfield, they…

And then a thought occurred to her. Not a thought, actually—more like a hunch. She knew that Patricia Dawson had told DeMarco to come back whenever she needed if there was more information necessary for the case. Kate doubted she’d meant to swing by after business hours, but she supposed there was only one way to find out. besides that, it wasn’t Patricia Dawson she was currently concerned about.

As the car turned onto the road that would take her home, Kate straightened suddenly. "Actually, could you make a detour? Fairfield Children's Services on Maple Street."

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "It's nearly nine, ma'am. They'll be closed."

"I know," Kate said. "But I just need to check something. I'll pay extra for the detour."

The driver shrugged and changed direction. Kate felt a little flutter in her heart, a spike of adrenaline and nerves. She watched another set of streets blaze by and twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of Fairfield Children's Services. The building was mostly dark, but as Kate had hoped, a few lights shone from windows on the second floor.

"Want me to wait?" the driver asked as she paid the fare.

"Yes, I’d appreciate that. Thanks. I shouldn’t be long. Ten minutes…fifteen at the most."

The driver gave her a nod of agreement as she stepped out into the empty parking lot. Kate approached the main entrance, finding it locked as expected. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the glass doors. In the dimly lit lobby, she could make out a cleaning cart near the receptionist's desk. Apparently, the lights were on because there was currently a cleaning crew at work.

She knocked firmly on the glass. Thirty seconds passed without any response, so she tried again. She knocked harder this time, the pane rattling in the frame. This time, after about twenty seconds, a man in gray maintenance coveralls appeared from a hallway, mop in hand. He approached the door cautiously, his expression wary.

Kate held up her badge—her old FBI credentials that she'd never quite been able to bring herself to turn in. The badge was technically no longer valid, but in the dim light, the janitor wouldn't be able to tell.

The man studied the badge, then gave her a suspicious grin. He unlocked the door, opening it just wide enough to speak.

"Can I help you?" he asked. He was in his thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a lean build.

"Kate Wise, FBI," she said, not quite a lie. "I need to check something in one of the offices. I was here with my partner, Agent DeMarco, earlier in the day speaking with Ms. Dawson."

The man nodded, opening the door wider. "Ms. Dawson said someone might be coming back for more files. I’ll be here for at least another two hours, so help yourself."

Kate silently thanked Patricia Dawson for her continued cooperation while verbally thanking the janitor as he opened the door wider. Inside, the building seemed almost eerie in the dark. It didn't help matters that classical piano music was being played from somewhere further off in the building.

"Which office are you looking for?" the janitor asked as he closed and locked the door behind them. “I suppose you know where Ms. Dawson’s office is, right?”

"Actually, I’d like to see Valerie Winters’ office," Kate replied. "She's a social worker here."

"Oh, Valerie. Second floor, room 216." He gestured toward the elevator. "I just finished that floor, so it's all clean up there." He grinned slyly at her and added, “So don’t you be making a mess in there.”

"Thank you," Kate said. "I'll try not to disturb anything."

As she crossed the lobby, Kate noticed a small Bluetooth speaker clipped to the janitor's belt. The delicate notes of a piano piece floated through the quiet space. It was the source of the music she’d heard moments ago…music she now recognized as Chopin.

As she took the small flight of stairs at the back of the first-floor lobby, Kate reflected on how much her life had changed. Once, she had chased killers without a second thought. Now, she had a baby at home, a fiancé waiting up for her, a wedding to plan. Yet here she was, following a hunch in an empty building late at night, making all of those other things feel like crashing waves on the shores of another planet.

She came to the second floor, which was fully illuminated by the overhead fluorescents. The carpet had been freshly vacuumed, and the faint scent of cleaning solution lingered in the air. She found room 216 easily—a small office with Valerie Winters' name on a placard beside the door. The door was unlocked, swinging open when Kate turned the handle.

Valerie's office was modest—a desk with a computer, two filing cabinets, a bookshelf filled with child development textbooks and agency manuals. A framed photograph of Valerie with a younger Lucas and two children sat on the corner of the desk. Seeing Lucas in this context after the way the evening had gone was heartbreaking in a way she’d not expected.

Kate moved around the desk, looking for anything that might connect Valerie—or anyone else at the agency—to all four victims. The computer was password-protected, as she'd expected. The desk drawers contained only standard office supplies—pens, paper clips, sticky notes.

The filing cabinet was locked. Kate searched the desk for a key but found none.

"Come on," she murmured to herself. "Give me something."

She turned her attention to the bulletin board above Valerie's desk. It was covered with the usual office notices—staff meeting reminders, agency policies, a calendar marked with case deadlines. Nothing that screamed "serial killer." Kate sighed, not even quite sure what she was looking for.

She stepped back, surveying the room again. What was she missing? What connection had the killer used to select these specific grandparents?

A flash of yellow caught her eye—a small sticky note attached to the side of Valerie's desk. In neat handwriting, it read: "Blinds stuck, sorry! Will fix soon –Ryan."

Kate glanced at the window. The blinds were indeed partially raised, with the cord hanging limply at an awkward angle. Something about the note nagged at her. Ryan. The name was familiar, though she couldn't place why. She studied the window again, looking at the thin nylon cord that operated the blinds.

She took out her phone and snapped a quick photo of the sticky note and the damaged blind cord. Something struck her as important about this, but she couldn't quite place it. She made a mental note to discuss it with DeMarco in the morning and then to maybe even rope in Dawson if necessary.

After a final glance around the office, finding nothing else of interest, Kate closed the door behind her and headed back to the stairs. The case felt like a series of twisted ropes, all knotted up together so that she could no longer tell one frayed end from the other. Lucas Winters had seemed the perfect suspect, yet his alibis had proven solid. Now, she was chasing shadows in an empty building, hoping for any lead to follow. She suddenly felt like an idiot for even coming by here. Had she really thought Valerie would have been keeping some secret clue to the case in her office?

You’re getting rusty, Wise, she told herself as she walked back down the stairs. When she reached the lobby, the janitor was mopping near the reception desk, the Bluetooth speaker still playing classical piano music softly at his hip.

"Find what you needed?" he asked, looking up.

"Not sure yet," Kate replied. "Thanks for letting me in, though."

"No problem," the janitor said. "Have a good night."

Back outside in the parking lot, Kate walked back over to the Uber and reclaimed her place in the back seat. As the driver pulled out, she found herself thinking about the sticky note again. "Blinds stuck, sorry!..." Such an innocuous message, yet something about it tugged at her instincts and would simply not let go.

And she could feel it clawing tighter and tighter around her the closer she got to home.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Kate stared absently out the window, her mind still working on the puzzle of the sticky note in Valerie's office. Something about it kept nagging at her, like a splinter beneath her skin she couldn't quite reach.

"Blinds stuck, sorry! Will fix soon –Ryan."

A maintenance note about a broken window blind. Yet something about it felt significant. Kate closed her eyes, trying to focus her thoughts. The cord on the blinds had been damaged. Nylon cord.

Harold Webber had been strangled with nylon cord, not piano wire like the previous victims. And suddenly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place, she saw the connection.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

The Uber driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "You okay, ma'am?"

Kate barely heard him, her mind racing with the implications of her realization. The killer wasn't Lucas Winters. It certainly wasn't Valerie. But what if it was someone with access to all the files at Fairfield Children's Services? Someone who could move through the building without raising suspicion. Someone who could read case files, learn about recently granted custody cases, and know exactly where to find vulnerable grandparents at home with their grandchildren.

A maintenance worker.

Ryan, whoever he was, could very well have access to every office in the building if he was the sort of handyman who fixed things like blinds. Someone like that could easily glance at open files left on desks. He would know the building's schedule, which offices were empty when. And he had access to maintenance supplies—like nylon cord from window blinds.

But what about piano wire? It was a simple question, and she thought it had a simple answer—even if it was a bit of a stretch. The janitor had been listening to classical piano music. It wasn’t exactly a genre heard very often. And the music itself did connect pretty clearly to piano wire.

She knew how flimsy it sounded, so Kate pulled out her phone and dialed DeMarco's number before she convinced herself it was nothing. Her fingers trembling slightly with the urgency of her potential discovery.

DeMarco answered on the third ring, her voice sounding both delighted and confused. "Kate? What is it?"

"I think I know who our killer might be," Kate said without preamble. "Or at least, I have a strong lead."

"What? How?" DeMarco sounded instantly more alert.

"I went back to Fairfield Children's Services tonight," Kate admitted. "I wanted to look at Valerie's office."

"You did what?" DeMarco's tone shifted to irritation. "Kate, we're supposed to be working together on this. And…didn’t we already count Valerie out?"

"I know, I know. It was just a hunch. But listen—I found something." Kate quickly explained about the janitor letting her in, the note about the stuck blinds signed by someone named Ryan, and her theory about the maintenance staff having access to all the case files.

"The janitor at Fairfield was listening to classical piano music, DeMarco. Piano music. And the first three victims were killed with piano wire."

"That's a hell of a stretch," DeMarco said, but Kate could hear the interest in her voice.

"Oh, trust me, I know. But what about the nylon cord from the blinds? Webber was killed with a nylon cord, not a piano wire. And there was a note in Valerie's office about the blinds being stuck, signed by someone named Ryan. Someone who was within easy reaching distance of countless files and information…especially if he has full range of the building."

“I mean, it could fit,” DeMarco said. "Especially if Ryan and your janitor are the same person. But we need more than a coincidence, Kate."

"I know. That's why I'm going back to the agency to ask the janitor some questions. Can you meet me there?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Kate, it's almost ten o'clock. The place will be closed by now."

"It was closed when I got there the first time. But the janitor was still there when I left…said he’d be there for at least another two hours. If we hurry, we’ll catch him."

"Alright," DeMarco said, resignation in her voice. "But wait for me. Do not go in alone. I mean it, Kate."

"I'll wait," Kate promised. "I'm heading home now to get my car. I'll meet you there."

Ten minutes later, the Uber pulled into Kate's driveway. The porch light was on, and warm light glowed from the living room windows. Allen was still up, probably waiting for her.

Kate hesitated as she got out of the car after paying the driver. She should go in to tell Allen what was happening. But she knew he'd have questions and concerns. He might try to talk her out of going back to the agency and remind her of her promise not to put herself in danger. And she couldn't afford the delay—not when they might finally have a solid lead.

"I'm sorry, Allen," she murmured, turning away from the house and heading straight to her car parked in the driveway. And the sad thing was, she knew he’d understand. Despite her being sneaky, he wouldn’t be mad.

Her car was parked outside of the garage. She unlocked it with her key fob, slid inside, and started the engine with a quiet purr. Kate backed out of the driveway, glancing guiltily at the house as she pulled away. She grimaced at the idea that Allen would somehow know, that he might see her car backing out and blasting off into the night. She'd explain everything later. Right now, stopping a killer took precedence.

She drove faster than was strictly prudent, pushing the speed limit as she made her way back to Fairfield Children's Services. When she arrived after a twelve-minute drive, her heart sank. The building was completely dark, no lights visible in any window. The parking lot was empty.

Kate parked near the entrance and got out, approaching the main doors. Locked, as expected. She peered through the glass into the darkened lobby. No sign of the janitor or his cleaning cart.

"Damn it," she muttered, returning to her car.

She was too late. The janitor—possibly the Ryan who had left Valerie a message about her blinds—had finished his shift and left. But if this mystery man was their killer, they couldn't afford to wait until morning to pursue this lead. More lives could be at stake. But they had no last name, no idea of a possible address…

Then she remembered—Valerie Winters would clearly know this man. Once again, Valerie could very well be their link to finding answers for this case. She might be able to tell them more about Ryan, starting with whether or not he was the janitor or a completely different member of the maintenance staff.

Headlights swept across the parking lot as another car pulled in: DeMarco's sedan. Kate walked over to the parking spot DeMarco selected, shaking her head to meet her partner.

"He's gone," Kate said as DeMarco opened the driver’s side door. "The building's dark."

DeMarco nodded, taking in the empty parking lot. "So what now?"

"I know she’s got to be tired of us by now, but I think we need to pay another visit to Valerie Winters. She might know who Ryan is, seeing as how he left a note on her desk. And she's not far from here."

DeMarco looked skeptical. "You want to go to her house? Now?"

"If Ryan or the janitor—or maybe they're one and the same—is our killer, we can't wait until morning, DeMarco. Four people are already dead."

DeMarco hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. But we do this by the book. No rushing in half-cocked." She then shrugged and added, “Hell, it’s only ten. Not that late.”

"Agreed. Let's take my car," Kate suggested, already moving toward her vehicle. "I know the way." What she didn’t want to admit that she was being pushed by adrenaline and the nostalgia for moments like these. She wanted to drive; she wanted to feel the rush of it as she sped through night-shrouded streets.

As she navigated the mostly empty streets, Kate filled DeMarco in on the details of her visit to the agency. She did so, realizing that maybe her heart wasn't completely sold on speeding along like a madwoman. There were more nerves and cautious reflexes than she’d expected.

"The janitor let you in because Dawson told security someone might come by?" DeMarco asked.

"That's what he said. Seems Dawson anticipated we might need more access later on in the case.”

"Oh, that's right. She did say as much. She even invited me to call her after hours if it was necessary." She nodded, considering it, and then added: "And this janitor was listening to piano music?"

"Chopin," Kate confirmed. "On a Bluetooth speaker."

"Still seems like a reach," DeMarco said. "But combined with the note about the blinds and the missing cord... it's worth looking into."

Kate pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator, pushing well above the speed limit now. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, making the risk seem justifiable.

They pulled onto Valerie's street at 10:13 PM, the modest houses mostly dark except for the occasional glow of television screens through windows. Valerie's house still had lights on in what appeared to be the living room. Kate parked at the curb, and they approached the front door quickly. DeMarco rang the bell, her posture tense with anticipation. All around them, the night was quiet, with the exception of an excited dog barking its head off a considerable distance away.

After a moment, they heard movement inside, and then Valerie opened the door. She was dressed in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. Surprise registered on her face when she saw them.

"Agents…what are you doing here so late? God…has there been another murder?"

"No,” Kate said. “But we need to ask you about someone who works at Fairfield.”

“Who?” Valerie asked with a frown as she invited them in.

"We need to know about someone named Ryan,” DeMarco said. “Someone who works in maintenance at Fairfield.”

Recognition flickered across Valerie's face. "Ryan? You mean Ryan Harlow? He's our head of maintenance. Works as a janitor, too."

"We need to know everything you can tell us about him," DeMarco said.

Valerie gestured for them to sit down, confusion evident in her expression. "Ryan? I don't understand. What does he have to do with anything?"

"Just humor us," Kate said, taking a seat on the sofa.

“He’s a nice enough guy. Sort of keeps to himself." She smiled thinly and said, “He’s always smiling…that sort of guy.”

How long has he worked at Fairfield?"

"Three years, I think?" Valerie settled into an armchair across from them. "Maybe four. He came through the Second Chance Program."

"What's that?" DeMarco asked.

"It's a local initiative that helps people with troubled backgrounds reintegrate into society through employment. They work with ex-offenders, people with addiction histories, that sort of thing."

Kate leaned forward. "What was Ryan's troubled background?"

Valerie shook her head. "I don't know all of the details, honestly. Patricia might. She's the one who hired him."

"Has he ever mentioned his family?" Kate pressed. "His childhood?"

Valerie thought for a moment. "Not to me personally. But I remember overhearing him talking to one of the counselors once. Something about being raised by his grandparents after his mother died." She paused, then added, "I got the impression it wasn't a happy situation."

"Abusive?" DeMarco suggested.

"I honestly don't know, but…I suppose that was the impression I got, yes. Why? What does this have to do with your case?"

Kate didn't answer directly. "There was a note on your desk at work about your blinds being stuck. Signed by Ryan."

"Oh, that. Yes, the cord got damaged somehow. Ryan said he'd fix it when the replacement parts came in."

"When did you first notice the blinds were damaged?" DeMarco asked.

Valerie thought for a moment. "About a week ago, I think? That might be a day or two off, though. Ryan left that note two days ago."

"Valerie, this is very important," Kate said. "Do you know where Ryan lives?"

"No, I don't think so. Why? What's going on?"

DeMarco stood up. "We believe Ryan Harlow may be connected to the murders we're investigating."

Valerie's eyes widened. "Ryan? That's impossible. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but he's always been perfectly polite and helpful. And I don't even know how he'd have the time. From what I understand, he not only works for us, but he also works for the county and helps with trash pick-up. And he apparently has a background in music. He works on pianos and organs."

Kate could practically hear the click as the last piece slipped into place. Working in pianos meant he would likely have easy access to piano wire…something most people didn’t have just laying around their homes. Apparently, Valerie saw the sudden dawning in the eyes of the agents in her living room.

Valerie shook her head in disbelief. "This is... I can't even process this. Ryan? Are you sure?"

"We need to speak with him," Kate said. "As soon as possible."

"Patricia would have his address in his employment file," Valerie said. "But the office is closed until morning."

"Is there any way to contact Dawson tonight?" DeMarco asked. "This can't wait until morning."

Valerie hesitated, then nodded. "I have her cell number. She won't be happy about being called this late, but under the circumstances..."

She retrieved her phone from the coffee table and recited Dawson's number to DeMarco, who inputted it into her phone as Valerie read. As DeMarco waited for the phone to ring, it occurred to Kate that they had not spoken to Valerie since they'd left in pursuit of Lucas. So as DeMarco spoke to Dawson, quickly and efficiently, Kate did her best to give Valeire the abridged version of how and where they'd found Lucas—as well as some of the repercussions he could be facing.

When DeMarco ended the call, she looked over to Kate. There was a new glint of determination in her eyes. "We have his address. An apartment complex on the east side of town."

"What now?" Valerie asked, looking between them.

"Now we find Ryan Harlow," Kate said, already standing and heading for the door. "And we stop him before he can hurt anyone else."

DeMarco turned to Valerie. "Thank you for your help…again. Please don't mention this conversation to anyone, especially not anyone at Fairfield. Not yet. We don't want to tip him off."

Valerie nodded, her face pale. She followed the agents to the door as they made their way back out into the night.

Outside, as they returned to Kate's car, she allowed herself to feel the thrill of finally landing a solid suspect. Ryan Harlow, maintenance man at Fairfield Children's Services. A man with access to custody files, with a history of being raised by abusive grandparents, with the opportunity to take piano wire and blind cord to use as murder weapons.

It was all circumstantial, as DeMarco had said. But Kate's instincts told her they were on the right track. And her instincts had rarely led her astray.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Ryan Harlow drove with the windows down despite the slight chill to the night. The cold air helped him focus and sharpened his senses. He needed that clarity tonight because he had a job to do—another wrong to right.

The thin coil of nylon cord sat in his pocket, neatly wrapped and ready. He missed the piano wire. There was something so perfect about it—the way it bit into flesh, the precision of it. Clean. Effective. Musical, even. He chuckled a bit at his unintentional play on words.

But adaptation was necessary, and he knew it. The police would be looking for his signature by now. So he had switched to the nylon cord, hoping it might throw them off the scent…or at least just confuse them. It was still just as effective, just less... poetic.

He turned onto Oakridge Lane, a quiet suburban street where upper-middle-class families lived their oblivious lives. He’d gotten the address easily enough—easier than any of the other names or addresses. The idiots at Fairfield had actually written it on a whiteboard! It was like they wanted him to keep up his work.

And the name had been there because Fairfield needed to assign a case worker to a woman named Loretta Bates…namely because she had just won custody of her grandson Ben after her son's parental rights were terminated due to repeated drug offenses. Bates, currently sixty-two years of age, according to the notes on the whiteboard, would now play the role of the devoted grandmother, just like his own grandmother had.

The memory rose unbidden, sharp, and vivid like a thorn through his eye. His grandmother standing in the church foyer after his mother's funeral, accepting condolences, her hand resting on seven-year-old Ryan's shoulder. So gentle in public. So concerned.

"It's just terrible," she'd said to the pastor. "My poor daughter. But don't worry about little Ryan. We'll take good care of him, won't we, Richard?" His grandfather had nodded solemnly, his face a mask of grief and determination. Even then, Ryan had known his grandfather didn’t want to take him in.

The congregation had murmured their approval. What wonderful grandparents, stepping up to raise their orphaned grandson. Such selflessness. Such love.

Ryan's fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he approached the Bates house. Number 412. Lights still on in the living room. Good. She was awake. He smiled and sent his memory cartwheeling back through the past few weeks.

Two weeks ago, he'd been changing a light fixture in Valerie Winters' office when he'd glanced at her computer screen. A case file had been open on her laptop—Richard Bennet, 65, seeking permanent custody of his 10-year-old grandson Tyler. Bennet's son was serving time for drug distribution. The courts had just approved the custody arrangement.

Something had snapped inside Ryan. The careful compartmentalization he'd maintained for years cracked open, flooding him with rage. He'd found himself yanking at the blind cord he'd been attempting to fix, pulling so hard that it broke in his hand. He’d known the rage and bitterness—the hateful resentment, even—had been harboring in his heart for all these years. But in that moment, he’d felt something give inside of him. Something had broken, and he knew exactly what he needed to do to fix it.

He'd left a note about the stuck blinds. He’d gone home that night with the cord in his pocket, not quite sure what he intended to do with it. But deep down, he knew. But then there had been the old piano from the Baptist Church on Grace Street. And when he’d had to change out the piano wires, the nylon cord hadn’t seemed as essential—as brutal. It had taken another three days for him to subtly manage to get more information on Bennet. He’d been careful and found everything he needed. Richard Bennet lived alone with his grandson in a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. The kind of place where terrible things happened behind drawn curtains. Ryan knew all about such places.

He remembered his first night in his grandparents' house after the funeral. His small suitcase in the spare bedroom that would now be his. The house so quiet he could hear the wall clock ticking downstairs.

"These are the rules," his grandmother had said, sitting on the edge of his bed. Her voice was different already, the public warmth gone. "You will keep your room clean. You will do your schoolwork. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not mention your mother. And you will be grateful." She'd pinched his arm then, hard enough to leave a bruise. "Do you understand?"

He'd nodded, too scared to speak. It had been the first night, and they were already making him very aware that they did not want this. But they'd pretend so they'd look heroic and noble for their church friends.

"Say 'Yes, Grandmother.'"

"Yes, Grandmother."

That was only the beginning. Over the years, the rules multiplied. The punishments escalated. Pinches became slaps. Slaps became belts. Being locked in his room became being locked in the basement, sometimes for days. During those stays in the basement, his diet consisted of a peanut butter sandwich and lemonade, once a day. All while the outside world saw only the devoted grandparents raising their troubled grandson.

"He's a difficult child," his grandmother would tell teachers when bruises were noticed. "He hurts himself when he's upset about his mother. Slapping, pinching…it’s awful."

And they believed her. They always believed her because she was a good Christian grandmother.

Ryan drifted back to the present as he pulled into a spot two houses down from the Bates residence. He checked his watch: 10:22 PM. Late enough that the neighborhood was quiet, but not so late that Patricia Bates would be asleep…hopefully. It was always easier when they were awake, oddly enough. So far, he hadn’t had to actually break into a home. Not yet.

He thought about Richard Bennet's face when he'd opened the door to find Ryan on his porch, claiming to be from the gas company, checking for a reported leak in the area. The trusting way Bennet had let him in. The confusion that turned to terror when Ryan pulled out the piano wire.

"Why?" Bennet had gasped as the wire tightened around his throat.

Ryan hadn't answered. What was the point? Bennet wouldn't understand. None of them understood what they were. What they did to children placed in their care. He could have explained the slaps, the punches, the pinches, the withholding of food, forcing him to piss his pants because he hadn’t behaved well enough to leave the basement and go to the bathroom.

Eleanor Sandoval had been next. Then Margaret Thornton. Then Harold Webber. Each one a grandparent who had "stepped up" to raise a grandchild. Each one a potential monster hiding behind a veneer of familial devotion.

And now, another one: Loretta Bates.

Ryan checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusting his posture and his expression. He needed to look trustworthy and non-threatening. He'd gotten good at that over the years. Survival had depended on it. He figured he'd pretend he'd been mugged. He could fake a limp, maybe even bite his own lip to make it look like it had been busted in a fight. Hell, he could do anything and get away with it.

For instance, that old FBI woman who had come to the agency after hours…she had looked right at him, had even spoken to him a bit, and hadn't suspected a thing. She'd been so focused on finding evidence in Valerie's office that she hadn't seen the killer standing right in front of her.

It had given him such a rush. The power of invisibility. The perfect disguise of being ordinary, forgettable. It made him think of the night he'd finally fought back, at sixteen...his grandmother looming over him with the belt she kept specifically for discipline.

"You're worthless," she'd hissed. "Just like your mother. Weak. Pathetic."

Something had broken inside him that night, long before something else would break while cleaning Valerie Winters' office. Ten years of abuse crystallizing into pure rage. He'd grabbed the belt and yanked it from her hand. Before she'd been able to scream, he'd wrapped it around her throat and pulled. He didn't stop pulling until her wide eyes were no longer blinking. His grandfather—a habitual drunk—had been passed out on the couch and didn’t hear a thing. So Ryan had simply walked out of the house and never returned.

Eventually, the police had caught up to him. But because he had taken the belt with him, there had never been any hard evidence. And when he had spoken about the abuse and neglect, no one had believed him. No one had wanted to hear.

Well, they were hearing him now, weren't they? Four grandparents dead. Soon to be five. A message written in death that couldn't be ignored.

The nylon cord felt smooth in his pocket as he approached the Bates house. Not as satisfying as piano wire, but it would do the job. And maybe for the next one, he'd find something new. Keep them guessing. Keep them confused while he continued his work.

He remembered the FBI agent's face clearly. On the older side, so much so that he'd been surprised she was an agent at all. She'd had intelligent eyes, and he'd been expecting trouble. He'd considered killing her while they'd been alone, but he didn't need the heat of a dead FBI agent on his tail.

His fingers found the cord in his pocket, tracing its length. Another grandparent. Another monster is about to face justice.

Ryan made his way up onto the porch, hunched over to pretend as if he had been attacked, and knocked on the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Kate's knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel, speeding through the empty streets toward Ryan Harlow's address. DeMarco sat beside her, quickly checking the notes on her phone while reciting the address aloud.

"3422 Glendale Avenue, Apartment 2B. Should be about ten more minutes if we keep this pace."

"Ten minutes," Kate muttered. "A lot can happen in ten minutes." Her voice was shaking, every muscle aware that they could very well be in a situation where every second counted.

The night pressed in around them, the streetlights creating intermittent pools of amber glow as they drove. Kate's mind raced with possibilities. If Ryan Harlow was indeed their killer, he might be planning his next murder already. Or worse—he might be in the middle of committing it. But if they were wrong yet again…well, she didn’t even want to consider it.

"We should call for backup," DeMarco said, breaking the tense silence.

Kate shook her head. "I thought so, too. But not yet. We don't have enough to get a warrant. Right now, all we have is a maintenance man who fixes pianos and had access to case files. Let's confirm he's our guy first."

"But if he is—"

"Then we call for everything we've got," Kate finished. "Trust me, I don't plan on taking any unnecessary risks."

The irony of her statement wasn't lost on her. Here she was, a fifty-eight-year-old consultant with a baby at home, chasing a potential serial killer in the middle of the night. Allen would definitely classify this as an unnecessary risk. She pushed the thought aside. There would be time for guilt later.

She was also aware that she may have snapped at DeMarco a bit. Her partner seemed a bit put off, not happy with the decision. And Kate didn’t blame her. But she did think it was the right call. A larger police presence would scare him away. And if they were right on this, then the case would be over within the next fifteen or twenty minutes. When the alternative was scaring him away and starting from scratch, then she had no doubt this was the right decision.

They turned onto Glendale Avenue, a narrow street lined with older homes and small apartment buildings. Most of the structures showed signs of wear—peeling paint, sagging porches, patchy lawns. Not quite run-down enough to be considered decrepit, but certainly showing the signs of a neighborhood in slow decline.

"There," DeMarco pointed to a two-story brick building with a faded sign reading 'Glendale Gardens Apartments.' The name seemed almost satirical—there wasn't a garden in sight, just cracked concrete and a small, barren patch of dirt where shrubs might once have grown.

Kate parked across the street, and they both got out quickly. The building was quiet, with only a few windows illuminated by the glow of televisions or lamps.

"Apartment 2B," DeMarco repeated, leading the way to the entrance. The security door hung slightly ajar, its lock apparently broken. Kate knew this was a fairly common occurrence in these neighborhoods that flirted with the area between lower-and-middle class. They slipped inside and climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor.

The hallway was dim, lit by a single flickering fluorescent light. The carpet beneath their feet was worn thin in the center, revealing patches of concrete underneath. They moved quietly past 2A, reaching Harlow's door. A plain, dented metal door with peeling white paint and a tarnished brass 2B screwed into its center.

DeMarco positioned herself to one side of the door, hand resting on her holstered weapon. Kate stood on the other side and knocked firmly. They waited for a moment and the silence allowed them to hear a muffle conversation from somewhere else in the building, somewhere overhead.

When there was no response, Kate knocked again, louder this time. "Ryan Harlow? FBI. We need to speak with you."

The silence from within was absolute. Kate pressed her ear to the door but couldn't hear any movement inside.

DeMarco shook her head. "He's not home. Or he's not answering."

"We need to get inside," Kate said, tension evident in her voice. "If he's our killer, there might be evidence, something to tell us who he's targeting next."

DeMarco hesitated for just a moment before nodding. Kate could see her wrestling with a decision as to what might be the next best move. "Shit,” she finally hissed. “Stand back."

Kate moved away from the door as DeMarco positioned herself against the neighboring wall. With one powerful kick near the lock, the door splintered open, swinging inward with a loud crack.

DeMarco drew her weapon and entered first, sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. "FBI! Ryan Harlow, get out here now!"

Kate followed, acutely aware that she was unarmed. The risk of entering a potential killer's home without a weapon sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system, but she pushed forward nonetheless.

The apartment was small—a combined living room and kitchenette, with doors leading to what Kate assumed were a bedroom and bathroom. What struck her immediately was the ordinariness of it all. No shrine to victims, no wall covered in newspaper clippings, none of the theatrical elements that Hollywood might have led one to expect in a serial killer's lair.

Instead, the space was almost spartan in its simplicity. A worn but clean sofa faced a small television. The kitchen counters were empty except for a coffee maker and a dish rack with a few clean plates. No dirty dishes in the sink. No clutter on any surface.

"Clear," DeMarco called from the bedroom doorway. "Bathroom's clear, too."

Kate moved to the center of the living room, turning slowly to take in every detail. The walls were bare except for a single framed print of a mountain landscape above the sofa. No family photos. No personal touches that might give insight into the man who lived here. An old record player sat on a small table in the corner. A few scattered records rested below it: Debussy, Satie, Beethoven.

"It's too clean," she said, moving to the small bookshelf beside the television. "Too impersonal."

The bookshelf held a few paperback novels, mostly thrillers and mysteries, and several books about piano repair and music theory. Kate pulled one out and flipped through it briefly before returning it to its place.

"Nothing here seems out of the ordinary," DeMarco said, holstering her weapon and opening the refrigerator. "Milk, eggs, leftovers in containers…pickles are the weirdest thing I see in here.”

Kate moved to the bedroom, which was just as unremarkable as the living room. A neatly made bed with plain blue sheets. A dresser with nothing on top but a small alarm clock. A closet with clothes hung with almost military precision—work uniforms on one side, casual clothes on the other.

She stepped back out into the living area, starting to feel the sweeping sting of disappointment. “There has to be something here that tells us where he might be now or who he's targeting next."

"I'll check the bathroom again," DeMarco said, moving toward the small hallway.

Kate continued her search of the living room, checking under cushions, behind the television, anywhere something might be hidden. Finding nothing, she crossed to the small closet near the front door.

Inside were a few jackets, a vacuum cleaner, and a toolbox. Kate brought the toolbox out and set it on the coffee table, opening it carefully. Standard tools—screwdrivers, pliers, a hammer, nothing unusual or incriminating.

"Kate," DeMarco called from the bathroom. "There's a door here that leads to what looks like a storage area or something."

Kate joined DeMarco in the small bathroom. Sure enough, a narrow door that might easily be mistaken for a linen closet stood partially open in the corner. DeMarco pushed it wider, revealing a set of steep stairs descending into darkness.

"Must lead to the garage or a basement storage unit," DeMarco said, pulling out her flashlight. “This apartment is located against the far right wall of the building…it would check out.”

When Kate came over to join her, there was a moment when DeMarco looked at her with a bit of concern. Kate thought she was going to ask her to stay here, to not come down the creepy stairs into the darkness. Instead, all she said was: "Stay behind me."

They descended the stairs carefully, the narrow beam of DeMarco's flashlight cutting through the darkness. The air grew cooler as they reached the bottom, with a distinct mustiness that spoke of limited ventilation. The stairs themselves were quite sturdy, and the space was filled with the smell of some sort of oil.

DeMarco found a light switch and flipped it on. A single bulb illuminated the stairway and then, at the bottom, was what appeared to be a small garage or storage space. Kate had seen this sort of thing before—a sort of collective storage area for residents; they usually had to pay a few extra bucks to use it. here, they found a few folding chairs, a bicycle, an old basketball goal, and a grill that looked to be as old as Kate.

But to the left, most of the space was dominated by two upright pianos in different states of disassembly.

One piano had its top open, its internal mechanisms exposed. Tools were arranged neatly on a workbench against the wall, alongside coils of wire of varying thicknesses. Piano wire.

Kate moved closer to the workbench, examining the tools and materials. "Piano wire," she said softly. "I don’t know about you, but I think this is the last bit of evidence we need." A chill ran through her as she realized they were standing in the killer's workshop, surrounded by the very implements he had used to end at least three lives.

DeMarco nodded, picking up a spool of thin, metal wire. “I’ll be damned. We've got him. This is enough for a warrant and an APB."

Kate nodded, still scanning the room. "But where is he now? And who's next on his list?"

DeMarco pulled out her phone. "I'll call it in, get units looking for him…make sure any of the units assigned to those on the potential victims list know we have an active search underway."

"I'll check if there's anything else here that might tell us where he's headed," Kate said, moving deeper into the garage.

The second piano was older, its wood dark with age. The keys were yellowed and chipped, and several were missing entirely. Sheets of music were stacked neatly beside it, classical pieces mostly. Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin... but there was no evidence of a particular victim, no clues as to where Ryan Harlow might be at this moment.

While DeMarco spoke quickly into her phone, coordinating with local PD, Kate examined every corner of the workshop. No photos, no newspaper clippings, nothing personal that might give insight into the killer's mind or motives.

"They're putting out an APB now," DeMarco said as she ended her call. "I've given them Harlow's description and vehicle information from his employee file. Every patrol unit in the city will be looking for him."

"That's not enough," Kate said, frustration evident in her voice. "We need to know where he's headed next. If he's following his pattern, he's already selected his next victim."

"The units watching the people on our list of potential victims have been alerted to be on high alert. If Harlow approaches any of them, they'll grab him."

Kate pulled out her own phone, an idea suddenly occurring to her.

"Who are you calling?" DeMarco asked.

"Patricia Dawson," she replied as the phone started ringing in her ear. "If Harlow is picking victims from custody cases, Dawson might know of recent cases that haven't made it to our list yet. Maybe ones that aren’t exactly public knowledge yet.”

DeMarco nodded her understanding as the line was answered on the fourth ring. Dawson sounded tired and alarmed…which made sense, given that this would be the second call she’d received at night from the FBI in less than an hour.

"Ms. Dawson, this is Agent Wise…Agent DeMarco’s consultant. I apologize for yet another call, but we’re currently at Ryan Harlow’s residence. He’s not here, but we do have new evidence…and we think he might be the killer.”

“My…oh my God. What can I…”

“We need to know if there have been any recent custody cases won by grandparents in the past few days, cases that might not have been fully processed yet. Known only to you and certain members of your staff."

“Oh my God…yes, actually. There was one…the ruling was just passed down today, right around four or so.”

What's the name?" Kate asked.

"Bates. Loretta Bates. She got custody of her grandson. The case was pretty much a homerun, and she—"

“That’s all I need to know for now,” Kate said. “Thank you, Ms. Dawson.”

DeMarco’s eyes were wide in the gloom of the storage area. “So there was one?”

“Yes. Loretta Bates.”

DeMarco wasted no time, pulling out her phone to place an address request. And before the line was even answered, they found the exit from the storage area and once again stepped out into the night on the hunt. They rushed across the parking lot as Kate listened to DeMarco urgently ask for an address for Loretta Bates—a woman who Kate confidently felt would be victim number five if they didn't act fast enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Kate gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as she pushed her car well beyond the speed limit. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, which was fortunate given the way she was driving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and her mouth had gone dry. The nerves she’d felt earlier as she’d blasted along the dark street were gone, replaced by sharp determination and clarity.

Beside her, DeMarco had her phone pressed to her ear. “Come on, come on,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed in concern. "Pick up, damn it."

Kate shot a glance at her partner, then back to the road as she swerved around a slow-moving sedan. DeMarco had been trying to get Loretta Bates on the phone for the past five minutes. "Still no answer?"

DeMarco shook her head, ending the call with a frustrated tap. "Nothing. Just keeps going to voicemail." They both knew what this likely meant: that they were already too late. But rather than stating such a thing out loud, DeMarco immediately began dialing another number. "I'm calling for an additional backup unit, just in case."

Fifteen minutes. That's how long the drive to Loretta Bates's home would take at normal speeds. Kate was determined to make it in ten, maybe less. Every second counted. If Ryan Harlow was indeed at Bates's home right now, those seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

"This is Agent DeMarco, with the FBI" she heard her partner say into the phone, her voice sharp with urgency. "I need backup at 412 Oakridge Lane. Potential homicide in progress. Suspect is Ryan Harlow, wanted in connection with four murders."

Kate navigated a sharp turn, the tires of her car screeching in protest. The sound momentarily drowned out DeMarco's voice, but Kate caught the next part clearly.

"…and do not approach immediately. Position units within thirty seconds of the location but maintain distance until my signal." DeMarco's tone was authoritative, brooking no argument. "Suspect is dangerous and likely armed. May have a hostage situation, with a child in the house."

Kate pushed the car faster as they hit a straightaway, the speedometer climbing past seventy in a forty-five zone. The streetlights blurred into streaks of light. Selfishly, she felt like she was about thirty years younger all of a sudden.

"Yes, that's right," DeMarco continued. "Agent Wise and I are on the way now. ETA approximately seven minutes. Have units in position by then but maintain radio silence and no sirens."

Kate calculated the distance in her head. They were making good time, but was it good enough? What if Harlow had already gotten to Bates? What if they were too late? What if Loretta Bates was already dead?

"No, absolutely not," DeMarco said firmly into the phone. "No sirens, no flashers within three blocks of the address. We cannot alert the suspect to police presence." A pause. "Correct. The suspect may have already entered the residence. Homeowner is not responding to phone calls."

DeMarco ended the call and slid her phone into her pocket, then checked her weapon, ensuring it was loaded and ready. Ahead of them, the residential streets gave way to a main thoroughfare. Kate took advantage of the wider road to push the car even faster. Her focus narrowed to the task at hand: get there in time, get there in time.

"They'll have units in position in five minutes," she informed Kate. "Still maintaining distance as requested."

"Good," Kate replied, taking a sharp right turn onto another residential street. "We're about six minutes out if I can keep this pace."

"Kate," DeMarco said, her tone serious. "You're unarmed. When we get there—”

"I know," Kate interrupted. "I'll stay behind you." But even as she said it, she knew she wouldn't be able to hang back if someone's life was in danger. Consultant or not, she was still an FBI agent at heart. And she was beginning to learn that would be the case until she drew her last breath.

"Turn left at the next intersection," DeMarco instructed, checking the address again. "Oakridge Lane should be just ahead."

Kate made the turn, slowing slightly as they entered a quieter, more upscale neighborhood. Large homes with manicured lawns lined both sides of the street. Many were dark at this hour, their occupants long since retired for the night. The tension in the car was so thick that Kate felt it pushing against her like an invisible weight against her chest.

"There," DeMarco pointed. "412. That house with the lights on."

Kate pulled up directly in front of the two-story colonial home. Lights glowed from the first-floor windows, spilling out onto the neatly maintained front lawn. No other cars were visible in the driveway or on the street nearby. Ryan Harlow, if he'd come here at all, had either parked out of sight or had already left with his task complete.

They exited the car silently, DeMarco drawing her weapon as they crossed the stone pavers serving as a sidewalk to the front porch. Together, they approached the front door. Kate's heart pounded in her ears, adrenaline surging through her veins. It had been a long time since she'd been in a situation like this (and she wasn't sure she'd ever been in a situation like this while unarmed), but her body remembered, responding with the heightened awareness that had served her well throughout her career.

DeMarco positioned herself to one side of the door, Kate on the other. DeMarco reached out and tried the handle. Kate was dully expecting it to be locked, but her stomach dropped a bit when the knob turned and the door opened easily. They exchanged a significant look. No one left their door unlocked at this hour unless they'd been interrupted while locking up for the night.

Or unless someone had already entered uninvited.

DeMarco pushed the door open slowly, leading with her weapon. No creaking hinges, no sound at all except for their controlled breathing. They stepped into a spacious foyer, DeMarco sweeping her gun in a practiced arc, covering all potential angles of threat. The silence was oppressive at first…but it was quickly broken.

A muffled sound came from deeper in the house. Something between a grunt and a choke.

DeMarco moved forward instantly, Kate following close behind. Muscle memory had her reaching impulsively to her waist for a holstered Glock that was not there. Without her gun, each step felt like a stroll through a minefield. They passed through a formal living room, empty and undisturbed, toward the source of the sound. The noises grew louder as they approached what appeared to be a family room at the rear of the house.

That’s where they found Ryan Harlow. He stood with his back partially to them, his arms extended in front of him. Between his hands stretched a thin nylon cord, pulled taut around the throat of a woman—Loretta Bates, presumably. She was on her knees, her face turning an alarming shade of red, eyes bulging with terror and lack of oxygen. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the cord cutting into her neck, drawing thin lines of blood where the nylon ripped into flesh.

"FBI! Freeze! Let her go!" DeMarco shouted, her gun trained on Harlow's back.

Harlow's head jerked toward them, but his hands maintained their deadly grip on the cord. There was no surprise in his expression, only cold determination and something else that sent a chill through Kate. Recognition. He instantly recognized her from their brief encounter back at the agency.

I had him then and didn’t even know it, Kate thought to herself with disgust/

"Let her go, Harlow," DeMarco repeated, her voice steely. "Now!"

But Harlow showed no signs of complying. If anything, he seemed to pull the cord tighter, eliciting a gurgling sound from Bates. Her struggles were weakening, her movements becoming less coordinated as oxygen deprivation took its toll. Kate could hear a low whimper, almost a desperate mewling sound coming from Harlow.

"You don't understand," Harlow said, his voice eerily calm. "None of you understand. She doesn't deserve to raise that child! None of them do."

Kate took a small step forward, hands raised to show she was unarmed. "Ryan, please. This isn't the answer. Whatever happened to you-"

"Don't!" he snarled, all calmness vanishing in an instant. "Don't pretend you know me or what I've been through."

Bates's eyes were starting to roll back, her face growing a shade of red. They were running out of time. Her attempts to breathe were now stifled gasps that were growing lower in volume.

"Last warning," DeMarco said, her aim unwavering. "Release her or I will shoot."

Kate knew DeMarco wasn't bluffing. She also knew that a bullet might not stop Harlow before he completed his grim task. Even if the shot was fatal, his dying reflex might be to pull the cord tighter, finishing what he'd started. And there was always the chance that, being so close together, the shot could also hit Bates.

Kate made a split-second decision. Without thinking through the consequences, Kate prepared to lunge forward, to tackle Harlow before he could finish strangling Bates or before DeMarco felt compelled to take a risky shot.

But as she tensed to move, a new sound froze everyone in place.

A child's voice, small and terrified: "Grandma?"

Kate's head whipped toward the source. To the right, at the edge of the living room, a boy of about eight stood on the staircase that led to the second floor, his small hand gripping the banister. He wore pajamas with dinosaurs printed on them, his hair tousled from sleep. His wide eyes took in the scene before him - his grandmother on her knees, face purple, a stranger standing over her with what looked like a thin rope around her neck.

For one heartbeat, everything seemed suspended in time.

The boy screamed. And after that, the night seemed to start unraveling very quickly.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The boy's scream echoed through the room, a sound of pure terror that seemed to freeze time for just a heartbeat. When the initial shock faded, he stepped down from the staircase, his small body trembling. He was rushing directly into the scene with no real understanding of the danger.

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking with fear. "Please don't hurt my grandma! Let her go!"

Harlow's grip on the nylon cord faltered slightly at the child's plea. He turned his head toward the boy, his expression shifting from cold determination to something unexpected—vulnerability, pain, perhaps even shame. Tears welled in Harlow's eyes, startling in their sudden appearance.

"You don't understand," Harlow said, his voice softening as he addressed the child. "I'm trying to help you. I'm saving you from what she'll do to you. The pain she'll cause you."

"No!" the boy cried out. "Grandma never hurts anybody! She takes care of me! Please stop!"

Bates made a gurgling sound, her fingers still clawing weakly at the cord around her neck, her face now a dangerous shade of purple.

The momentary distraction was all Kate needed. With Harlow's attention split between Bates and the boy, she saw her opening. Years of training and instinct took over, pushing aside the cautious consultant role she'd adopted in recent years. In that moment, she was Agent Wise again, moving with purpose and precision. She lunged forward, throwing her full weight into Harlow's midsection. The impact sent them both crashing to the floor, Kate's shoulder driving into his solar plexus. Harlow let out a surprised grunt as the air left his lungs, his grip on the cord loosening reflexively.

But despite being caught off guard and winded, Harlow fought back with unexpected strength. He twisted beneath her, his elbow catching Kate hard in the ribs. Pain exploded along her side, sharp and immediate. She gasped but maintained her hold, keeping him pinned as best she could. His elbow struck again, finding the same spot with unerring accuracy. The pain intensified, radiating outward like fire spreading through dry brush.

DeMarco was there in an instant, her weapon holstered as she dropped to her knees beside the struggling pair. With practiced efficiency, she drove a knee into Harlow's stomach, just below his ribcage. The blow connected solidly with his solar plexus, causing his body to curl inward involuntarily.

"FBI! Stop resisting!" DeMarco shouted, leveraging her position to grab Harlow's arm, twisting it behind his back in a control hold that had him grimacing in pain.

Kate’s breath was coming in short, painful gasps. She watched as DeMarco efficiently subdued Harlow, forcing him face-down on the floor and pinning him with her knee now a bit further up, pressed firmly between his shoulder blades.

Across the room, Loretta Bates had collapsed onto her side, the nylon cord now loose around her neck. She was conscious but clearly struggling, her hands at her throat, her breathing labored and wheezing. Her neck was visibly swelling, angry red marks from the cord already darkening to purple. Razor-thin lines of drawn blood had blossomed along her neck.

Kate crawled toward Bates, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side that suggested at least one cracked, if not broken, rib. "Loretta," she said, reaching the woman's side. "Try to stay calm. Slow, shallow breaths if you can."

Bates's eyes were wide with panic, her attempts to draw breath producing a terrible rasping sound. Kate carefully removed the cord from around her neck entirely, tossing it aside.

"In through your nose if possible," Kate instructed, demonstrating the breathing herself despite the pain it caused. "Small breaths. That's it."

But Bates couldn't seem to follow the instruction. Her airway was compromised, and the swelling in her neck worsened visibly. Kate reached for her phone to call for emergency medical assistance when movement caught her eye.

The grandson had crossed to the kitchen counter where a landline phone sat in its cradle. With remarkable presence of mind for a child his age, he was dialing 911, the receiver pressed to his ear. He wept fiercely as he punched in the three numbers. Their eyes connected, and Kate gave him a nod of approval.

"Good job," she said.

"My grandma can't breathe," Kate heard him say seconds later, his voice trembling but clear. "A bad man hurt her. There's police are here too, I think, but…yeah, okay…."

Kate felt a surge of admiration for the boy's composure in the face of such trauma. Turning her attention back to Bates, she tried again to coach her breathing, keeping her voice steady and calm despite her growing concern. The swelling around her neck was concerning, potentially indicating damage to her trachea.

Behind them, DeMarco had Harlow fully restrained now, handcuffs securing his wrists behind his back. As she hauled him to a seated position, his eyes fixed not on his captors but on the boy at the phone. And even more surprising, he looked absolutely heartbroken.

"I'm sorry!" Harlow suddenly cried out, his voice cracking with genuine emotion. "I'm so sorry you had to see that. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The children were never supposed to see. None of you were supposed to see! I was just…just trying to help!"

The raw anguish in his voice was jarring, at odds with the calculated nature of his crimes. Kate glanced at him, momentarily startled by the tears streaming down his face as he continued to look at the boy. He was fighting through far too many emotions for Kate to land on a single one as she tried her best to read him.

"I didn't want to hurt the children," Harlow continued, seemingly oblivious to everything but his need to explain himself to the child. "I was trying to protect them. All of them. From people like her. From people like my grandmother…"

DeMarco tightened her grip on Harlow's shoulder. "That's enough," she said firmly. “Zip it.”

But Harlow wasn't finished. "They pretend to love you," he said, his eyes still fixed on the boy. "They make everyone believe they're these wonderful, caring grandparents. But behind closed doors, they hurt you. They break you down until there's nothing left."

"I said that's enough!" DeMarco snapped, physically turning Harlow away from the boy.

Kate attempted to stand, intending to shield the child from Harlow's disturbing confessions, but a sudden, sharp pain in her side dropped her back to her knees. The injury to her ribs was worse than she'd initially thought. Each breath sent daggers of pain through her torso, and a particular movement sent a nauseating wave of agony radiating outward from a spot just below her right breast.

Definitely broken, she thought grimly.

Across the room, the boy had finished his call to emergency services. He returned to the living room, the cordless phone still clutched in his small hand. His eyes darted between his struggling grandmother, the restrained Harlow, and Kate kneeling on the floor in obvious pain.

"They want to talk to a grown-up," he said, approaching Kate and holding out the phone. "The 911 lady."

Kate nodded and reached for the phone with her free arm, the other still pressed against her injured ribs. "This is Kate Wise, FBI consultant," she said into the receiver, her voice tight with pain. "We have a female victim, approximately sixty years of age, suffering from strangulation injuries. Significant swelling of the neck and respiratory distress. We also have a suspect in custody."

As Kate relayed their location and the details of Bates's condition to the dispatcher, she watched as the boy returned to his grandmother's side. His small hand found hers, holding it tightly as tears continued to stream down his face.

"It's okay, Grandma," he whispered, his voice catching on a sob. "The doctors are coming. You'll be okay."

To Kate's immense relief, Bates seemed to be having a marginally easier time breathing now. Maybe it was the presence of her grandson that did it. The initial panic seemed to have subsided somewhat, allowing her to establish a pattern of shallow but steady breaths. Her color, while still alarming, was no longer deepening to the dangerous purple it had been minutes earlier.

Bates squeezed her grandson's hand weakly, managing to turn her head slightly to look at him. She couldn't speak, but the love in her eyes as she gazed at the boy was unmistakable.

Kate finished her call with the dispatcher, who confirmed that emergency services were less than five minutes away. She set the phone aside, maintaining pressure on her ribs as she shifted to a slightly more comfortable position.

"Ben," Bates managed to whisper, the single syllable barely audible but clearly taking enormous effort.

The boy, Ben, leaned closer to his grandmother. "I'm right here, Grandma. It’s okay.” He was doing his best to remain calm, to keep more tears from spilling so he could remain strong for her.

In the background, Kate could hear DeMarco reading Harlow his rights, her voice professional and detached. Harlow had gone quiet, his earlier emotional outburst fading into a resigned silence.

Kate met Ben's eyes across his grandmother's prone form and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile despite her pain. The boy had shown remarkable courage and presence of mind throughout the ordeal. She only hoped that with proper support, he might recover from the trauma of witnessing such violence.

Outside, the distant wail of sirens grew progressively louder, signaling the approach of help. As they grew closer, Kate watched Bates take another breath – still labored, still painful, but definitely stronger than before. It seemed like a small victory in what had been a night of narrow margins and close calls.

And now, she apparently had her own injuries to deal with. Wincing at the pain in her side, she started thinking about how she’d explain it all to Allen…and she nearly began crying herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Kate shifted uncomfortably on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath her as she tried to find a position that didn't send pain shooting through her side. The hospital room was cool and sterile, the typical antiseptic smell hanging in the air. Nearly an hour and a half had passed since Harlow's arrest. The wall clock Kate kept glancing at anxiously now read 12:31.

She gingerly touched her side, wincing at the tenderness. When Harlow's elbow had connected with her ribs during their struggle, she'd been certain something had broken. The pain had intensified during the ride to the hospital, each bump in the road causing her to grit her teeth. At fifty-eight, she didn't bounce back from physical confrontations the way she once had. The doctor had ordered X-rays, and Kate had been waiting for the results, growing more impatient by the minute.

She'd not called Allen yet, though he had texted twice—the last to let her know he was going to bed. She'd nearly texted him just before getting the X-rays, but the guilt of breaking her promise to stay out of danger prevented her from doing so.

A soft knock preceded the door opening as her doctor entered, carrying a tablet with Kate's images. He'd introduced himself as Dr. Patel, and he had the look of a man who had spent most of his career pulling these late shifts.

"Good news, Ms. Wise," the doctor said, his voice warm but professional. "Your X-rays came back clean. No fractures or breaks to any of your ribs. A bit of bruising, though."

Kate exhaled carefully, relieved but still skeptical, given how much pain she was in. "Are you sure? It feels pretty bad."

Dr. Patel nodded. "I'm certain. The bruising is along the intercostal muscles, which explains the pain. Those tissues between the ribs can be quite tender when injured. Plus…take no offense to this, but that sort of blow at your age…yes, it’s going to hurt." She set the tablet down and approached Kate. "May I?"

Kate nodded, and the doctor gently pressed along her ribcage, causing Kate to flinch.

"Yes, quite tender," Dr. Patel confirmed. "But definitely not broken. You're lucky."

Another knock at the door interrupted them. DeMarco poked her head in, her expression a mixture of concern and professional restraint. She looked both tired and completely wired all at once. It was a feeling Kate knew well.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked.

"Not at all," Dr. Patel replied. "I was just finishing up. Ms. Wise is going to be fine."

DeMarco stepped fully into the room as the doctor turned back to Kate.

"Take it easy for a few days," Dr. Patel advised. "Ice the area for twenty minutes every couple of hours for the next day or two. Over-the-counter pain relievers should be sufficient, but I can prescribe something stronger if needed."

"I'll be fine with ibuprofen," Kate assured her.

"Very well. Limit strenuous activity until the pain subsides, which should be within a week. And if the pain worsens or you develop any difficulty breathing, come back immediately." Dr. Patel made a few notes in Kate's chart before heading to the door. "You're free to go whenever you're ready."

As the door closed behind the doctor, DeMarco approached, taking the seat beside the exam table. "How are you really feeling?" she asked, her tone suggesting she wanted the unvarnished truth.

Kate carefully sat up straighter, testing her mobility. "Like I got kicked by a horse. But I'll live."

DeMarco's lips quirked in a small smile. "You took him down pretty impressively for someone who's been raising a baby at home."

"Thanks, I think, Kate retorted, though the reminder of her current consultant status stung a bit. "How's Bates doing?"

"Stable," DeMarco said. "The doctors are keeping her for observation because of the swelling in her throat, but they expect a full recovery. Her grandson is with her now. Child services sent someone to stay with them until Bates's sister can arrive in the morning."

Kate nodded, relieved. "And Harlow?"

DeMarco's expression turned grimmer. "In custody. And he's talking. A lot." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "He's confessed to all four murders. Gave us details only the killer would know. And he…he had at least six more planned. And he was fully prepared to go through with them. I'm asking for Records to pull information on him, and the bit I've already gotten backs up some of the stuff he was ranting about. Seems he had a rough childhood…raised by a grandmother who sought custody. Reports of abuse, but there was never anything proven. More is on the way, but…I'm pretty sure I know what we'll see."

"So we were mostly right on the motivations," Kate noted. “But why now?”

"They've asked him that, and it seems like he doesn't even know himself. Something just…it seems something just napped. It's like he wants us to know why he did it,” DeMarco said. “Like he's been waiting for someone to listen. But when asked for specifics like why now, we’re not getting clear answers." She ran a hand through her hair, a sign of the long night catching up with her. "He meticulously studied the agency's files to identify grandparents who had recently won custody battles. He'd look for any case where a grandparent received custody of a child after the parents were deemed unfit. And he always returned them or just took pictures of them with his phone. No one ever knew."

“Any chance his grandmother is still alive? If there’s a history of abuse, maybe she could offer some insight. Maybe her or the grandfather was the abuser, for all we know.”

DeMarco shook her head. "Harlow killed her when he was sixteen. He literally told me like it was nothing.”

Kate wasn't sure what to say, so she stayed quiet.

"From the little bit, records has already gotten to me, it seems he ran away and was eventually picked up as a runaway, but the murder was pinned on the grandfather, who couldn't remember anything from that night due to his excessive drinking. Harlow was placed in foster care, bounced around until he aged out of the system." DeMarco sighed. "The grandfather died in prison three years ago, which I'm assuming might have been the trigger. He felt like his grandmother's true nature was never exposed that no one ever knew what she'd done to him."

Kate absorbed this information, the pieces falling into place. "So he appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner for other grandparents who gained custody."

"In his mind, he was protecting those children," DeMarco confirmed. "He’d convinced himself that all adoptive grandparents were alike…presenting a loving face to the world while abusing their grandchildren behind closed doors."

Kate shook her head, wincing as the movement caused another twinge of pain. She felt a wave of sadness for the damaged man who'd turned his trauma into a justification for murder. Four innocent lives were taken because of wounds that had never healed.

"You know," DeMarco said after a moment, her tone shifting slightly, "I missed having you around. You spotted things I didn't. Made connections I missed. And I forgot how fun you can be."

“Fun?” Kate laughed softly, then regretted it as pain flared in her side. "You did just fine, DeMarco. You're a good agent."

"I'm serious, Kate. Have you ever thought about coming back? Not full-time necessarily, but more than just consulting from home? Maybe like a part-time agent or something?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Is that even a thing?"

DeMarco shrugged. "I don't know. But Duran likes you. He might be flexible."

"What would that even look like?" Kate wondered aloud, a small smile playing at her lips. "I show up three days a week, clock out at three to pick up my toddler?"

"You could work the cases you want, leave the rest to the young guns like me." DeMarco grinned. "Though after tonight, I'm not sure who's the young gun between us."

Kate snorted. "My ribs would like to remind you that I am definitely not young anymore."

They shared a laugh, the tension of the night finally beginning to dissipate. "Do you think Duran would go for it?" Kate asked, surprised to find herself seriously considering the possibility.

"Only one way to find out," DeMarco replied.

Kate nodded, lost in thought. The truth was, despite the pain and the danger, she had felt more alive tonight than she had in months. The rush of pursuing a lead, the satisfaction of putting the pieces together, the knowledge that they had saved lives – these were things she missed desperately. Could she come back, even part-time, for a few months or a year? The idea was tempting, thrilling even.

But then reality intruded as she glanced at her phone sitting on the nearby counter. Two missed texts from Allen. It was after midnight, and she hadn't even told him what had happened.

"I need to call Allen," she said, reaching for the phone. "He's probably worried sick."

DeMarco nodded. "I'll give you some privacy. Meet me at the front desk when you're ready to go?"

"Yeah, thanks," Kate said, already dialing as DeMarco slipped out of the room.

She waited for the door to close before she grabbed her phone. She pulled up Allen’s name and placed the call. The phone rang only once before Allen answered, his voice tight with concern.

"Kate? Where are you? Are you okay?"

The sound of his voice – so familiar, so worried – broke something inside her. To her shock, tears welled up and spilled over before she could stop them.

"I'm okay," she managed, her voice trembling. "I'm at the hospital, but I'm fine. Just some bruised ribs."

"Hospital?" The alarm in his voice intensified. And as she’d worried, there was noticeable anger there. "Kate, what happened? You left without saying anything, and then nothing for hours—"

"I know, I know," she cut in, tears flowing freely now. "I'm so sorry, Allen. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you where I was going. We had a lead on the case, and everything happened so fast..."

She struggled to regain her composure, wiping at her cheeks with her free hand. The emotional release caught her off guard – she hadn't realized how much tension she'd been carrying until this moment.

Through halting sentences, interrupted by unexpected waves of emotion, Kate explained everything that had happened. She started with going to Harlow's apartment, racing to Bates's home, and then ended with the confrontation and the arrest.

Allen listened silently until she finished. He didn’t interrupt a single time.

"The important thing," he said finally, his voice gentle but with an undercurrent of something Kate couldn't quite identify, "is that you're okay. That's all that matters to me. You and Michael are everything, Kate."

"I know," she whispered, guilt washing over her as she heard what he wasn't saying. He was upset, hurt even, by her actions tonight. She could tell even though he was too kind to come out and say it. There was a conversation waiting for them at home, one they needed to have face-to-face.

"When can you come home?" he asked.

"Soon. DeMarco's waiting to drive me. Maybe thirty minutes?"

"I'll be waiting," Allen said. "Drive safe. Please."

As they said their goodbyes, Kate sat for a moment, phone in hand, her thoughts swirling with conflicting emotions. The pull of the job, the excitement of fieldwork, the satisfaction of catching a killer – set against the fear in Allen's voice, the thought of Michael sleeping peacefully at home, unaware that his mother had put herself in danger tonight.

This was the crux of it, she realized. The balance she had never quite managed to strike. The tug-of-war between the life she'd built with Allen and Michael and the career that had defined her for so long.

Could she truly have both? And if forced to choose, which path would she take?

These were questions for another day, to be considered after a good deal of rest. For now, Kate carefully slid off the exam table, wincing at the pain in her side, and gathered her things to go home…to her baby and to her fiancé.

And to a life that, even now, wincing in pain, seemed to have a few more surprises waiting for her.

NOW AVAILABLE!

IF SHE LISTENED

(A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 9)

“A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

—Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

When couples in their fifties turn up dead in their homes on the market, FBI Agent Kate Wise is pulled back into the fray to untangle a web of murder rooted in a decades-old suburban tragedy. Can she solve the case before the for-sale signs beckon more victims?

IF SHE LISTENED (A Kate Wise Mystery) is the ninth book in a new psychological thriller series by bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews. The series begins with IF SHE KNEW (Book #1).

An action-packed thriller with heart-pounding suspense, IF SHE LISTENED is book #9 in a riveting new series that will leave you turning pages late into the night.

Future books in the series are now available!

“An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! ...So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can't wait to see what happens next.”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven't seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

“Exciting, heart pounding, edge of your seat book… a must read for mystery and suspense readers!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

IF SHE LISTENED

(A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 9)

Did you know that I've written multiple novels in the mystery genre? If you haven't read all my series, click the image below to download a series starter!

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

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

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KATE VALENTINE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE