N O W H E R E

N E A R

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 13)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

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

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

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

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIND ME (Book #1)

FIND HER (Book #2)

FIND HELP (Book #3)

FIND HOME (Book #4)

FIND HIM (Book #5)

FIND YOU (Book #6)

FIND HOPE (Book #7)

FIND NO ONE (Book #8)

FIND OUT (Book #9)

FIND DEATH (Book #10)

FIND TRUTH (Book #11)

FIND COURAGE (Book #12)

FIND MERCY (Book #13)

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

THE UNSEEN GUEST (Book #6)

THE UNSEEN FACE (Book #7)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

AWAY FROM MERCY (Book #6)

AWAY FROM SIGHT (Book #7)

AWAY FROM YOU (Book #8)

AWAY FROM SANITY (Book #9)

AWAY FROM INNOCENCE (Book #10)

NORA PRICE MYSTERY

CAN’T RUN (Book #1)

CAN’T HIDE (Book #2)

CAN’T ESCAPE (Book #3)

CAN’T SLEEP (Book #4)

CAN’T FORGET (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Mario Delgado squinted into the darkness beyond the arena lights, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

The fairgrounds were officially closed for the night, but he'd managed to convince old Pete, the night watchman, to let him practice after hours. In the twenty years Mario had been riding the rodeo circuit, he'd never felt quite right practicing with an audience.

His horse, a muscular palomino named Relámpago, shifted beneath him, hooves scuffing at the red dirt of the arena. The horse was getting tired—they'd been at it for over two hours now—but Mario needed to nail this routine. The upcoming show in Alamogordo wasn't a major event, not like the ones he used to headline back in his prime, but it was a chance to prove he still had what it took.

Even if Ana thinks I should hang up my spurs, he thought.

His wife meant well. She always had, from the moment they'd met at a county fair in Las Cruces fifteen years ago. But she didn't understand what it meant to have rodeo in your blood, to feel that electric connection between horse and rider that made the rest of the world fall away.

A sudden gust of wind whistled through the arena, carrying with it the scent of sage and creosote. Mario shivered despite the lingering warmth of the day. October nights in New Mexico could turn cold quickly, the desert surrendering its heat to the vast, star-scattered sky. He patted Relámpago's neck, feeling the horse's muscles tense beneath his palm.

"Easy, boy," he murmured. "Just a little longer."

The palomino's ears flicked back and forth, alert to some sound that Mario couldn't hear. Animals had sharper senses—Ana always said Relámpago was smarter than most humans Mario worked with. Maybe the horse was picking up on Mario's own unease, the tension that had been building in him over the past week.

Mario guided Relámpago into position for another run. His muscles ached from the repeated practice, but he ignored the pain. At forty-five, recovery took longer than it used to, but that was just another reason to train harder. He'd seen too many riders coast on their reputations until they became cautionary tales, washed-up has-beens living off fading glory.

Are you sure they're not saying that about you now? a voice whispered in his mind.

He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the complex series of movements he needed to execute. The reining pattern required perfect timing, a delicate balance of control and trust between horse and rider. He'd chosen this particular routine because of its difficulty—multiple spins, sliding stops, and figure eights at varying speeds.

As they began the pattern, Mario felt the familiar rhythm take hold, and he forgot all about his wife and his earlier sense of being watched and the possibility that others might think he was too far past his prime to do anything more on a horse than embarrass himself. Relámpago responded to the slightest pressure of his legs, the gentlest tug of the reins. They moved as one entity, their shadows merging and separating under the harsh arena lights.

For a moment, Mario felt twenty years younger. He could almost hear the roar of the crowd, smell the mixture of popcorn and cotton candy that always permeated the air during shows. Back then, he'd been unstoppable. The "Magic Man," they'd called him, because of the way he could make a horse dance.

The memory brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Those days were gone, swept away by bad decisions and worse timing. He still remembered the day the Paradise Rodeo Company had folded, taking with it not just his investments but the dreams of dozens of other riders and workers who'd trusted him.

Stop it, he told himself. Focus on the now.

He guided Relámpago into a series of tight spins, counting them off in his head. One, two, three, four... The horse pivoted smoothly on his hind leg, kicking up small clouds of dust. As they came out of the spin, Mario cued for a sliding stop, and Relámpago responded beautifully, haunches dropping as his front legs continued their forward motion.

Perfect. Just like they'd practiced a hundred times before.

But even as his body went through the familiar motions, his mind drifted to the meeting he'd had earlier that week. The man had told Mario that his information had value, but only if it led to concrete results. The pressure was mounting, the danger growing with each passing day.

Mario hadn't told Ana about any of it. Better she didn't know. Better she thought he was just another aging rodeo star who couldn't let go of his glory days. The truth was far more complicated—and far more dangerous.

A metallic click from somewhere in the shadows pulled Mario from his thoughts. He reined Relámpago to a halt, scanning the darkened stands. The arena lights created stark islands of brightness surrounded by pools of absolute darkness—perfect hiding places for someone who didn't want to be seen.

"Pete?" Mario called out, his voice sounding smaller than he'd intended. "That you?"

The only answer was the low hum of the arena lights and the distant sound of a freight train passing through town. Relámpago's ears pricked forward, his nostrils flaring as he caught a scent on the wind.

"Probably just some stray dog," Mario muttered, trying to convince himself more than the horse. "Let's finish up."

He urged Relámpago into motion again, but the fluid connection they'd shared moments ago had vanished. The horse moved stiffly now, resisting Mario's cues, his entire body radiating tension. Mario couldn't blame him. Something felt wrong tonight, a heaviness in the air that hadn't been there when they'd started practicing. The darkness beyond the arena seemed deeper than usual, more absolute.

He dismounted, patting Relámpago's neck. "Good boy," he murmured. "That's enough for tonight."

The horse nickered softly, pressing his velvety nose against Mario's shoulder. Despite everything that had gone wrong in his life, at least he still had this—the unconditional trust of a good horse.

Leading Relámpago back toward the chutes, Mario's thoughts drifted to Ana. She'd be waiting up for him, probably curled up on their old couch with a book and a cup of chamomile tea. She worried about him practicing alone, especially after dark. Said his reflexes weren't what they used to be.

Maybe she was right. But what else could he do? Rodeo was all he knew. All he'd ever known, really, since that first time his father had put him on a horse at age five. Even after the Paradise disaster, even after watching friends and colleagues walk away from him, he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

The sound of boots on metal made him turn his head toward the bleachers. He peered into the shadows but saw nothing except the ghost-like shapes of empty seats.

"Pete?" he called out. "That you?"

No answer.

Mario shook his head, feeling foolish. The old night watchman was probably doing his rounds on the other side of the fairgrounds. Besides, Pete always announced himself with a whistle or a shout. He wasn't one for sneaking around.

Still, Mario thought he'd heard something. Or had it just been his mind playing tricks on him?

He quickened his pace. The sooner he got Relámpago settled in his trailer, the sooner they could both head home. He had just reached the gate when he heard it again—the distinct sound of footsteps, closer this time.

He turned, opening his mouth to call out again.

The blow caught him in the back of the head before he could make a sound. His vision exploded into stars, and he felt his knees buckle. As consciousness slipped away, his last thought was of Ana, waiting at home with her tea and her worry.

I should have listened, he thought. I should have...

But by then, it was too late for should-haves.

CHAPTER ONE

The pottery wheel spun beneath Kelly's hands, clay slipping between her fingers as she shaped what was supposed to be a bowl. So far, it looked more like a lumpy plate, but she didn't seem bothered by her lack of skill. A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth as she worked, completely absorbed in the task.

Harley sat at her own wheel, watching her sister instead of working on her own misshapen creation. She couldn't help but study Kelly's face, searching for glimpses of the teenage girl she remembered in this stranger's features. The sharp cheekbones were new, as was the stern set of her jaw. Her hair was different too—shorter now, and streaked with silver despite her relatively young age.

She's only thirty-five, Harley thought. She shouldn't look so...weathered.

But nearly twenty years with the cartel would do that to a person.

After Harley had gotten Mario Escobal's confession and cleared Kelly's name in Jay Fletcher's murder, Kelly had finally been able to escape. She'd later told Harley that the cartel's main hold over her had been the threat of prison—she'd known that she'd be arrested the moment she showed her face in the U.S. Once that threat was gone, Kelly had carefully planned her departure, slipping away during a supply run to a remote village. She'd made her way to the American embassy in Mexico City, where diplomatic channels had brought her home.

The pottery studio was mostly empty on this Wednesday afternoon. Only three other students attended the class, and they kept stealing furtive glances at Kelly when they thought no one was looking. One woman had even gathered her supplies and moved to a different table when Kelly sat down.

Harley's jaw clenched at the memory. She wanted to say something, to explain that Kelly was innocent—that Mario Escobal had confessed to killing Jay Fletcher, that the police had the recording to prove it. But Kelly had asked her not to make a scene.

"Let them think what they want," she'd said with a shrug. "Their opinions don't matter."

But they mattered to Harley. Everything about Kelly mattered to her, including the way her younger sister seemed to float through life now, disconnected from the world around her. She had a job—receptionist work at a dentist's office—but she didn't seem invested in it. She lived in a small apartment on the edge of town, but she hadn't bothered to decorate it beyond the bare necessities. She didn't date, didn't make friends, didn't seem interested in rebuilding any kind of life here.

The only reason she'd agreed to take this pottery class was because Harley had practically begged her. We need to do something together, she'd said. Something normal.

Normal. As if anything about their situation was normal.

"You're thinking too hard again," Kelly said without looking up from her work. "I can hear the gears turning from here."

Harley smiled, though it felt forced. "Just wondering if you're hungry. Maybe we could grab lunch after class?"

"Sure." Kelly's hands moved steadily over the clay, her movements more confident now. The bowl was starting to take shape. "But not Rosa's. I don't feel like being the center of attention today."

Harley's smile faded. Rosa's had been their favorite restaurant growing up, but she understood Kelly's reluctance. Last time they'd gone there, the whispers had followed them from the moment they walked in until they left. Even Rosa herself, who had known them since they were children, had been oddly distant.

"We could try that new place on Fifth Street," Harley suggested. "The Thai restaurant?"

"Sounds good."

They worked in silence for a while, the soft whir of the pottery wheels filling the space between them. Harley's mind wandered to Callaway. He'd asked her to move in with him last week, but she hadn't given him an answer yet. How could she think about taking that step when Kelly was still so adrift? Besides, she wasn't sure she was ready herself. After her divorce from Rob, she'd promised herself she'd take things slow next time.

Still, Callaway was different from Rob. He understood her dedication to her job, her need to help people. And unlike Rob, he didn't see her commitment to Kelly as a threat to their relationship. If anything, he encouraged it, often asking how Kelly was doing and offering suggestions for activities they could do together.

"How's Callaway?" Kelly asked, as if reading her thoughts.

"He's good. Working a case out in Santa Fe this week."

Kelly nodded, her eyes still focused on her bowl. "You should go visit him."

"I've got cases here—"

"Harley." Kelly finally looked up, fixing her with a steady gaze. "You don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to disappear again."

The words hit Harley like a physical blow. She looked down at her own sad attempt at pottery, buying time to compose herself. "I know that," she said finally. "I just want to spend time with you. Make up for lost time."

"You can't make up for lost time," Kelly said quietly. "You can only move forward."

But moving forward seemed impossible when they were both so haunted by the past. Kelly never talked about her time with the cartel, and Harley didn't know how to ask. The few times she'd tried, Kelly had shut down completely, retreating into herself like a turtle into its shell.

The instructor walked by, pausing to admire Kelly's work. "That's coming along nicely," she said. "You have a natural talent for this."

Kelly's lips curved in a slight smile. "Thanks."

It was such a normal exchange, the kind that happened in classrooms and studios every day. But Harley felt tears pricking at her eyes. When was the last time someone had praised Kelly for something? When was the last time she'd had the chance to discover a talent, to learn something new just for the joy of it?

The class wrapped up shortly after, and they cleaned their stations in companionable silence. As they walked to their cars—Harley had offered to pick Kelly up, but she'd insisted on driving herself—Harley noticed her sister's limp was more pronounced than usual.

"Your knee bothering you?" she asked.

Kelly shrugged. "A little. Weather's changing."

The injury was a souvenir from her time with the cartel. She'd never explained exactly how it happened, but Harley had seen the X-rays. The break hadn't healed properly, probably because Kelly never got proper medical care. Just one more thing the cartel had taken from her.

"I could recommend a good physical therapist," Harley said. "The department's insurance would cover it."

"I'm fine." Kelly's tone made it clear the subject was closed. She reached her car—a used Honda Civic she'd bought just a few months ago—and turned to Harley. "Meet you at the restaurant?"

"Yeah, I'll be right behind you."

As Kelly drove away, Harley remained standing in the parking lot for a moment, watching her sister's car disappear around the corner. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—probably Callaway checking in—but she didn't answer it right away.

Instead, she thought about the girl Kelly used to be: vibrant, full of dreams, always planning her next adventure. That girl was gone now, replaced by someone who moved through life like a ghost, touching nothing, changed by nothing.

I got you back, Harley thought. But I still haven't found you.

She got into her car and started the engine, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. Maybe Kelly was right. Maybe they couldn't make up for lost time. But Harley wasn't ready to accept that. She would keep trying, keep reaching out, keep searching for fragments of her sister in this stranger's face.

Because the alternative—accepting that the Kelly she knew was gone forever—was simply unthinkable.

Harley followed the familiar streets of Flor Blanca, passing landmarks that triggered memories with every turn. There was the ice cream parlor where she and Kelly used to get sundaes after school, Kelly always insisting on extra sprinkles while Harley opted for gummy bears. The store was still there, its faded awning rippling in the wind, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone inside.

Nothing in town had changed much since she was a kid, really. The same family-owned businesses lined the streets, the same rusty pickup trucks rumbled past, the same mountains loomed on the horizon. But everything felt different now, colored by the weight of what had happened here.

She drove past their old house, where Greg still lived. He'd taken over the mortgage after their father passed, determined to keep the place in the family. The paint was fresh—Greg had always been good about maintenance—but Harley could still see the ghost of their childhood home beneath the new coat: the window where Kelly used to sneak out at night, the tree house their father had built before the drinking started, the garden their mother had lovingly tended until her heart gave out.

That had been the first domino to fall: their mother's death. Their father had retreated into himself after that, spending longer and longer hours at the copper mine. Greg, barely out of his teens himself, had stepped up to fill the void. He packed their lunches, helped with homework, made sure they got to school on time. He'd been more of a father to them than their real father in many ways.

Then came that weekend in their senior year. Kelly had gone camping with friends at Vista Oculta Park, just a normal teenage adventure. But when Sunday evening came and Kelly didn't return home, Harley knew something was wrong. She could still remember standing in the kitchen, watching the clock tick past Kelly's curfew, trying to convince herself that her sister had just lost track of time.

The search had gone on for weeks. Their father and Greg combed the park while Harley waited by the phone, hoping for news. The police got involved, but leads were scarce. All they ever found was one of Kelly's sneakers, half-buried in the sand like some cruel taunt from whatever fate had stolen her away.

After that, their family splintered completely. Their father spent more time at McLaren's Bar than at home. Greg buried himself in work. And Harley…

Harley ran. When her acceptance letter from Harvard arrived, she'd seized it like a lifeline, fleeing to the East Coast where nobody knew her as "the girl whose sister disappeared."

She'd built a new life there, throwing herself into her studies and eventually landing a position with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. She'd married Rob, thinking she could outrun her past if she just kept moving forward. But the marriage had crumbled under the weight of her dedication to her work, her inability to let anyone get too close.

Then came the transfer back to New Mexico. She'd fought it at first, but deep down she'd known it was time to face her demons. That's when she met Callaway, with his easy smile and steady presence. He'd been suspicious of her at first, this outsider coming in to work his territory, but they'd grown to respect each other. Then to trust each other.

Now they were dating.

And here she was, driving through the streets of her hometown, following her sister to lunch like they used to do all those years ago. Except Kelly wasn't the same person who'd disappeared into the wilderness that weekend. This Kelly carried herself like someone who'd seen too much, survived too much. The cartel had taken the carefree girl she'd been and replaced her with someone harder, someone who kept the world at arm's length.

But she's alive, Harley reminded herself as she pulled into the Thai restaurant's parking lot. She's here. That's what matters.

She spotted Kelly's Honda in a corner spot, partially hidden behind a delivery truck. Even the way Kelly parked spoke volumes about how her experiences had changed her—always choosing spots with clear sight lines and easy escape routes, never leaving herself exposed.

Harley parked next to her sister's car and took a deep breath. They had time now. Time to rebuild, time to heal. If only she knew where to begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Inside the restaurant, Harley discovered that Kelly had already claimed a corner table, her back to the wall and a clear view of both exits. She was studying the menu with intense focus, but Harley noticed how her eyes flicked up whenever someone entered or moved around the room.

"Their pad thai is good," Harley said as she slid into the seat across from her sister. She'd eaten here a few times with Callaway during late-night case discussions.

Kelly set the menu down. "I think I'll try the green curry." A slight smile touched her lips. "Remember how Dad used to say anything spicier than ketchup was too hot?"

"God, yes." Harley laughed, cherishing this rare moment of shared memory. "Remember when Greg dared you to eat that whole jalapeño?"

"And I couldn't taste anything for two days?" Kelly's smile widened. "Greg felt so guilty he let me have his dessert for a week."

The waiter approached their table, and Harley noticed how Kelly's posture subtly shifted, becoming more guarded. She ordered her curry with practiced politeness, but Harley could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she angled herself away from the waiter's presence.

After he left, silence settled between them. Kelly took a sip of water, her eyes distant. "Greg called me yesterday," she said finally.

Harley's eyebrows rose. Their brother had been struggling to connect with Kelly since her return. Harley suspected he was being held back by some mixture of guilt over having failed to protect her and uncertainty about how to relate to her now. In the days immediately following Kelly's escape, the three siblings had talked about getting together on a weekly basis. Somehow, though, that plan hadn't materialized.

"How did that go?" Harley asked.

"He wants me to come over for dinner next week. Says he's finally perfected Mom's enchilada recipe." Kelly traced a finger through the condensation on her water glass. "I told him I'd think about it."

"That would be nice," Harley said carefully. "We could all have dinner together, like—"

"Like a family?" Kelly shook her head. "We're not the same people we were back then, Harley. Pretending otherwise doesn't help anyone."

"I'm not pretending. I just want—"

"I know what you want. You want everything to go back to normal. But normal doesn't exist anymore." Kelly's gaze met Harley's, her eyes softening. "That doesn't mean we can't build something new. It just might not look the way you expect it to."

Their food arrived, temporarily halting the conversation. Kelly's curry smelled amazing, but she waited until the waiter was gone before taking a bite. Harley noticed how she positioned herself to keep the room in view while she ate, a habit she imagined Kelly had developed during her time with the cartel.

"How's work?" Harley asked, trying to steer them toward safer territory.

"Fine. Dr. Renaldo is talking about training me to do insurance billing." Kelly shrugged. "The pay would be better."

"That's great," Harley said, perhaps too enthusiastically. "Do you think you might—"

Her phone buzzed. Callaway's name appeared on the screen, and Kelly nodded toward it. "You should answer that."

"It can wait."

"Harley." Kelly set down her fork. "Stop putting your life on hold for me. Answer the phone. Move in with him if that's what you want."

Harley stared at her sister. "How did you know about that?"

"Educated guess." Kelly's lips curved in a small smile. "I may have missed out on seventeen years of your life, but that doesn't mean I can't read you."

Harley reached for the phone, then hesitated. It felt wrong to answer the phone while eating with her sister, almost like taking a call during a church service. She couldn't quite say why. Perhaps it was because she still felt like Kelly might disappear into thin air at any moment.

The phone stopped buzzing. Harley would have to call Callaway back later.

"I just don't want you to feel abandoned," she said quietly.

"I won't. I'm not that scared teenager anymore, Harley. I survived things you can't imagine. I can handle my sister being happy."

Harley felt tears threatening and blinked them back. "I am happy. Having you back—"

"Is complicated," Kelly finished for her. "I know. But that's okay. We'll figure it out." She took another bite of curry, then added, "Besides, Callaway's good for you. He makes you laugh. When was the last time someone did that?"

Harley thought about Rob, about how their marriage had devolved into silent meals and separate lives. Callaway was different. He understood her drive, her dedication to justice. He'd stood by her through the investigation into Kelly's disappearance, supporting her even when she'd gone off the rails chasing leads.

"He did ask me to move in with him," Harley admitted.

"And?"

"And I haven't given him an answer yet."

Kelly studied her for a moment. "Because of me?"

"Partly," Harley said. "But also... I'm scared, Kelly. The last time I lived with someone—"

"Callaway isn't Rob," Kelly said. "I never met Rob, but from what you've said about him and what I've seen of Callaway, they're two entirely different men. And I'm sure you're not the same person you were back when you were married to Rob, either."

Harley pushed her pad thai around her plate, considering her sister's words. Maybe Kelly was right. Maybe they all needed to stop measuring their present against their past.

"Tell me about him," Kelly said. "I mean, really tell me. Not just the basics."

Harley looked up, surprised. Kelly rarely asked personal questions. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to share." Kelly took another bite of curry. "I want to know how he makes my sister smile like that when she thinks nobody's looking. I've met him, sure, but I don't know him like you do."

Harley felt warmth creep into her cheeks. "He's... steady. Patient. He has this way of making everything seem manageable, even when cases get overwhelming. And he notices things—like how I get headaches if I skip lunch during a case, so he always makes sure to bring food by my desk."

"Sounds like he takes care of you."

"He tries. Sometimes I don't make it easy." Harley smiled, remembering how Callaway had stayed up all night with her when she was going through old case files, looking for any connection to Kelly's disappearance. He'd never once suggested she was wasting her time.

Kelly set down her fork. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you've already decided to move in with him. You're just looking for permission."

Harley started to protest, then stopped. Was Kelly right? Was she just seeking validation, wanting someone to tell her it was okay to be happy, to move forward?

"I don't need permission," she said finally.

"No," Kelly agreed. "You don't. But you've spent so long feeling guilty about leaving—about going to Harvard, about building a life while I was gone—that you've forgotten how to do things for yourself without second-guessing every decision."

The truth of Kelly's words hit hard. Harley had spent years trying to outrun her guilt, first by fleeing to the East Coast, then by throwing herself into her work with the BAU. Even now, with Kelly safe and the truth about Jay Fletcher's murder revealed, part of her still felt she didn't deserve happiness.

A commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of teenage girls had just walked in, laughing and talking loudly. One of them pointed at Kelly and whispered something to her friends. The girls watched Kelly, not looking away until they caught Harley's cold stare.

"I should say something," Harley said, starting to rise.

"Let it go," Kelly said quietly. "They can think what they want."

"It's not right. People act like you killed Jay Fletcher, but the truth is—"

"The truth?" Kelly's smile was sad. "The truth is I spent nearly twenty years with the cartel. The truth is I did things to survive that I'll never talk about, not even to you. Let them have their whispers and rumors. It's easier than the real story."

Harley watched as her sister returned to her meal, seemingly unbothered by the stares and whispers. But she noticed how Kelly's hand trembled slightly as she lifted her fork, how her shoulders had tensed almost imperceptibly.

"You should tell him yes," Kelly said after a moment. "Callaway, I mean. Before he comes to his senses and realizes what a workaholic you are."

Harley grunted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's what sisters are for, right?"

Harley was about to respond when her phone started buzzing again. This time, it wasn't Callaway but Alex Newbury, her boss. She almost let it go to voicemail—this lunch with Kelly felt too important to interrupt—but years of experience had taught her that Newbury rarely called unless it was urgent.

"I should take this," she said apologetically.

Kelly waved her on. "Go ahead."

"Cole," she said into the phone.

"Got a body at the Alamogordo County Fairgrounds," Newbury said without preamble. "Local PD is requesting federal assistance."

"Name?"

"Mario Delgado. Former rodeo champion. He was found beaten to death near the horse stalls."

Harley's mind was already shifting into work mode, but she cast an apologetic glance at Kelly. Her sister simply nodded, already reaching for her purse.

"I'll head there now," Harley said into the phone. "Is Callaway meeting me there?"

"He's on his way back from Santa Fe. I've already briefed him. And, Harley? Brace yourself. This is a strange one. I think it's why the local PD decided to call us in."

"A strange one?"

"You'll see when you get there."

After ending the call, Harley turned to Kelly. "I'm sorry, I have to—"

"Go," Kelly said. "It's fine. This was nice."

The words were simple, but they meant everything to Harley. She stood, dropping enough cash on the table to cover both meals plus a generous tip. "Next week?" she asked. "Maybe we could try that new painting class they're offering at the community center?"

"Maybe," Kelly said, but they both knew it wasn't a commitment.

As Harley went out to her waiting Jeep, Newbury's words came back to her. Newbury had been with the department a long time and had seen his fair share of murders, so for him to describe the murder as 'a strange one,' something must be very odd indeed.

CHAPTER THREE

The Alamogordo County Fairgrounds spread out before Harley as she pulled into the crowded parking lot. Police cruisers dominated the area, their lights painting the early afternoon in alternating flashes of red and blue. A small crowd had gathered at the perimeter, held back by yellow crime scene tape and uniformed officers.

She spotted Callaway's truck near the entrance and pulled up beside it. The sight of his familiar vehicle stirred something in her chest—warmth mixed with an undercurrent of anxiety. Their conversation about moving in together hung between them, unresolved.

As she stepped out of her Jeep, Callaway emerged from his truck. Even after all this time, the sight of him still caught her breath—tall and broad-shouldered in his pressed shirt and jeans, a Stetson shadowing his rugged features. His emerald eyes caught hers, and that easy smile of his spread across his face.

"Fancy meeting you here," he drawled, touching the brim of his hat.

The familiar greeting made her smile despite herself. "How was Santa Fe?"

"Boring as hell compared to this." He fell into step beside her as they walked toward the entrance. "Got Newbury's call just as I was heading back. Good timing."

"Or bad, depending on how you look at it," Harley said.

They showed their badges to the officer at the gate. Beyond him, the fairgrounds had transformed into a circus of law enforcement activity. Forensics techs in white coveralls moved purposefully between buildings while deputies interviewed distraught-looking carnival workers.

"Got the rundown from local PD on my way in," Callaway said. "Victim's Mario Delgado, age forty-five. Arena manager found him this morning when she came to open up."

Harley nodded, processing this. "Newbury mentioned he was working with the El Paso office on some kind of trafficking investigation?"

"Yeah, sounds like he was helping track illegal substances moving through the rodeo circuit. Dangerous business, turning on your own people."

A reporter shouted questions at them as they passed, but Harley kept walking. She was grateful for Callaway's solid presence beside her, the way he instinctively shifted to put himself between her and the press. It was the kind of thing that made her consider saying yes to moving in together—the way he anticipated her needs without smothering her.

But then she thought of Kelly's words at lunch. Was she really ready for this step? After Rob, after everything...

"Earth to Cole," Callaway said, touching her arm. "You still with me?"

She blinked, realizing she'd gone quiet. "Sorry. Just thinking about the case."

His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. "Sure you are." But he didn't press the issue. That was another thing about Callaway—he knew when to push and when to let things be.

They rounded the corner of the main arena and saw the cluster of law enforcement personnel ahead. The medical examiner's van was already on site, its back doors standing open. But it was the position of the body that immediately drew Harley's attention.

Mario Delgado had been propped up against a hitching post, his arms spread wide and tied to the wooden beam. His head lolled forward at an unnatural angle, dried blood matting his gray hair. Someone had arranged his legs in an awkward cross, and a battered cowboy hat had been placed carefully on the ground beside him.

"Well, I'll be damned," Callaway muttered.

"What is it?"

"You ever see the movie Stagecoach? John Wayne's breakout role?"

Harley shook her head.

"There's this scene where the cavalry finds a dead man tied to a hitching post, killed by Apache warriors." Callaway gestured at Delgado's body. "Whoever did this was trying to recreate that scene. They even got the hat placement right."

A cold feeling settled in Harley's stomach as she studied the grotesque tableau. "You think our killer's trying to send a message?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they're just a film buff with a sick sense of humor." He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "Either way, I don't like it. Staging like this takes time. Our guy wasn't worried about getting caught."

Which meant either they were incredibly confident, or they knew no one would be around to witness the crime. Neither option was particularly comforting.

Dr. Helena Holbrook approached, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. Despite being well into her sixties, she moved with the energy of someone half her age. She balanced a tablet in one hand while gesturing animatedly with the other.

"About time you two showed up," she said, her clipped British accent lending authority to her words. "I've got three more bodies waiting at the morgue, and this fellow isn't getting any fresher in this heat."

Harley had worked with Dr. Holbrook many times over the past year. The medical examiner's brusque manner often put people off, but Harley appreciated her directness. Plus, she had yet to meet anyone more skilled at reading the stories bodies told.

"What can you tell us so far?" Harley asked.

Dr. Holbrook tapped her tablet. "Time of death approximately between midnight and three AM, based on liver temperature and lividity. The cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the back of the head, though I'll need to get him on my table to be certain. But here's the interesting bit." She pointed to Delgado's bound wrists. "These ropes were tied post-mortem."

"You're sure?" Callaway asked.

"Absolutely. No signs of struggle against the bindings, no rope burns, no tissue damage consistent with a living person trying to break free." Dr. Holbrook's eyes gleamed with professional interest. "Someone went to quite a bit of trouble to arrange him just so."

"We'll need photos of everything," Harley said. "Especially the positioning of the body."

"My team's already on it." Dr. Holbrook gestured to the forensics photographers documenting the scene. "I'll have preliminary findings for you by tomorrow morning."

A deputy approached them, notepad in hand. "Agents? Linda Chavez is waiting in the office. She's the arena manager who found the body."

Harley exchanged a glance with Callaway. He gave a slight nod.

"Lead the way," Harley said to the deputy.

Harley and Callaway found Linda Chavez in a small office attached to the main arena building. The space smelled of coffee and old paperwork, its walls covered with framed photos of rodeo events and past champions. Chavez sat behind a cluttered desk, her hands wrapped around an untouched cup of coffee. She was a sturdy woman in her fifties, with sun-weathered, tanned skin and eyes red from crying.

"Ms. Chavez," Harley said. "I'm Agent Cole, and this is Agent Callaway. We'd like to ask you some questions about this morning."

"Please, call me Linda." Her voice was rough. "Everyone does." She gestured to the chairs across from her desk. "You'll want to know about finding Mario."

"If you feel up to talking about it," Callaway said, settling into one of the chairs.

Linda nodded, though her hands tightened around her coffee cup. "I got here around seven, like always. Mario had asked to use the arena after hours for practice." She paused, swallowing hard. "When I saw his truck was still here, I thought maybe he'd fallen asleep in the barn. Wouldn't have been the first time."

Harley leaned forward. "Was that common? Him practicing late?"

"More and more lately. He was trying to get ready for the show next weekend." Linda set her coffee down and reached for a framed photo on her desk, turning it to show them. A younger Mario Delgado sat astride a palomino horse, both of them draped in ribbons. "He used to be something else back in the day. The Magic Man, they called him. But he hit some rough patches. Lost his business, got divorced. Lately, he'd been trying to make a comeback."

"At forty-five?" Callaway asked.

Linda's eyes flashed. "Age isn't everything in reining. It's all about control. Mario still had that magic touch with horses. He just needed to prove it to everyone else."

"Did he have problems with anyone?" Harley asked. "Maybe someone who didn't want him competing?"

"The rodeo circuit's competitive, sure, but murder?" Linda shook her head. "Most folks respected Mario, even after the Paradise disaster."

"Paradise disaster?" Harley prompted.

"The Paradise Rodeo Company. Mario started it about ten years ago. Got a bunch of riders and workers to invest their savings." Linda sighed. "When it went under, a lot of people lost everything. But that was a long time ago. Most folks had moved past it."

"Most folks?" Callaway asked.

Linda shifted in her chair. "Look, there were some hard feelings, sure. But that's ancient history now. Mario was trying to turn things around."

"We'll need a list of everyone who lost money in that venture," Harley said. "And anyone who might have had recent conflicts with Mario."

"I'll put something together." Linda glanced at a clipboard hanging on the wall. "I've got contact information for most of the old Paradise investors. Some of them still compete or work the circuit."

"What about security?" Callaway asked. "Any cameras that might have caught something?"

"Just at the main gates. We've had budget cuts." Linda rubbed her temples. "Pete Rogers—our night watchman—he does rounds, but it's a big property. We can't be everywhere at once."

"We'll need to talk to Pete, too," Harley said. "And anyone else who might have been around last night."

Linda nodded toward a bulletin board covered in schedules and permits. "There's a small crew that stays with the carnival rides. They're setting up for next weekend's show. And we've got stable hands who live on-site. I can get you their names."

"That would be great," Harley said, nodding. Thus far, they had discovered a number of leads. There were persons of interest to interview, and the failure of the Paradise Rodeo Company suggested a possible motive.

Harley liked this part of an investigation. There was plenty of work to be done, plenty of possibilities to consider, so it was easy to stay busy. Later, when the possibilities narrowed and the obvious conclusions had been ruled out, a homicide investigation could tax the patience of even the most seasoned of investigators. Harley hoped, though, that this case would be solved long before then.

Harley's mind returned to the bizarre staging of Delgado's body. The careful positioning, the movie reference—it spoke of premeditation, of someone who'd thought this through. Most murders were messy, impulsive affairs. This felt different.

And that worried her.

She glanced at Callaway, who was examining another photo on Linda's wall. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow slightly, a silent question. She gave a small nod in response. They'd worked together long enough to read each other's signals, and right now they were thinking the same thing: this case wasn't going to be simple.

The theatrical nature of the crime scene suggested someone with a flair for drama, someone who wanted attention. In Harley's experience, that kind of killer rarely stopped at one victim.

She just hoped they could catch them before they decided to stage their next production.

CHAPTER FOUR

Callaway studied Harley's profile as she drove them toward Pete Rogers' house on the outskirts of town. The late afternoon sun caught the angles of her face, reminding him of the first time he'd seen her stride into the Santa Fe field office.

Back then, he'd written her off as another ambitious outsider who wouldn't last six months in New Mexico. Now, he couldn't imagine the office without her.

Or his life without her, for that matter.

A week had passed since he'd asked her to move in with him, and still no answer. The silence was starting to wear on him. Harley approached everything in life like a case to be solved—gathering evidence, weighing possibilities, considering angles. He'd known that when he asked. But he hadn't expected her to treat their relationship like a cold case that needed endless review.

She took a turn onto a dusty road that would lead them to the night watchman's place. Harley handled the Jeep with the same quiet confidence she brought to everything else. That was part of what had drawn him to her—the way she moved through life with such purpose, even when that purpose was searching for a sister everyone else had given up for dead.

"You see Kelly today?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

"Had lunch with her." Harley's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "We tried that new Thai place."

"How'd it go?"

"Good. Different." She paused, and he could see her choosing her words carefully. "She told me I should move in with you."

Callaway's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his voice steady. "That so?"

"She thinks I'm overthinking it."

"And what do you think?"

Harley's eyes remained fixed on the road. "I think my sister's been through hell and somehow she's still braver than I am."

The words hung in the air between them. Callaway wanted to reach for her hand, but he knew better. Harley didn't like gestures of comfort when she was working through something. Another thing he'd learned about her over their time together.

Instead, he asked, "How's she settling in?"

"She's got a job. An apartment." Harley shook her head. "But it's like she's just going through the motions. Like she's afraid to put down roots."

"After what she's been through, that's understandable."

"Is it? Or am I making excuses because it's easier than admitting I don't know how to help her?"

Callaway considered this. He'd only met Kelly a handful of times, but he recognized something in her—a wariness, a way of cataloging exits, of keeping her back to walls. He'd seen it in soldiers returning from war zones. The body might come home, but part of the mind stayed on the battlefield.

"You can't fix everything, Harley," he said quietly.

"I'm not trying to fix everything. Just my sister."

"Maybe she doesn't need fixing. Maybe she just needs time."

Harley shot him a look. "Since when did you become so wise about these things?"

"I've picked up a few things, watching you." He smiled, but his mind wandered to all the nights he'd seen her poring over old case files, searching for any trace of Kelly. The way she'd push herself past exhaustion, fueled by coffee and determination. Even now, with Kelly safe and the truth about Jay Fletcher's murder revealed, Harley carried that same intensity.

It was one of the things he loved about her. It was also what terrified him about taking their relationship further. Harley Cole didn't do anything halfway—she threw herself into cases, into helping Kelly, into everything except letting people get close to her.

The road curved around a cluster of pinyon pines, revealing a small adobe house set back from the road. A battered pickup truck sat in the driveway, its hood up.

"That'll be Pete's place," Harley said, slowing the Jeep.

Callaway nodded, but his thoughts were still on their conversation. He wanted to tell her that moving in together didn't have to change who they were. That maybe having a home to come back to would make the hard parts of their jobs easier to bear. That he understood her hesitation because he'd seen what the job could do to relationships.

But he knew Harley well enough to know that pushing wouldn't help. She'd make her decision in her own time, just like she did everything else.

For now, they had a case to solve.

As they pulled into Pete's driveway, Callaway caught movement at one of the windows. A curtain fell back into place.

"Someone's home," he murmured to Harley as they approached the front door. The house had seen better days—paint peeling from the window frames, screen door hanging slightly askew.

Harley knocked. No response.

She knocked again, harder this time. "Mr. Rogers? FBI. We need to speak with you."

Silence stretched out. Callaway heard shuffling inside, the creak of floorboards. He exchanged a glance with Harley.

"Pete?" he called out, switching tactics. "Linda Chavez told us where to find you. We just want to talk about what happened at the fairgrounds."

More silence. Then a voice, muffled through the door: "Got nothing to say about that."

"We understand," Harley said. Her voice had shifted, becoming gentler. "But Mario Delgado's family deserves answers. You've worked at those fairgrounds for what—twenty years now? You must have known him."

A long pause. Then the sound of locks turning.

Pete Rogers opened the door just enough to peer out at them. He was older than Callaway had expected, probably in his seventies, with rheumy eyes and hands that trembled slightly. He wore oil-stained coveralls and a worried expression.

"Knew Mario since he was knee-high to a grasshopper," Pete said. "Used to watch him practice when he was coming up in the circuit. Back when he still had that fire in him."

"Mind if we come in?" Callaway asked. "Sure could use some shade from this sun."

Pete hesitated, then opened the door wider. "Suppose you better."

The inside of the house was cluttered but clean, with decades of rodeo memorabilia covering the walls. Callaway noticed several photos of a younger Mario Delgado among them. Pete led them to a small kitchen and gestured at the wooden table.

"Can I get you some iced tea?" he asked. His hands shook as he reached for glasses.

"That'd be nice," Harley said, and Callaway noticed how she was letting Pete move at his own pace, giving him time to settle his nerves.

As Pete busied himself with the tea, Callaway studied him. The old man's anxiety was obvious, but was it just the natural discomfort of dealing with law enforcement, or something more?

Pete set three glasses of tea on the table, ice cubes clinking. His hands still shook as he lowered himself into a chair.

"Those are nice photos," Harley said, nodding toward the wall. "Is that Mario at the state finals?"

"Ninety-eight," Pete said, some life entering his voice. "That was the year he won everything. Reining, cutting, team roping. Never saw anybody handle a horse like Mario in his prime."

Callaway sipped his tea, letting Harley lead the conversation. This was another thing they'd learned about each other over time—how to read each other's rhythms, when to push and when to hang back.

"Linda mentioned he'd been practicing a lot lately," Harley said.

Pete nodded. "Every night this past week. Said he needed to get ready for the show. Wanted to prove he still had it." The old man's face fell. "I should've stayed later last night. Maybe if I'd been there..."

"What time did you leave?" Callaway asked, keeping his tone casual.

"Round ten, like always." Pete stared down at his tea. "Mario was still at it when I did my final rounds. Said he wanted to work on his stops a bit more."

"Did you notice anyone else around?" Harley asked.

"Just the usual. Couple carnival workers setting up the Ferris wheel. Stable hands doing evening feed." Pete's fingers drummed nervously on his glass. "Everything seemed normal."

But something in the way he said it made Callaway sit up straighter. Pete was choosing his words carefully now, like a man stepping through a minefield.

"You sure about that?" Callaway asked.

Pete's eyes darted between them. "Course, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Mr. Rogers, if there's something you need to tell us, now is the time to do so."

Callaway waited, letting silence do the work. He'd interviewed enough people to know when someone was carrying a weight they wanted to shed.

For a few moments, Pete stared off into space, fidgeting. Then, finally, his shoulders slumped. "There's something I should've told the local police." He took a long drink of tea, ice cubes rattling. "The storage room door by the south arena entrance—I always check it on my rounds. Always. But last night..." He shook his head. "I was tired. My arthritis was acting up something fierce. I figured since it's always locked anyway..."

"But it wasn't this time," Harley said quietly.

"Found it unlocked this morning. After they discovered Mario." Pete's voice cracked. "If I'd just checked it like I was supposed to... I locked it right away, but who knows who might've come through there in the night?"

Callaway exchanged a glance with Harley. An access point the killer might have used—or might not have. Either way, Pete's guilt about the oversight explained his reluctance to talk.

"Mr. Rogers," Harley said, "is there anything else you can tell us about Mario's recent behavior? Any changes in his routine?"

Pete shifted in his chair. "I already talked with the police, like I said. Nothing much came to mind when they asked me about Mario this morning—nothing that seemed relevant, anyway—but I've had some time to think about it now." He frowned, his bristly eyebrows pulling together.

Callaway sensed Harley's impatience. Easy, he told her with his eyes. Let him go at his pace.

"Well," Pete continued, "there was this one time I was getting ready to leave the fairgrounds—this was maybe a week ago, around ten pm—and I hear voices in the parking lot. I see two vehicles parked close together, one of them Mario's truck. The other vehicle, a Malibu, pulls out and drives off, like he was spooked by the sight of me or something."

"Did you speak with Mario about it?" Harley asked.

Pete nodded. "Asked who it was—just me being friendly, you know. Mario got weird about it. Said it was an old college friend, a drinking buddy. Then he said he had to get going, and he was off before I could get another word in edgewise. It was awfully fishy."

Callaway caught Harley's eye. He could see the glint of interest there, an interest he himself shared. Who was this stranger driving the Malibu? And why would Mario be uncomfortable that Pete caught the two of them meeting?

"Did Mario have any close friends we should talk to?" Harley asked. "Anyone who might know what was going on with him?"

Pete's eyes lit up. "Ana would know better than anyone. His ex-wife." He shook his head sadly. "I wonder how she took the news."

"They stayed in touch after the divorce?" Callaway asked.

"Oh yeah. Ana's good people. Even after everything that happened with Paradise Rodeo Company, she never stopped caring about Mario." Pete took another sip of tea. "She was always trying to get him to quit the circuit, settle down, do something safer with his life. But Mario..." He trailed off, staring at one of the photos on his wall. "Mario couldn't let go of who he used to be."

"Do you have an address for Ana?" Harley asked.

Pete shuffled to a drawer and pulled out a weathered address book. "She's still in the same house they shared when they were married. Out on Mesa Road." He scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Harley.

They thanked Pete for his time and headed back to the Jeep. The late afternoon sun had softened to a golden glow, casting long shadows across the desert landscape.

As Harley drove toward Mesa Road, Callaway's mind kept circling back to the mysterious meeting Pete had witnessed. A Malibu in a fairground parking lot, its driver spooked by the sight of the night watchman. Mario's evasiveness when questioned about it.

"What are you thinking?" Harley asked, glancing his way.

"That meeting Pete saw—could be nothing. Could be everything." He watched a hawk circle overhead, riding the thermals.

"Either way, we need to find that Malibu."

Callaway shifted in his seat. "I'll put out some feelers, see if anyone else saw the vehicle or if maybe a camera caught it."

Harley nodded, but he could see her mind was already moving forward to their next interview. That was another thing about working with her—she never got stuck on one angle of investigation. While he worked his contacts about the Malibu, she'd be drawing out Mario's widow, piecing together the victim's final days.

It was one of the many reasons they made such good partners.

And maybe, he thought, watching her profile in the fading sunlight, one of the many reasons they'd make good roommates too—if she ever gave him an answer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kelly stared through her apartment window, studying the people passing by on the sidewalk below. An elderly couple walked their dog. A teenager zoomed past on a skateboard. A woman pushed a stroller.

All of them going about their normal lives.

Kelly touched the St. Anthony medallion at her neck—patron saint of lost things. Harley had given it to her shortly after she'd escaped the cartel, saying something about how St. Anthony had helped bring Kelly home. Kelly hadn't had the heart to tell her sister that she'd never been lost.

Lost implied there was a way to be found, a way to return to who you once were.

She turned from the window and surveyed her apartment. The space was sparse—just the basics. A couch, a TV she rarely watched, a small dining table with two chairs. The walls were bare except for a single photograph of her, Harley, and Greg as children, taken a few months before their mother died. She kept meaning to get more decorations, to make the place feel like home, but something always held her back.

Maybe it was because she'd learned not to get attached to places. Or maybe it was because she still didn't quite believe she deserved a home.

Kelly checked her watch. She had two hours before her evening shift at Dr. Renaldo's office. Just enough time to go through her routine.

First, she walked the perimeter of her apartment, checking the locks on the windows and doors. She'd installed additional deadbolts on everything that could open, much to the annoyance of her landlord, who didn't seem to be aware of who she was or what she'd been through over the past seventeen years—apparently he wasn't connected to the grapevine, which was why Kelly had felt good about living here. He'd allowed the changes to the locks after she'd explained she'd been "away" for many years. People usually stopped asking questions when they sensed there was trauma involved.

Next, she opened the false bottom of her sock drawer and verified her protection was still there: a snub-nosed .38 Special revolver (legally purchased, with Harley's help), a canister of military-grade pepper spray, and a ceramic knife that wouldn't set off metal detectors. She never carried all three at once—that would be overkill, even by her standards—but she always had at least one with her.

Today she chose the pepper spray. The gun felt too much like an admission of fear, and the knife... well, she'd seen enough of knives during her time with the cartel.

Kelly changed into her work clothes—dark slacks and a crisp button-down shirt that covered the scars on her arms. She pulled her dark hair back into a neat bun, examining herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked professional, put-together. Normal.

No one looking at her would guess what she'd survived. Or what she was capable of.

She thought about her earlier lunch with Harley, about her sister's barely concealed worry. Harley wanted so badly to fix everything, to make their family whole again. But some things couldn't be fixed. Some changes went too deep.

Like how Kelly always sat with her back to a wall and her eyes on the exits. Or how she noticed everything—the teenage boy who'd lingered too long near their table, the whispers from other diners, the way the waitress's smile had faltered when she recognized Kelly from the news coverage of her return.

Kelly gathered her things, following the same checklist she used every day. Keys. Phone. ID. Pepper spray tucked into her purse where she could reach it easily. She'd learned long ago that being prepared wasn't paranoia—it was survival.

The hallway outside her apartment was empty, but she still checked both directions before stepping out. The building was quiet at this hour—most of her neighbors were still at work. She preferred it this way. Fewer people meant fewer stares, fewer whispers.

She took the stairs instead of the elevator. Elevators were traps—no escape route, no control over who might enter. The stairwell echoed with her footsteps as she descended, each floor marking another level of preparation for facing the outside world.

At the building's entrance, she paused. Through the glass doors, she could see the street bathed in late afternoon sunlight. A man in a business suit was talking on his phone across the street. Two women pushed shopping carts toward the corner market. A silver sedan was parked under a tree, its windows tinted dark.

Kelly studied each detail, categorizing potential threats. The man on the phone—was he really talking to someone, or was he watching the building? The women with the carts—were they actually heading to the market, or were they just providing cover for surveillance? The sedan—had she seen it before?

You're being paranoid, she told herself. But paranoia had kept her alive for seventeen years. She was like a soldier returning home from the battlefield, everyone expecting her to flip a switch and suddenly behave as if she were no longer surrounded by dangers.

Easier said than done.

She pushed through the doors and turned left toward the bus stop. The cartel had taught her never to take the same route twice, but she'd found that pattern was actually safer here. Pattern meant witnesses. Pattern meant people would notice if something was wrong.

Still, she kept her guard up as she walked, scanning doorways and alleys, monitoring the reflections in store windows. The weight of the pepper spray in her purse was reassuring.

That's when she noticed the silver sedan again, crawling along the street behind her.

Kelly's heartbeat quickened, but she kept her pace steady. She'd learned not to show fear. Fear was a signal that you were prey. And she was done being the prey.

She stopped at a shop window, pretending to study a display of southwestern jewelry. In the reflection, she watched the sedan slow to a crawl. The windows were too darkly tinted to see inside, but she could feel eyes on her.

Stay calm. Assess the situation. The voice in her head was one she'd developed during her time with the cartel—cool, detached, analytical. She had options. The pepper spray was in her purse. There was a coffee shop ahead with two exits. The bus would be coming in seven minutes.

She resumed walking, her fingers brushing the outside of her purse where she could feel the shape of the pepper spray canister. The sedan maintained its distance, moving at the same leisurely pace.

A group of teenagers spilled out of the coffee shop ahead, laughing and shoving each other. One of them recognized her—she saw the moment it happened, watched his eyes widen and his smile fade. He nudged his friends, and suddenly they were all staring, whispering.

Not now, she thought. She needed to focus on the car, but their stares were like pins in her skin, reminding her that she was marked, different, suspected.

The sedan was closer now. Kelly's mind raced through possibilities. Could it be someone from the cartel? Had they tracked her down, come to get revenge? But no—even if it was them, they wouldn't be so obvious.

What about someone investigating Jay Fletcher's murder? No, that didn't make sense. Mario Escobal had confessed. Unless...

Unless someone didn't believe his confession.

She reached the coffee shop and went inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. The barista glanced up, then quickly looked away—another person who recognized her. Kelly moved to the counter, positioning herself so she could watch the street through the window.

The sedan slowed as it passed the coffee shop. For a moment, she thought it would stop. Her hand tightened on her purse.

Then, the car turned right at the next corner and disappeared.

Kelly waited five minutes, counting the seconds in her head. When she finally stepped back outside, the street had returned to normal. No silver sedan. No obvious surveillance. Just the usual afternoon traffic and pedestrians, all carefully avoiding her gaze.

She should tell Harley about the car. Her sister was FBI—she had resources, connections. She could run the plates, check traffic cameras.

But then she imagined Harley's reaction. The worry in her eyes would deepen. She'd insist on installing security cameras at Kelly's apartment, maybe even suggest Kelly move in with her. She'd hover more than she already did, trying to protect Kelly from threats both real and imagined.

You're not that scared teenager anymore, Kelly reminded herself. She'd survived seventeen years with the cartel. She'd learned to protect herself, to trust her instincts. And right now, her instincts were telling her the sedan was gone.

Besides, what could she tell Harley? That a car had driven slowly down a public street? That she'd felt eyes on her? She'd sound paranoid—or worse, she'd sound like she was looking for attention.

No, better to handle this herself.

Kelly resumed her walk to the bus stop, alert but not obvious about it. She'd memorized every escape route, every doorway, every hiding spot along this street. She knew where cameras were mounted and which businesses kept armed security guards. She'd survived much worse than a mysterious car.

Still, as she waited for the bus, she found herself scanning the traffic, looking for glints of silver among the passing vehicles.

Just in case.

CHAPTER SIX

Ana Delgado's house was not the kind of place Harley would have expected a former rodeo champion's wife to live. There was something modest about it, something that spoke of careful tending rather than flashy display.

It sat at the end of a long dirt driveway, surrounded by creosote bushes and patches of wild grass fighting their way through the red earth. The building itself was a classic New Mexican adobe, its pale walls glowing amber in the late afternoon sun. A covered porch wrapped around two sides, decorated with hanging clay pots full of bright red geraniums.

"Nice place," Callaway said as they pulled up. A worn wooden sign by the front gate read "Delgado Ranch" in faded letters.

Harley nodded, taking in details with a practiced eye. The yard was well-maintained despite the harsh desert conditions. A small vegetable garden thrived in raised beds near the house. Wind chimes tinkled softly from the porch rafters.

"She's kept his name," she noted.

"And his house, looks like."

They approached the front door, their boots creaking on the wooden porch boards. Before they could knock, the door swung open.

Ana Delgado was a striking woman in her early forties with high cheekbones and long jet-black hair. She wore jeans and a faded denim shirt, and her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. A glass of red wine dangled from her fingers.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," she said. Her voice had a slight rasp to it. "Linda called to warn me the FBI was asking questions." She took a sip of wine. "Though I have to say, you're not what I expected."

"I'm Agent Cole," Harley said. "This is Agent Callaway. We'd like to ask you some questions about Mario, if you feel up to it."

Ana's lips curved in a bitter smile. "Up to it? Hell, I've been waiting all day to talk to somebody who might actually listen." She stepped back, gesturing with her wine glass. "Come on in. I've got a bottle of Malbec that needs finishing and fifteen years of marriage that needs explaining. Maybe you can investigate what happened to me."

The interior of the house was cool and dimly lit, with thick adobe walls that kept out the desert heat. The living room was comfortably furnished with worn leather chairs and Southwestern textiles. Photos lined the walls—many of them showing a younger Mario astride various horses, his face beaming with the confidence of youth and success.

Ana noticed Harley studying one particular photo—Mario holding up a championship belt, his arm around a younger Ana. "That was ninety-eight," she said. "The year everything seemed possible." She settled into an armchair, tucking her feet under her. "Please, sit. And don't mind the mess. I've been..." She gestured vaguely with her wine glass. "Processing."

Harley and Callaway sat on the couch across from her. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table between them, along with what looked like old rodeo programs and newspaper clippings.

"I know this must be difficult," Harley began, but Ana waved her off.

"Difficult doesn't begin to cover it." She took another sip of wine. "You know what's really difficult? Loving someone who can't let go of their glory days. Watching them chase something that's already gone." Her eyes moved to the photos on the wall. "Mario was still living in ninety-eight. The rest of us had moved on to the twenty-first century, but not him."

"Is that why you divorced?" Harley asked quietly.

Ana laughed, but there was no humor in it. "We divorced because I couldn't watch him destroy himself anymore. The drinking, the bad investments, the endless chase for one more win, one more chance to prove he was still the Magic Man." She leaned forward to refill her glass. "You know what the irony is? I never stopped loving him. That's why I still have his pictures up. Even after everything that happened with Paradise Rodeo Company, even after he lost all our savings... I just couldn't live with him anymore."

Ana settled back in her chair, wine glass cradled against her chest. "You know what the really stupid thing is? I kept hoping he'd come to his senses. Every time he showed up here—which was pretty often, actually—I thought maybe this would be the time he'd say he was ready to quit. Ready to be just Mario instead of the Magic Man."

Harley leaned forward. "You said he visited often?"

"At least once a week. Sometimes more." Ana's eyes grew distant. "He'd come by with his truck full of feed for the horses—I kept his old mare after the divorce, you see. Sweet old thing named Luna. He couldn't bear to sell her, but he couldn't afford to keep her either. So I took her." She smiled sadly. "It was an excuse, really. The feed. We both knew he really wanted to feel like he had his old life back, but we pretended it was just about the horse." She sighed. "That was Mario—a man who always kept both feet planted in different places."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Callaway asked.

"Three days ago. He seemed..." Ana frowned, swirling the wine in her glass. "Different. Distracted. Usually he'd stay for dinner, tell me about his latest plans for his comeback. But this time, he just dropped off the feed and left. Said he had somewhere to be."

Harley exchanged a glance with Callaway. "Did he mention where?"

"No. And I didn't ask." Ana's voice cracked slightly. "Maybe if I had..." She took a long drink of wine.

"Ms. Delgado," Harley said gently. "This isn't your fault."

"Ana. Please." She set her glass down carefully. "And you're kind to say that, but you don't know everything. You don't know about Paradise."

"We heard there were some lost investments," Callaway said.

Ana's laugh was sharp and brittle. "Some lost investments? Try everyone's life savings. Mario had this dream, you see. He wanted to start his own rodeo company. Give young riders a chance, he said. Create something lasting." She shook her head. "He convinced everyone to invest—other riders, vendors, even the old hands who'd been working the circuit for decades. People trusted him because he was Mario Delgado, the Magic Man."

"What went wrong?" Harley asked.

"Everything. The economy tanked. Attendance dropped. And Mario..." Ana picked up her wine glass again. "Mario kept thinking he could fix it if he just put on bigger shows, brought in more expensive acts. He started borrowing money from people he shouldn't have borrowed from. By the end, we were so deep in debt I couldn't see daylight. My dad offered to help me out financially—that was how I managed to keep the house—but only once Mario was out of the picture."

She stood abruptly and walked to a cabinet, returning with a framed photo. It showed a group of people standing in front of a banner reading "Paradise Rodeo Company—Grand Opening."

"These people trusted him," she said, handing the photo to Harley. "Some of them lost everything. And the worst part? Mario never stopped believing he could make it right. He was going to win big at the next show, place better bets, make the right connections. Always one more scheme, one more chance."

Harley studied the faces in the photo while Callaway asked, "Did anyone threaten him? Over the lost money?"

"At first, sure. There were angry words, some confrontations. But that was years ago." Ana reclaimed her seat. "Most people either wrote it off as a bad investment or just avoided him altogether." She paused. "Though I did hear Tyler Jensen was back in town."

"Tyler Jensen?" Harley asked.

"He was our main investor. Lost the most when Paradise went under." Ana's fingers tightened around her wine glass. "Last I heard, he'd moved to Texas. But someone at the feed store mentioned seeing him around last week."

"Did Mario mention seeing him?"

"No. But Mario didn't tell me everything anymore." She stared into her wine glass as if it might hold answers. "That was part of our problem, you know? He stopped telling me things. Started keeping secrets."

Harley frowned, thinking. Could Tyler Jensen be the man with the Malibu? But if so, what would he and Mario have to talk about years after the failure of the commercial enterprise?

"What kind of secrets?" Callaway asked Ana.

"Little ones at first. Where he'd been, who he'd been talking to. Then bigger ones—bank accounts I didn't know about, loans I never saw paperwork for." Ana's voice grew bitter. "By the end, I felt like I was living with a stranger who just happened to look like my husband."

She stood again, this time walking to the window. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the desert in deep purples and golds. "You know what the worst part was? He didn't even try to hide his lies very well. Like that night he said he was at a team roping practice, but I could smell perfume on his shirt when he came home."

"Was he seeing someone else?" Harley asked.

Ana turned back, and to Harley's surprise, she laughed. "God, no. That would have been easier to handle, in a way. No, the perfume was from some loan officer at the bank. He was trying to get another extension on our mortgage." She shook her head. "Mario wasn't a cheater. He was faithful to me, to the rodeo, to his dreams. Even when he should have let them go."

Callaway shifted on the couch. "Pete Rogers mentioned seeing Mario talking to someone in a Malibu last week, at the fairgrounds. Any idea who that might have been?"

Ana frowned. "A Malibu? No, that doesn't sound familiar. Mario's world was all pickup trucks and horse trailers." She returned to her chair, retrieving her wine glass along the way. "Though he had been acting strange lately. Nervous. Like he was waiting for something to happen."

"How do you mean?" Harley asked.

"Just little things. He'd check his phone more often. Jump when it rang. And last week..." She trailed off, taking another sip of wine.

"Last week?" Harley prompted.

"He asked me if I still had his old strongbox. The one where he used to keep important papers. Said he had something he needed to store somewhere safe." Ana's eyes grew distant. "I told him I'd thrown it out years ago, after the divorce. He seemed really upset about that."

"Did he say what he wanted to store?"

"No. And I didn't ask." Ana's voice cracked slightly. "I was still mad at him, you see. For everything. So I just... let it go." She wiped quickly at her eyes. "God, I was so stupid. If I'd just asked..."

"You couldn't have known," Harley said softly.

"Couldn't I?" Ana stood again, this time walking to a shelf lined with rodeo trophies. "You know what the really crazy thing is? Even after everything—the Paradise disaster, the divorce, all of it—I still loved him. Still wanted to protect him." She picked up one of the trophies, running her finger along its base. "But you can't protect someone who won't let you in."

The words hit close to home for Harley. She thought of Callaway, of his offer to move in together, of her own hesitation to let someone that close again. She glanced at him now, but he was focused on Ana, his expression thoughtful.

"The night before last," Ana continued, still holding the trophy, "he called me. Late. After midnight. Said he needed to tell me something important, but it had to be in person." She set the trophy down with exaggerated care. "I told him I was tired, that it could wait until morning. He said... he said it might not be able to wait. But I was still so angry about the strongbox thing, about him still keeping secrets after all these years..." Her voice broke. "I told him to call me tomorrow. But tomorrow never came."

Ana wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as Harley's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and saw Dr. Holbrook's number.

"I need to take this," she said apologetically. "Dr. Holbrook?"

"I've finished my preliminary examination," the medical examiner said without preamble. "You'll want to see this. Both of you."

Something in her tone made Harley sit straighter. "We'll be there in twenty minutes."

After she ended the call, she turned to Ana. "I'm sorry, but we need to go. Thank you for talking with us. We may have more questions later."

Ana nodded, suddenly looking exhausted. The wine and the emotional toll of the conversation seemed to have caught up with her all at once. "Of course." She walked them to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Find who did this. Please. Whatever else happened between us, Mario deserved better than this."

The drive to the morgue was quiet at first, both of them processing what they'd learned. The desert had turned a deep purple in the gathering dusk, and the first stars were appearing in the eastern sky.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Callaway finally asked.

"That Mario was mixed up in something? Something he wanted to tell Ana about?" Harley kept her eyes on the road, but her mind was racing. "That phone call the night before he died—he knew something was coming."

"Or he was afraid something was coming." Callaway drummed his fingers on his knee. "The strongbox, the mysterious meeting Pete saw, the way he was checking his phone all the time..."

"He was scared," Harley said. "And he was trying to decide who to trust." She thought about Ana's words about not being able to protect someone who won't let you in. The parallel to her own situation with Callaway wasn't lost on her.

"The question is," Callaway said, "what was he afraid of? And what did it have to do with his death?"

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first thing that struck Harley about the morgue was the silence. After the emotional intensity of their conversation with Ana, the quiet felt almost oppressive as she and Callaway followed a technician to where Dr. Holbrook waited.

Mario Delgado lay on the center table, covered to the chest with a white sheet. Even in death, there was something proud about the set of his jaw, the strong lines of his face.

"Agents," Dr. Holbrook said, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves. "Thank you for coming so quickly." She gestured to Delgado's body. "I've found something interesting about the way he was positioned."

She moved to the table and gestured at a bundle of ropes that had been carefully cut from the body. "These aren't just any knots. They're specific types used in rodeo work—the kind you'd use to secure livestock or rigging. But strangest of all, the ropes left very little mark on the victim's wrists."

"Why is that a surprise if the knots were tied postmortem, as you said before?" Harley asked.

"Even though tying the knots would be fairly easy, the rope is still rough, abrasive. I would expect to find more damage to the tissue, especially if the killer was nervous or rushed. But everything about this suggests not just patience, but care."

"Care?" Callaway asked. "In the way the knots are tied, you mean?"

"That," Dr. Holbrook said, "and care to preserve the victim's body. Gentleness, even."

"Like they cared about protecting the body?" Harley asked.

"That's how it strikes me, yes." Dr. Holbrook straightened. "Either way, this took time and expertise. Your killer wasn't rushed. They knew exactly what they were doing."

She pulled off her gloves with a snap. "I'll have the full report for you tomorrow, including the toxicology results. But I wanted you to see these rope marks for yourself. In all my years doing this job, I've never seen someone take such care with postmortem positioning."

Harley took one last look at Mario's body. In the harsh light of the morgue, he looked smaller somehow, diminished. Not like the proud champion from the photos in Ana's house or Pete's wall. Just a man who'd run out of chances to make things right.

"Thank you, doctor," she said.

In the hallway outside the morgue, she and Callaway walked in silence, their footsteps echoing off the institutional tile. The night air hit them as they pushed through the exit doors, carrying the scent of creosote and cooling desert earth.

"You hungry?" Callaway asked as they reached their cars.

Harley realized she hadn't eaten since lunch with Kelly. The long afternoon of interviews and revelations had pushed aside any thought of food. "Starving, actually."

"Maria's is still open. Or there's that diner off Main."

"The diner," she said. "I need somewhere quiet to think."

They ended up taking separate cars, Harley following the red glow of Callaway's taillights through the quiet streets. Her mind kept circling back to those precise rope marks, to the care the killer had taken. It spoke of someone patient, methodical. Someone who knew exactly what image they wanted to create.

But why? Why recreate a scene from a movie?

The diner's neon sign cut through the darkness ahead, promising coffee and comfort food. But more importantly, it offered a chance to sort through everything they'd learned today—about Mario's last days, about the Paradise disaster, about a killer who knew their way around rodeo knots.

Harley and Callaway entered the diner and claimed a booth in the corner, away from the few other patrons.

Harley slid into her seat and checked her phone. No messages. It occurred to her that she was hoping for a message from Kelly. She imagined the two of them having a back-and-forth throughout the day, sharing details and making weekend plans. Would that ever be possible? Would Kelly ever want that?

"Something the matter?" Callaway asked.

"No—just thinking about Kelly." Harley chewed her lip. "She's so… reclusive. I don't know whether to leave her alone or reach out."

"You could always try something subtle. You guys had lunch earlier, right?"

"Right."

"Maybe let her know you had a good time. Don't ask any questions—just leave it there."

Harley nodded. It was a good idea. She sent a brief message, telling Kelly she'd enjoyed their lunch as well as the pottery class. Then, unable to help herself, she added, Let me know next time you want to get together. She hesitated, then sent it. She hoped it wasn't too much.

Clearing her throat, she put her phone away and turned her attention back to the case. "Alright. Let's go through what we've got."

Callaway nodded, pulling out his notepad. "The mysterious meeting Pete saw—someone in a Malibu who didn't want to be noticed."

"And Ana said Mario had been acting nervous lately. Checking his phone more often."

"Then there's Tyler Jensen, the Paradise investor who's supposedly back in town."

Harley considered this. "We need to track him down, find out why he's here. And we still need to look into the other Paradise investors—see who might have held a grudge."

"The skill with the ropes suggests someone from the rodeo world," Callaway added. "Could narrow things down."

"What about that phone call to Ana the night before? He wanted to tell her something important."

"Something that couldn't wait until morning." Callaway leaned back, studying her. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That maybe Mario stumbled onto something? Something big enough to get him killed?"

"Big enough that he needed somewhere safe to store whatever evidence he had."

Harley nodded. "The strongbox he asked Ana about. Whatever he wanted to hide, he was running out of time. But what would it be? What was he caught up in?"

"Something that had to do with the man in the Malibu, I'd guess," Callaway said.

They sat in silence for a moment, each following their own thoughts. Finally, Callaway spoke. "Seems to me this Tyler Jensen is our most promising lead. We need to find him, rule him out if we can."

Harley nodded. "It'll be interesting to see what kind of car he drives. If he drives a Malibu…"

Callaway offered a wry grin. "It's never that easy, is it?"

Harley smiled back. "A girl can hope, can't she?"

*   *   *

Empty plates littered their table, along with several coffee mugs and a half-eaten slice of apple pie. Harley had her laptop open while Callaway spoke quietly on the phone, his notepad covered with fresh scribbles. The diner had mostly emptied out, just a couple of truckers at the counter and the waitress wiping down tables nearby.

"Got it," Callaway said into his phone. "Thanks, Mike. I owe you one." He ended the call and looked at Harley. "Jensen's staying at the Desert Palm Motel. Checked in six days ago."

"Right when people started noticing him around town," Harley said, her fingers moving over her keyboard. "And look at this—he's got a 2022 Honda CR-V registered in his name in Texas."

"Not a Malibu."

"No." She frowned at the screen. "But he rented a car from the airport when he flew in last week. Still waiting on those records."

Callaway leaned back, his chair creaking. "What else do we know about him?"

"Lives in Houston now. Runs a construction supply company." She turned the laptop so he could see. "Looks profitable. He recovered from the Paradise disaster better than most."

"So why come back here?"

"Good question." Harley scrolled through more records. "No criminal record. Filed for bankruptcy after Paradise went under, but that's it. Married, two kids in college." She looked up at Callaway. "On paper, he looks clean."

"Yeah, well, paper doesn't always tell the whole story." He checked his watch. "Desert Palm's not far. We could head over there now, see if he feels like talking."

Their waitress approached with the check. "You two need anything else?"

"No, thanks, Rachel," Callaway said, reaching for his wallet. "Just the check."

Callaway paid the check, and then they gathered their things and left the table. Callaway held the door for Harley as they stepped out into the night air. The temperature had dropped considerably, and a cool breeze stirred the dust in the parking lot.

"You okay to drive?" Harley asked. "You look like you're about to fall asleep."

"I'll be fine. Like they say—you can sleep when you're dead."

As they walked to their vehicles, Harley thought about Tyler Jensen, wondering what could bring a successful businessman back to the town where he'd lost everything. And whether that return had anything to do with Mario Delgado's death.

She was about to find out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thomas Whitman ran a hand over his face, feeling the day's stubble beneath his weathered fingers. The clock on his desk read 11:47 PM, but he wasn't ready to leave. Tomorrow's event had to go perfectly—he'd promised Mario he'd make sure of it.

Mario. The name caught in his throat. He still couldn't believe his old friend was gone.

He'd known Mario for over twenty years, watched him rise through the ranks to become a champion, then struggle as his career faded and the Paradise Rodeo Company collapsed. Their friendship had weathered both success and failure, though they'd grown distant in recent months.

Now, Thomas would never get the chance to close that gap.

The announcer's booth felt different at night. During events, it thrummed with energy, filled with the announcer's booming voice and the constant shuffle of scorecards. Now, it was silent except for the whisper of papers as Thomas reviewed safety protocols one last time.

Through the large windows, the empty arena below was bathed in shadows, the dirt floor appearing almost silver under the dim safety lights. The grandstands, which would be filled with cheering spectators tomorrow, stood like silent sentinels. Thomas had always found a strange comfort in these quiet moments before an event—the calm before the storm of hooves and hollers.

Thirty years, he'd been judging rodeo events, and he still checked every detail. Some of the younger judges teased him about it, called him paranoid. But Thomas had seen what could go wrong when people got careless. The scars on his left leg—courtesy of a bull named Thunderclap back in '92—were reminder enough.

He traced the jagged line through his pants, remembering the searing pain when Thunderclap had caught him against the rails. Six months of rehabilitation, and he still walked with a slight limp when the weather turned. The accident had ended his riding days, but it had made him a better judge—more cautious, more thorough.

More aware of how quickly things could go wrong.

His phone buzzed, startling him. A text from a number he didn't recognize: Hi, Tom. This is Ana Delgado. Need to talk—it's very important and can't wait. Meet me in the announcer's booth.

Thomas frowned, surprised. She was here? Ana knew better than to be out this late, especially with what had happened to Mario. And why would she think he was still here?

Then again, maybe she had something to tell him about Mario. Something she couldn't say in front of others.

He gathered his papers, tucking them into his worn leather briefcase—the same one his wife Janet had given him for their twentieth anniversary, four years before cancer took her. The booth's single lamp cast strange shadows across the walls as he did one final check of tomorrow's schedule.

The forecast called for clear skies—perfect rodeo weather. He'd already verified the ground conditions, ensuring the arena dirt wasn't too soft or too hard. He'd inspected every stall, every gate latch, every inch of fencing. Nothing would go wrong tomorrow. Not on his watch.

The arena spread out below him, empty and vast. Ghost-like shapes of barrels and poles waited for tomorrow's events, ready for riders who would push themselves and their horses to the limit. Thomas had seen generations of riders come up through these events. Had watched Mario's rise and fall, remembered him as a cocky kid with more talent than sense.

Should've done more to help him, Thomas thought, not for the first time. When Paradise Rodeo Company started to go under, he'd tried to warn Mario about taking money from certain people. But Mario wouldn't listen. Mario never listened.

There had been rumors about where the money came from—whispers about dangerous men with dangerous expectations. Thomas had tried to intervene, but Mario had brushed him off with that trademark grin, saying he knew what he was doing.

Now, Thomas wondered if those connections had something to do with Mario's death.

His phone buzzed again: Are you coming?

Thomas texted back: On my way up now.

He closed his briefcase with a snap that echoed in the empty booth. Besides the small lamp on his desk, the only illumination came from the safety lights along the arena's edges, casting everything in a dim, bluish glow.

The darkness beyond the windows seemed deeper now, the kind of absolute black that swallowed sounds and shapes alike. Thomas had never been afraid of the dark—had spent countless nights in barns and arenas across the Southwest—but tonight something felt different. Off. As if the shadows themselves were watching.

Getting jumpy in your old age, he chided himself. Next thing you know, you'll be checking under the bed for monsters.

As he headed for the door, his knee twinged—an old rodeo injury that always acted up in cold weather. Janet used to massage it for him on bad days, her gentle hands working out the stiffness while she told him he was too old to be climbing stairs to announcer booths. He'd laughed it off then.

Now, at sixty-eight, he was starting to think she might have been right about a few things.

He missed Janet most during these quiet moments. She'd understood his dedication to the rodeo, his need to make sure everything ran smoothly. "My safety marshal," she'd called him, kissing his forehead as he pored over checklists late into the night. Seven years since cancer took her, and the wound still felt fresh.

He reached the ground level and started toward the main announcer's booth. His footsteps echoed off the empty bleachers, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote called out to the moon.

The night air had grown colder, carrying the scent of dust and sage. Thomas zipped his jacket higher, wishing he'd thought to bring his heavier coat.

The stairs to the main announcer's booth loomed ahead. They were steeper than the ones he'd just descended, and his knee protested as he started to climb. But Ana was waiting, and maybe—just maybe—she knew something that would help make sense of all this.

He was halfway up when he heard the soft footfall behind him.

Thomas turned, his hand gripping the metal railing. The beam of a flashlight blinded him.

"Ana?" he called, raising a hand to shield his eyes. "Ana, please get that light out of my face, would you?"

No answer. The footsteps continued to climb toward him.

"Ana?" he asked, uncertain now. The light continued to blind him, unwavering.

"Afraid not," a voice said. And then, before Thomas could register what was happening, something swung through the darkness and struck him.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER NINE

"No Malibu," Harley murmured, scanning the parking lot.

The Desert Palm Motel was exactly what its name suggested—a low-slung building with a neon palm tree buzzing fitfully in the darkness and a row of doors facing the empty parking lot. Only three cars occupied the spaces: a dusty pickup, an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, and a silver Nissan Altima with rental car tags.

Callaway grunted. "Like I said, that would be too easy."

They had both parked and climbed out of their vehicles. The moon was high, and the only sound was the swish of traffic on a nearby street.

Harley checked her phone—still no response from Kelly. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, though. Sometimes, it took a few days for Kelly to reply to a text. Harley had no choice but to wait.

Harley and Callaway made their way to the motel office. Through the window, they could see an elderly clerk dozing in front of a small TV.

The bell above the door jangled as they entered, startling the clerk awake. He blinked at them owlishly through thick glasses.

"FBI," Harley said, showing her badge. "We're looking for Tyler Jensen."

The clerk straightened in his chair. "Tyler Jensen?" He adjusted his glasses and consulted a sheet on his desk. "Room 127. End of the row." He hesitated. "He in some kind of trouble?"

"We just need to ask him a few questions," Callaway said.

The clerk stared back at Callaway, looking dissatisfied by this answer. Harley waited for a follow-up question, but instead the clerk merely shrugged and settled back in his chair. Harley thanked him, and she and Callaway stepped back outside.

The two agents walked past a line of identical doors, their footsteps quiet on the cracked concrete. A television murmured behind one of the doors, and somewhere a car alarm chirped in the distance. The desert night had grown cold, and Harley could smell rain coming.

Room 127 was the last door on the right. A dim light showed through the curtains, and they could hear movement inside.

Harley knocked. "Mr. Jensen? FBI."

The movement inside stopped. Then footsteps approached, and the door opened as far as the security chain would allow. A man peered out—mid-fifties, with graying hair and tired eyes.

"Show me your badges," he said.

They held them up to the gap. Jensen studied them for a long moment before closing the door. They heard the chain sliding, and then the door opened fully.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said, stepping back to let them in. The room smelled of coffee and cigarettes, though there was no ashtray in sight. Files and papers were spread across the bed, and a laptop sat open on the small desk. "This about Mario?"

"Yes, sir," Harley said, surprised. "Mind if we ask you a few questions?"

Jensen gestured to the room's two chairs while he sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking. Though I can't say I was sorry to hear he was dead." His voice was bitter. "Man cost me everything I had."

"That's why you're back in town?" Callaway asked.

"Actually, yeah. But not the way you think." Jensen reached for a file folder from the bed. "I'm here because the SEC is reopening their investigation into Paradise Rodeo Company. They contacted me last month, asked me to come out and go through some old records."

Harley leaned forward. "The Securities and Exchange Commission is investigating Paradise? Why now?"

"Because some new evidence came to light. Evidence that suggests the whole thing might have been a deliberate fraud rather than just bad business decisions." He handed them the folder. "I've been cooperating with their investigation. Have the hotel receipts and meeting records to prove it."

Harley opened the folder. Inside were official-looking documents with the SEC letterhead, along with emails setting up meetings and, as Jensen had said, hotel receipts dating back several days before Mario's death.

"Mr. Jensen," Callaway said, "mind telling us where you were last night between midnight and three in the morning?"

"At the SEC office in Albuquerque, going through old financial records. Burning the midnight oil, you might say. They'll have security footage of me there, and the investigator I was working with can verify it." Jensen ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I know how this looks. I show up in town, Mario ends up dead. But I'm not stupid enough to kill someone while I'm cooperating with a federal investigation."

Harley studied him. His alibi would be easy enough to verify, and his story about the SEC investigation explained his presence in town. But something still bothered her.

"Did you talk to Mario while you were here?" she asked.

Jensen's expression darkened. "Tried to. Went by the fairgrounds a few days ago, but he took off as soon as he saw me. Probably thought I was there to confront him about Paradise." He shook his head. "Truth is, I wanted to warn him about the investigation. Whatever else he was, we used to be friends."

"Used to be?" Callaway prompted.

"Yeah. Before Paradise, before he started changing." Jensen stood and walked to the window, pulling back the curtain to stare into the darkness. "Mario wasn't always like he was at the end, you know. Used to be the most honest guy you'd ever meet. Then something changed. He started making deals with people he shouldn't have, taking money from sources he wouldn't talk about."

"What kind of sources?" Harley asked.

"That's what the SEC wants to know." Jensen let the curtain fall back into place. "Look, I've got an early meeting tomorrow. But I'll give you my lawyer's number, and you can verify everything I've told you."

Nobody spoke for a few moments. Harley cleared her throat. "Mr. Jensen, mind telling us what kind of vehicle you've been driving?"

"The Altima out in the lot." He gestured toward the door with his head. "Why? Is that important?"

"No, probably not," Harley said, chewing her lip.

As Harley fell silent, Callaway picked up the line of questioning. "You said you were wondering when we would show up. Why's that?"

Jensen sat back down on the edge of the bed. "Because I knew how it would look. Me showing up right before Mario dies? And with our history?" He shook his head. "I figured you'd want to talk to me. I'm just glad I've got the SEC meetings to prove where I was."

"One more thing," Harley said. "You mentioned Mario was meeting with people he shouldn't have been. Any idea who those people might have been?"

"No specifics. Just whispers, you know? The kind of thing you hear on the circuit." Jensen picked up one of the papers from his bed, folded it absently. "Mario wasn't exactly subtle when Paradise started going under. He'd disappear for days, come back with enough money to keep things running a little longer. Nobody asked where it came from, but we all knew it wasn't from the bank."

Harley and Callaway exchanged a glance. They'd gotten what they could from Jensen for now.

"Thank you for your time," Harley said, standing. "We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."

Jensen nodded, already turning back to his papers. "Like I said, talk to my lawyer. He'll get you whatever you need."

Outside, the night had grown colder. Their breath formed small clouds in the air as they walked back to their vehicles.

"Well," Callaway said, "that explains why he's in town."

"If his story checks out." Harley climbed into the driver's seat of her Jeep. "But it doesn't get us any closer to finding out who killed Mario."

"Maybe it does." Callaway said as he started the engine of his truck. "If the SEC is investigating Paradise, maybe Mario was ready to talk. And maybe that's what got him killed."

Harley's phone rang, interrupting their conversation. She glanced at the screen—Alex Newbury.

"Cole," she answered. Callaway watched her curiously.

"We've got another one," Newbury said without preamble. "Thomas Whitman. Found dead at the Las Cruces rodeo arena."

Harley straightened in her seat. "The rodeo judge?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Only by reputation." She glanced at Callaway, who was already reading her expression. "We're on our way."

After she hung up, Callaway asked, "Another one?"

"Thomas Whitman's dead. Las Cruces arena." She rubbed her temples. "Two deaths connected to the rodeo circuit in less than forty-eight hours?"

"Not a coincidence. I'll meet you there?"

She nodded. She'd been hoping to get some sleep tonight, but that wasn't happening now. "Watch your speed on those back roads."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a tired smile.

And with that, they both sped off into the night.

CHAPTER TEN

Harley's headlights caught the "Las Cruces Rodeo Arena" sign as she pulled into the lot, the metal letters reflecting dully in the darkness. Her father had brought her here once, years ago, to watch a competition. She remembered being overwhelmed by the noise, the dust, the controlled chaos of it all.

Now, the arena was wrapped in crime scene tape and bathed in the rotating lights of police cruisers. The silence felt wrong somehow.

Deputy Kate Yazzie waited for her near the entrance, her long black hair pulled back in a tight braid, her uniform crisp despite the late hour. Harley had worked with her before—she was sharp, thorough, and didn't waste time with unnecessary small talk.

"Agent Cole," Yazzie said as Harley approached. "Body's in the west stairwell of the announcer's booth. We're waiting on the ME." She fell into step beside Harley. "Vic was doing his usual late-night safety check—apparently that was his thing, staying late to review protocols before events."

"Who found him?"

"Night security guard. Makes rounds every two hours." Yazzie consulted her notepad. "Found him about forty minutes ago. Called it in immediately."

Callaway's truck pulled in, its headlights sweeping across them as he parked. Harley felt a sliver of satisfaction at having arrived here ahead of Callaway, but whatever pleasure this might otherwise have brought her was immediately overshadowed by the grim events that had brought them here.

"What else can you tell me about Whitman?" Harley asked.

"Respected judge on the circuit. Widowed, no kids. Been working rodeos longer than I've been alive." Yazzie paused as Callaway joined them. "Evening, Agent Callaway. I was just telling Agent Cole—Whitman was known for being meticulous about safety protocols. Always the last one to leave before an event."

"Any signs of robbery?" Callaway asked.

"His wallet and phone were still on him. Nothing obvious missing." Yazzie led them toward the arena entrance. The fluorescent lights of the arena corridor buzzed overhead as they followed Yazzie through a service entrance and up a narrow stairwell. The musty scent of dust and old metal filled the air.

"Watch your step here," Yazzie said, pausing at a landing. "Crime scene's just ahead."

Harley saw the body before anything else. Thomas Whitman lay sprawled face-down across the metal stairs, his arms outstretched, his leather briefcase spilled open beside him. Papers were scattered around him like fallen leaves.

"Initial assessment suggests blunt force trauma to the head," Yazzie said quietly. "But we'll know more once the ME gets here."

Harley studied the scene carefully. Something about the position seemed deliberate—the way the briefcase was arranged, how the papers were scattered. "This feels staged," she murmured.

"Just like Delgado," Callaway agreed. He tilted his head, studying the scene. "Wait a minute..." He pulled out his phone and did a quick search. "Look at this."

He showed Harley a still from an old movie—a man lying dead on stairs, papers scattered around him in an eerily similar pattern.

"The Wild Bunch," he said. "Nineteen-sixty-nine. Scene where Pike Bishop gets gunned down on the steps."

"Another movie reference," Harley said. "First Stagecoach, now this. What's the connection?"

"Both are Westerns," Callaway said. "Both involve characters meeting violent ends." He glanced at her. "You never watched many Westerns, did you?"

"Not really my thing. But you did?"

"Grew up on them. My granddaddy owned a video store before it went under. Used to watch every Western he could get his hands on." His eyes remained on the crime scene. "Both these movies are about the end of an era. About people who couldn't adapt to changing times."

"Like retired rodeo champions and aging judges," Harley said softly.

"Exactly."

Dr. Holbrook arrived then, her silver hair gleaming under the harsh lights. She took one look at the scene and sighed. "Well, this is going to be interesting."

"We'll get out of your way," Harley said. She turned to Yazzie. "Who should we talk to first?"

"His assistant, Jenny Knight, is waiting in the office. She's worked with him for the past five years."

Harley checked her watch—just past one in the morning. But if Jenny was willing to talk now, they needed to take advantage of it.

The arena office was a small room cluttered with filing cabinets and old rodeo posters. Jenny Knight sat behind the desk, her eyes red from crying. She was in her early thirties, wearing jeans and a sweater that suggested she'd rushed here after getting the news.

"Ms. Knight," Harley said gently. "I'm Agent Cole, and this is Agent Callaway. We'd like to ask you some questions about Mr. Whitman, if you feel up to it."

Jenny gestured at the chairs across from the desk, then reached for a box of tissues. Her hands trembled. "I keep thinking this is some kind of mistake," she said. "Thomas was so careful about everything. He never took risks."

Harley settled into one of the chairs while Callaway remained standing, leaning against a filing cabinet. The office smelled of coffee and old paper, and a clock on the wall ticked steadily toward 1:15 AM.

"How long have you known Mr. Whitman?" Harley asked.

"Five years working with him directly," Jenny said. "But I've been around the circuit my whole life. My dad was a bull rider. Thomas—" She stopped, dabbing at her eyes. "Mr. Whitman was an institution. Everyone respected him."

"Tell us about his routine," Callaway said. "Deputy Yazzie mentioned he often stayed late before events."

"Every time. He'd go through all the safety protocols, review the competitor lists, check emergency procedures." She gave a watery smile. "Used to drive me crazy, actually. I'd tell him we could do it in the morning, but he always said it had to be done right."

"Sounds like a careful man," Harley said.

"He was. After his accident with that bull back in '92, he became almost obsessive about safety." Jenny's eyes drifted to a photo on the wall—a younger Thomas Whitman astride a horse, holding up a trophy. "That's why none of this makes sense. Thomas never would have let someone sneak up on him. He was too aware, too careful."

Something about the photo caught Harley's attention. The banner behind Whitman read "Paradise Rodeo Company Invitational." She thought of what Jensen had told them about Paradise's collapse.

"Ms. Knight," she said carefully, "was Mr. Whitman involved with Paradise Rodeo Company?"

Jenny's expression changed subtly—a tightening around the eyes, a slight pressing together of her lips. "That was before my time."

"But you know about it?"

Jenny looked down at her hands. "It's not really my place to talk about that."

"Ms. Knight," Callaway said gently, "anything you can tell us might help catch whoever did this."

Jenny was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. "Thomas was the head safety judge for Paradise. When everything fell apart, there were... accusations. About corners being cut. Safety protocols being ignored." She twisted a tissue between her fingers. "But Thomas never talked about it. Not to me, anyway."

"Did he and Mario Delgado stay in touch?" Harley asked.

"Mario?" Jenny looked confused. "I don't—" Then her eyes widened. "Oh God. You think they're connected? The murders?"

"We're exploring all possibilities," Harley said. "Did you ever see them together?"

"No, not that I recall." She leaned back and scrubbed her face. "I just can't believe he's gone—just like that." She snapped her fingers. "It makes no sense."

Harley nodded sympathetically and glanced at Callaway, inviting him to ask any questions he might have. He gave a minute shake of his head.

Harley rose. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Knight." She handed the woman a business card. "Please reach out if you think of anything else."

As Harley and Callaway stepped back outside, Harley was struck by how much cooler the night felt after that brief respite inside. She pulled her jacket closer. A few of the patrol cars had left, their flashing lights replaced by the stark fluorescents that ringed the arena's exterior. In the distance, a coyote yipped at the moon.

"Two victims," Callaway said quietly. "Both connected to Paradise Rodeo Company."

"Both staged like death scenes from old Westerns." Harley ran a hand through her hair. "But why? What's the connection between Paradise and these movies?"

"Could be our killer's way of making a statement. About the old guard, maybe. About people who couldn't adapt to changing times." Callaway paused. "Or it could be completely unrelated to Paradise."

"I don't believe in coincidences that big." Harley stared at the arena, its empty grandstands like rows of teeth in the darkness. "We need to learn everything we can about the company. Every investor, every employee, every decision that led to its collapse."

"That's a lot of ground to cover."

"Then we better get started." She turned toward her vehicle. "Because I have a feeling there may be more people connected to that company who are in danger."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Stuntman watched the footage again, studying each frame with the same meticulous attention he'd given it a hundred times before. On the flickering screen, a stuntman tumbled down a rocky cliff in an outtake from the 1969 film Gallop Home. The fall was supposed to be controlled, the landing cushioned. Instead, faulty equipment had turned a routine stunt into a catastrophe.

He paused the video, rewound, played it again. Each time, he focused on a different detail: the way the safety line had snapped, how the stuntman's body had twisted in mid-air, the sickening angle of impact. There was poetry in it, really. A cautionary tale about what happened when people got careless with others' lives.

The workshop smelled of leather and gun oil, mingled with the sharp tang of cleaning solution. Western movie posters covered every wall—not the glossy reproductions sold in stores, but original theatrical releases, carefully preserved behind UV-resistant glass. John Wayne stared down from multiple angles, along with Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, and countless others who had helped build the mythology of the American West.

But it was the photos beneath the posters that held his attention now. Eight faces stared back at him, arranged in a neat grid. Their expressions were pulled from happier times—publicity shots and newspaper clippings from the height of Paradise Rodeo Company's success. Mario Delgado's cocky grin. Thomas Whitman's dignified profile. And the others—the ones who had signed off on substandard equipment, who had taken bribes to overlook safety violations, who had placed profit above human life.

Red X's marked Delgado's and Whitman's faces now. The Stuntman rose from his workbench, joints creaking slightly, and studied the remaining faces. His eyes settled on Bob Ellis, the former safety inspector. He'd kept a low profile in the years following Paradise's collapse, but not so low that the Stuntman hadn't been able to track him down. He knew just where Ellis lived.

In fact, the Stuntman had watched him through the window a number of times. And soon, that surveillance would pay off.

He didn't enjoy the killing. That wasn't the point. This was about justice, about paying proper tribute to those who had died because of other people's negligence. Each death was meticulously choreographed, a recreation of classic Western death scenes. It was his way of honoring both the victims of Paradise's collapse and the stunt performers who had given their lives to create Hollywood's most memorable moments.

The newspapers had started calling him the Western Killer, but they misunderstood his purpose. This wasn't about some juvenile fascination with cowboys and Indians. This was about accountability. About making sure the people responsible for Paradise's collapse faced consequences more permanent than bankruptcy or damaged reputations.

He picked up Ellis's photo, studying the man's face. Another bureaucrat who had traded lives for money, who had signed papers without caring about the consequences. Ellis would appreciate the irony of his death scene—a tribute to the famous hanging sequence from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The setup would take time, of course.

But the Stuntman was nothing if not patient.

His phone buzzed—a text from his day job. Something about a schedule change. He ignored it. The mundane details of ordinary life seemed increasingly irrelevant as his true work progressed.

Besides, he had planning to do.

The Stuntman returned to his workbench and began sketching out the mechanics of the scene. Every detail had to be perfect, every movement choreographed. That was what separated him from the monsters who had run Paradise into the ground. They had been sloppy, reckless with human life.

He was precise. Methodical. Each death was a work of art, a statement about the cost of cutting corners.

The video continued to play in the background, an endless loop of that fatal fall. The Stuntman barely noticed it anymore. His mind was already hours ahead, planning the details of Ellis's final performance.

He had six more photos to cross off. Six more tributes to create.

And then, finally, the debt would be paid.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Harley sat in her office at the Santa Fe field office, surrounded by stacks of financial records, newspaper clippings, and court documents. The sun had risen an hour ago, casting long shadows through her window blinds, but she'd been here since four AM, unable to sleep after leaving the Las Cruces crime scene.

Callaway had gone to check security footage from businesses near the fairgrounds, hoping to identify the mysterious Malibu. They worked well separately sometimes—it kept them from developing tunnel vision, from following the same leads in the same ways.

She took a sip of coffee—her third of the morning—and returned her attention to the bankruptcy filing in front of her. The Paradise Rodeo Company's financial death spiral was documented in painful detail: assets sold off, employees laid off, vendors left unpaid. But something about the timing nagged at her.

The company had been showing signs of strain, yes, but the collapse had been sudden. Almost as if someone had pulled a thread and watched the whole thing unravel.

Her phone buzzed. Kelly. Her heart leaped, but it was just a brief reply to her text from yesterday: Thanks. Lunch was good.

Four words. That was progress, wasn't it? A few months ago, Kelly might not have responded at all. Harley tried to focus on that rather than analyzing the brevity of the response or wondering if she should write back.

She rubbed her tired eyes and reached for another file. This one contained inspection records from the year before Paradise's collapse. As she read, a pattern began to emerge. Equipment failures. Minor injuries. Incident reports that had been filed and then seemingly forgotten.

"What were you hiding, Mario?" she murmured.

The question made her think of the phone call he'd tried to make to Ana the night before his death. Had he been ready to confess something? To reveal whatever had been weighing on him?

As she pondered the possibilities, her overworked mind drifted to Callaway, to his offer to move in together. The truth was, she wanted to say yes. She could imagine it: coming home to his steady presence after long days like this one, sharing meals and conversations, building a life together. But every time she considered it, something held her back.

Was it really about Kelly, about not wanting to move forward while her sister was still struggling? Or was she just using that as an excuse?

Rob's voice haunted her from the past: I feel like I'm living with a ghost. Like you're never really here, even when you are.

She'd thrown herself into her work then, using it as a shield against the pain of their marriage's collapse. And now... was she using Kelly the same way? Using her sister's trauma as an excuse to keep Callaway at arm's length?

A knock on her door startled her from these thoughts. Ray Ranganathan, their tech consultant, stood in the doorway with his tablet.

"Got those Paradise employee records you asked for," he said. "Mind if I come in?"

"Please." She gestured to a chair, grateful for the interruption from her thoughts.

Ray settled into the chair, his lanky frame seeming too long for the space. At twenty-six, he was young for his position, but his technical skills more than made up for his lack of experience. With his thick-rimmed glasses and "Python Is Life" t-shirt partially visible beneath his blazer, he looked more like a Silicon Valley startup founder than an FBI consultant.

"You look tired," he said, offering a charming smile. "Maybe we could grab coffee after this? I know this great place downtown."

"I'm good, thanks," Harley said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Ray's crush on her was sweet in its way, but his timing was terrible—especially since he knew she was dating Callaway. Still, his earnest enthusiasm made it hard to be truly annoyed with him.

Ray went on, undeterred by the rejection. "So get this—Paradise had thirty-seven full-time employees at its peak, plus a rotating cast of contractors, performers, vendors, you name it. I've started building a database of everyone who was financially involved with the company."

"That's going to be a lot of names."

"Good thing you came to me." Ray turned the tablet so she could see. "I've broken it down into categories: employees, contractors, investors, creditors. But here's where it gets interesting." He tapped the screen, bringing up a new window. "I cross-referenced the names with insurance claims filed during Paradise's last year of operation. Check this out."

Harley leaned forward, studying the data. Her eyes widened as she saw the pattern Ray had uncovered.

"Multiple injury claims," she said. "All blamed on equipment failure."

"And all officially ruled 'operator error' by the safety inspector." Ray's fingers moved over the screen again. "The injuries span a six-month period. Each time, the equipment was supposedly inspected afterward and found to be within safety parameters."

Harley frowned. "Who did the inspections?"

"Bob Ellis. He was Paradise's head safety inspector. And get this—after the company folded, he moved to Arizona and started a new career in real estate. Never worked in the rodeo circuit again."

Harley felt a chill run down her spine as she remembered the papers arranged around Thomas Whitman's body, the way they mimicked that scene from The Wild Bunch. "What else did you find?" she asked.

"Apparently there was a bull rider named Jake Torres who broke three ribs when a gate mechanism failed. A woman named Briana Bulling suffered a concussion when a support beam gave way in the practice arena. Let's see, what else…" Ray scrolled through more records. "After each incident, Ellis signed off on the repairs, saying everything was up to code."

"He was cutting corners," Harley said. "They all were."

Her phone buzzed. The text was from Linda Chavez, the arena manager at the Alamogordo County Fairgrounds. The message contained a long list of names—everyone who'd lost money when Paradise collapsed. Former employees, investors, contractors. Some had lost their life savings. Others had been forced into bankruptcy.

At first blush, the names seemed to parallel what Ray had found. If nothing else, it indicated they were on the right track.

Harley had also asked Linda about information on anyone who might've had recent conflicts with Mario Delgado. On this point, Linda had little to say. He kept to himself these past few years, she wrote. Focused on training. The only tension I saw was with his ex-wife, but that seemed to have settled down.

Harley rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. The scope of the case was expanding rapidly. How many people had been affected by Paradise's collapse? How many had reason to want revenge?

And more importantly—who else might be in danger?

She was about to ask Ray to dig deeper into Ellis's background when Callaway appeared in her doorway, looking as tired as she felt.

"Got something," he said.

Ray swiveled in his chair, grinning at Callaway. "Hey, so do I. Want to compare sizes? Of our discoveries, I mean."

Harley shot Ray a warning look, but Callaway just chuckled. He stepped into the office and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Ladies first."

"Oh, so you mean Harley should go first?" Ray winked at her. "Since she's clearly the lady in charge here. Or were you referring to yourself?"

"Keep it up, kid," Callaway drawled. "They'll never find your body."

"Enough, both of you," Harley said, but she couldn't completely hide her smile. "What did you find at the fairgrounds?"

"Not much on that door Pete forgot to check. No prints except his." Callaway straightened. "But I got something better. Security camera at the gas station two blocks from the fairgrounds caught our mystery Malibu. Can't make out the plates, but we got a partial view of the driver."

Ray perked up. "Let me guess—you need my expertise."

"Already sent it to Cormier over at the Albuquerque field office."

"Cormer?" Ray pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. "That dinosaur wouldn't know facial recognition software if it bit him in the—"

"Ray," Harley interrupted. "Focus. Tell Callaway what you found in the Paradise records."

As Ray explained about the pattern of equipment failures and Ellis's questionable inspections, Harley watched Callaway's expression darken. She knew that look. He was making the same connections she had already made.

"Want me to start building profiles on everyone who lost money in Paradise?" Ray asked. "Could help identify potential suspects."

"Do it," Harley said. "Cross-reference against any recent contact with Mario or Whitman."

"Your wish is my command." Ray stood and gave an exaggerated bow.

"Out," Callaway said.

Ray grinned and sauntered toward the door, but paused to look back at Harley. "By the way, that color looks great on you. Really brings out your—"

"Goodbye, Ray," Harley and Callaway said in unison.

After he left, Callaway shook his head. "That boy's gonna get himself hurt one of these days."

"He's harmless." Harley shuffled through the papers on her desk, trying to organize her thoughts. "How clear is that security footage of the Malibu's driver?"

"Clear enough, maybe. Cormier says he'll have preliminary results in a few hours." He studied her face. "When's the last time you slept?"

"I'll sleep when we catch this killer."

"That's what I thought." He crossed to her desk and began gathering papers. "Come on. We're getting breakfast, and then you're going to take a four-hour nap while I track down Bob Ellis's current address in Arizona."

"I'm fine."

"You're running on fumes and caffeine." He held up her empty cup as evidence. "Four hours. That's all I'm asking."

Harley wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. She'd be sharper after some rest. "Two hours," she countered.

"Three. Final offer."

She smiled despite herself. This was what she loved about him—the way he could be both stubborn and gentle at the same time. The way he knew when to push and when to let things be.

Maybe that was why the idea of moving in together both thrilled and terrified her. She wasn't used to having someone care about her wellbeing this way. Someone who could read her moods, anticipate her needs.

"Fine," she said. "Three hours. And then we talk to this Bob Ellis."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Phoenix sun was merciless, bleaching the color from everything it touched. Heat waves shimmered above the pavement as Harley and Callaway pulled into the parking lot of Desert View Properties, where Bob Ellis had reinvented himself as a real estate agent after leaving the rodeo circuit.

It was just past two in the afternoon. Harley had managed to get almost four hours of sleep—more than they'd agreed on—mainly because Callaway had reset her alarm while she slept. She'd been annoyed at first, but she had to admit she felt sharper, more focused.

Through the office window, they could see Ellis showing a property listing to an elderly couple. He was older than in the Paradise photos, his hair gone completely gray, but he still had the same rigid posture of a man who'd spent his life checking boxes and following rules.

At least, the rules he chose to follow.

"Want to wait for them to finish up?" Callaway asked.

Harley shook her head. "We've got two dead bodies and possibly more targets. Waiting isn't an option."

They entered the office, a blast of cold air hitting them as they stepped through the door. Ellis glanced up, his sales pitch faltering as he registered their presence. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe, or fear.

"If you'll excuse me for just a moment," he said to his clients. He approached Harley and Callaway, lowering his voice. "May I help you?"

"I'm Agent Cole, and this is my partner Agent Callaway." Harley showed her badge.

Ellis gave the badge a cursory look. "What's this about?" he asked, lowering his voice. "I'm sure you can see I'm with customers right now."

Harley met his gaze. "We're here about the Paradise Rodeo Company, Mr. Ellis. And about Mario Delgado and Thomas Whitman."

The color drained from Ellis's face. He turned back to the elderly couple. "I apologize, but something urgent has come up. My assistant can show you the rest of the listings we discussed."

After his clients left, Ellis led them through a door marked "Private" into what appeared to be a break room. Coffee maker, mini-fridge, a small table with chairs. The walls were bare except for a corkboard covered in real estate listings and safety regulations.

Old habits die hard, Harley thought.

"What does the Paradise Rodeo Company have to do with their deaths?" Ellis asked.

"We're still trying to figure that out," Harley said. "We'd appreciate whatever you can tell us about your time with the company."

Ellis sank into one of the chairs, suddenly looking much older. "That was a long time ago. Another life."

"A life where you signed off on faulty equipment," Callaway said. "Where you overlooked safety violations that could have gotten people killed."

"Are you here to arrest me?" Ellis's voice was tired. "Because if you are, I'd like to call my lawyer."

"We're not here to arrest you," Harley said, taking a seat across from him. "We're actually here because we think you might be in danger."

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Someone's targeting people connected to Paradise," Harley explained. "People who were involved in the company's safety oversight. Mario Delgado, Thomas Whitman—it's possible they're just the beginning."

Ellis ran a hand over his face. The room fell silent except for the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant sound of voices from the main office.

"I tried to forget about Paradise," he said finally. "Tried to build a new life here, away from all of that." He gestured around the break room. "I follow the rules now. Every inspection, every regulation. I don't take shortcuts anymore."

"But you did then," Callaway said. "Why?"

Ellis stared down at his hands. He seemed to be wrestling with something internally.

"Why did you overlook the safety violations?" Harley pressed.

"You make it sound so simple," Ellis said. "Like there was one moment where I decided to start ignoring regulations. But it wasn't like that. It was..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Tell us," Harley said quietly.

"It started small. Extending the life of equipment that should have been replaced. Postponing inspections to save money. Mario always had a reason—budget problems, scheduling issues, promises that we'd make it right next quarter." He gave a bitter laugh. "There was always a next quarter."

"Until there wasn't," Callaway said.

"Yeah." Ellis stood and walked to the window, though the blinds were drawn tight against the Arizona sun. "By the time I realized how deep we were in it, it was too late. The company was hemorrhaging money. Mario was borrowing from people he shouldn't have been involved with. And I..." He turned back to face them. "I kept signing off on things I shouldn't have. Because what else could I do? If I'd blown the whistle then, everyone would have lost their jobs immediately."

"Instead, they lost their savings," Harley said.

"You think I don't know that?" Ellis's voice cracked slightly. "You think I don't have to live with my choices every day?"

Harley studied him. His remorse seemed genuine, but there was something else in his expression—a wariness that suggested he was still holding something back.

"When was the last time you spoke with Mario?" she asked.

"Years ago. Not since Paradise collapsed." He returned to his chair. "I heard about his murder on the news. Whitman too. Terrible business."

"You don't seem particularly concerned," Callaway said.

Ellis shrugged modestly. "I've started taking extra precautions."

"What kind of precautions?" Harley asked.

"Security system at my house. Changed my routines. Started varying the times I come and go from work." He gestured toward the window. "I even got a conceal carry permit."

"But you don't think you're in danger," Harley said. It wasn't a question.

"No, I don't." Ellis leaned forward. "Because unlike Mario and Thomas, I've made things right. Or tried to, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Callaway asked.

"After Paradise collapsed, I tracked down as many people as I could. The ones who were injured because of equipment I should have condemned. I paid them back—everything I had. Sold my house, cashed in my retirement accounts." He spread his hands. "It wasn't enough to make up for what happened, but it was something. That's why I'm selling real estate in Phoenix instead of retiring like I planned."

Harley exchanged a glance with Callaway. This was new information—and it might indicate Ellis wasn't on their killer's list. If he'd tried to make amends...

Callaway's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and frowned. "Excuse me," he said, stepping out of the break room.

"Mr. Ellis," Harley said, "I understand you've taken precautions, but I still think you should—"

"Agent Cole, I'm too old to live in fear. I've run as far as I'm going to run, so if someone is after me—if there's someone out there nurturing an old grievance about what happened with Paradise—I'll be right here. Either I'll be ready for them… or I'll be a headline. We'll see which."

Harley studied him, unsure what to make of this response. "Can you think of anyone who would hold a grievance about what happened at the company?" she asked. "Someone who was more adversely affected than anyone else?"

Ellis's face grew thoughtful. He was about to reply, but just then Callaway stuck his head in.

"A word?" he asked, looking at Harley. She caught an undercurrent of urgency in his voice.

Harley rose and handed Ellis her card. "Call me if you think of anything else. Or if you notice anyone watching you."

"I will." But his tone suggested he had no intention of calling.

Harley stepped outside and followed Callaway to the parking lot. He looked troubled.

"What is it?" she asked.

He turned to her, his expression grim. "That call—it was Cormier. He got a hit on the facial recognition software." He paused. "The man driving the Malibu? He's one of ours. FBI."

Harley felt her mouth open in surprise. "You're sure?"

"His name's Bryce Hammond," Callaway said. "Works out of the El Paso office."

"Hammond?" Harley vaguely remembered meeting him at a training seminar last year—a tall, serious man with prematurely gray hair. They'd exchanged maybe two words. "What was he doing talking to Mario Delgado?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Callaway squinted up at the merciless Arizona sun. "I think we'd better go talk to him and find out."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The El Paso field office was quiet when Harley and Callaway arrived. Late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across empty desks. They'd called ahead, but Hammond wasn't at his desk. In fact, according to his secretary, he'd left early that day.

"Convenient," Callaway muttered as they walked back to their car.

Harley pulled out her phone and tried Hammond's cell again. Straight to voicemail. She'd left two messages already, each more urgent than the last. "Think he's avoiding us?"

"It's possible he knows why we're looking for him. Man sees his face pop up in connection to a murder investigation, might make him nervous." Callaway slid behind the wheel. "Where to next?"

Harley had already looked up Hammond's address. "He lives in Las Cruces. Keeps a small ranch out past the city limits."

"Long commute to El Paso."

"Some people prefer the quiet." Harley thought of Kelly's apartment on the edge of town, how her sister seemed to gravitate toward isolation. "The space to breathe."

They drove in companionable silence for a while, both lost in thought. Harley watched the desert roll past, all rust-colored earth and scrubby vegetation. A hawk circled overhead, riding the thermals, searching for prey.

"What do you think he and Mario were talking about?" she asked finally.

"Could be anything." Callaway kept his eyes on the road. "Drug trafficking through the rodeo circuit. Money laundering. Or maybe something completely unrelated to our case."

"You believe that?"

"No." He smiled slightly. "But I like to consider all possibilities."

Hammond's ranch appeared ahead—a modest adobe house set back from the road, with a few outbuildings and a corral where two horses grazed. A silver Malibu sat in the driveway.

"Well, would you look at that," Callaway said.

They parked behind the Malibu. As they approached the house, Harley noticed security cameras mounted discreetly near the roof—not standard home security equipment, but higher-end gear. The kind used for serious surveillance.

She rang the doorbell. No answer.

"His car's here," she said.

"And someone's watching TV." Callaway nodded toward a window where the flickering blue light of a television screen was visible through gauzy curtains.

Harley rang again, longer this time. Finally, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened, and Bryce Hammond stood before them. He was younger than Harley remembered—probably in his early forties—but his hair was completely gray. He wore jeans and a faded t-shirt, looking nothing like the stern-faced agent she recalled from the training seminar.

"Agents Cole and Callaway," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I assume this is about the messages you left."

"May we come in?" Harley asked.

Hammond hesitated, then stepped back, gesturing them inside. The house was sparsely furnished but neat. A Western was playing on the TV—some old John Wayne movie. Hammond clicked it off.

"I know why you're here," he said, remaining standing while they sat on his leather couch. "You saw me on the security footage, talking to Mario Delgado."

"Would've been easier if you'd returned our calls," Callaway said.

"I was busy."

"Busy avoiding us?" Harley asked.

Hammond's expression didn't change. "I have ongoing cases that require my attention. Not everything revolves around your investigation."

"No," Harley agreed. "But Mario Delgado's murder does. And since you were one of the last people to see him alive, we'd appreciate knowing what you two discussed."

Hammond moved to his window and stared out at the horses in the corral. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of the AC.

"I can't discuss that meeting," he said finally.

"Can't or won't?" Callaway asked.

"Either way, the result is the same." Hammond turned back to face them. "I understand you have a job to do. But so do I. And sometimes those jobs have to remain separate."

"Mario Delgado is dead," Harley said. "Murdered. And not just him—Thomas Whitman too. Both of them connected to Paradise Rodeo Company. Both killed in ways that mimicked scenes from classic Westerns." She gestured at Hammond's TV. "Like the ones you were just watching."

Something flickered in Hammond's eyes—surprise, maybe, or concern. But his voice remained steady. "I'm aware of the circumstances of their deaths. But I can assure you, my meeting with Mario had nothing to do with that."

"Then what was it about?" Callaway asked.

"Nothing relevant to his death." Hammond's tone held a note of finality. "And that's all I'm going to say about it."

"How could you know that unless you know who killed him?"

Hammond said nothing. His eyes remained blank, revealing nothing.

"Agent Hammond," Harley said, "I respect that you have other cases, other priorities. But we have a killer out there who seems to be targeting people connected to Paradise. If you know something that could help us catch that person—"

"I don't," Hammond interrupted.

"There's no need to protect Delgado anymore," Harley said softly. "He's beyond protection now."

Hammond was already shaking his head. "This isn't about protecting Delgado. It's about protecting others. Living people who could be put at risk if certain information became public."

That caught Harley's attention. "What kind of risk?"

"The fatal kind." Hammond's expression hardened. "I've dealt with leaks before, Agent Cole. Seen what happens when sensitive information gets into the wrong hands. People die. Families get torn apart. I'm not letting that happen again."

"Again?" Callaway asked.

But Hammond had already closed off, his face returning to that careful neutrality. "I think we're done here. If you need anything else, you can contact me through official channels."

"Was Delgado working for you?" Harley asked. "For the Bureau?"

Hammond moved to his front door and opened it. The message was clear.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the desert in deep purples and golds. Harley paused on Hammond's porch, studying his face. "If more people die because you withheld information-"

"More people will die if I don't." Hammond's voice was quiet but firm. "Good evening, agents."

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Harley and Callaway walked back to their car in silence. The horses in the corral had stopped grazing to watch them, their ears pricked forward with interest.

"Well," Callaway said as they pulled away from Hammond's ranch, "that was interesting."

"He's protecting someone," Harley said. "But who? And from what?"

"Could be anything. Drug cartels. Human trafficking rings. White collar crime syndicates." Callaway glanced at her. "The question is, how does it connect to Paradise? And to our killer?"

Harley stared out the window, thinking. Hammond's words about leaks kept echoing in her mind. The way he'd said he'd seen it before, seen what happened when information got out. There had been real pain in his voice then—personal experience, not just professional caution.

"We should check his personnel file when we get back," she said. "See if he's had any cases go bad because of information leaks. Might give us a better idea of what we're dealing with."

"You think Delgado was some kind of informant?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it? He was desperate for money when Paradise went under. Maybe he made some questionable deals, got involved with the wrong people. Then later, he decides to make it right by helping the FBI."

"Could explain why he was acting nervous lately," Callaway agreed. "And why he wanted to tell Ana something important the night before he died. Maybe someone killed him to keep him quiet."

"That wouldn't explain the staging of the bodies," Harley said. "The movie references. That feels personal, not like a criminal organization sending a message."

They drove on in silence for a while, each following their own thoughts. The desert had turned silvery in the gathering dusk, and the first stars were appearing in the eastern sky.

"You know what bothers me?" Callaway said finally. "Hammond didn't seem surprised about the Western movie connection. Like he already knew about that detail."

"Could have read it in the case file."

"Maybe." But Callaway didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he knows more about our killer than he's letting on."

Harley considered this. Hammond's TV had been playing a Western when they arrived. Just a coincidence? Or had he been studying something specific?

"We need to find out exactly what cases Hammond's been working on," she said. "What kind of operation he's running that might have involved Mario Delgado."

"Won't be easy. If he's running something sensitive enough to stonewall fellow agents, those files will be buried deep."

"Then we'll dig deep." Harley's jaw set with determination. "Someone killed Mario Delgado and Thomas Whitman. Someone with a connection to Paradise Rodeo Company and classic Westerns. And I don't care what kind of operation Hammond's protecting—if he knows something that could help us catch this killer, we need to find out what it is."

Callaway smiled slightly. "I know that tone. You're like a dog with a bone."

Harley thought of the photos from both crime scenes—the careful positioning of the bodies, the attention to detail in recreating those movie deaths. Somewhere out there, their killer was probably planning their next "scene." And Harley couldn't shake the feeling that Hammond knew something that could help them prevent it.

She just had to figure out what it was.

Harley's phone buzzed. Ray's name appeared on the screen.

"Tell me you found something," she said as she answered.

"Oh, did I ever." Ray's voice crackled with excitement. "Remember how you asked me to profile everyone who lost money in Paradise? Well, I think I found your guy. Kyle Granier. He was-"

"Hang on," Harley said, putting the phone on speaker so Callaway could hear. "Go ahead."

"Kyle Granier," Ray repeated. "Worked as a stunt coordinator in Hollywood for twenty years. Won an Academy Award for technical achievement. But here's where it gets interesting—his daughter Sandra was a barrel racer at Paradise."

Harley felt her pulse quicken. "Was?"

"She died in ninety-eight. Equipment failure during a practice run—a support beam gave way in the arena. She was only eighteen. I must've missed that earlier because I was focusing on Ellis. Anyway, according to the newspaper articles, Granier went ballistic. Accused Paradise of criminal negligence. Said they'd ignored basic safety protocols to save money."

"Did he threaten anyone specifically?" Callaway asked.

"Oh yeah. He confronted several board members at a shareholders' meeting. Security had to remove him. There's a quote here—want me to read it?"

"Please," Harley said.

"'You cut corners to save pennies, and my daughter paid with her life,'" Ray read. "'Mark my words—someday you'll all pay the same price.' And guess who was at that meeting?"

"Mario Delgado and Thomas Whitman," Harley said.

"Winner winner, chicken dinner. Delgado was running things by then, and Whitman was head safety judge." Keys clicked as Ray typed. "After Sandra's death, Granier quit Hollywood, sold everything he owned, and dropped off the grid. I had to do some serious digging to find a current address."

"But you found one?" Callaway asked.

"Property records show he bought ten acres outside Truth or Consequences about five years ago. Very remote. No neighbors for miles."

Perfect place for someone to plan elaborate murders, Harley thought. And with his background in stunts, he'd know how to stage them.

"Good work, Ray," she said. "Send us the address."

"Already did. But there's one more thing." Ray's voice grew serious. "I found some old interviews with Granier from his Hollywood days. The man was obsessed with authenticity in Western stunts. Said modern films didn't show proper respect for the classics."

Harley met Callaway's eyes. They were thinking the same thing: Someone staging murders to match classic Western death scenes would need intimate knowledge of those films.

"Thanks, Ray," Harley said. "We'll take it from here."

After she hung up, silence filled the car. Finally, Callaway spoke: "Truth or Consequences is about two hours from here."

Harley checked her watch. Nearly eight PM. "We could be there by ten."

"Might be better to wait till morning. Get some backup in place."

"And give him time to kill someone else?" Harley shook her head. "We need to at least lay eyes on his property tonight. See what we're dealing with."

Callaway sighed, but she saw him nod. "I'll call it in, let them know where we're headed."

As Callaway made the call, Harley pushed the Jeep faster. There wasn't a moment to lose.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kelly stood at her apartment window, her fingers lightly touching the medallion at her neck as she watched the silver sedan idling below. She could make out a silhouette in the driver's seat—someone sitting perfectly still, waiting. Just like they had been for the past hour.

The same car that had followed her earlier. She was certain of it now.

A chill ran through her body despite the warmth of her apartment. She'd learned to trust her instincts during her time with the cartel—they'd kept her alive more times than she could count. And right now, those instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

The sun had started to set, the dying light bleeding against the faces of the buildings. A few people walked their dogs or returned from work, but otherwise the street was quiet, unsuspecting.

Kelly moved away from the window and checked her door locks again, though she'd already done so twice in the past hour. The deadbolts were secure, the chain in place. She'd installed additional locks after moving in—much to her landlord's annoyance—but now she wondered if they were enough.

Her phone sat on the kitchen counter. She could call Harley. Her sister would come running, probably with backup and a full tactical team. But something held Kelly back. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was the fear that she was overreacting. After all, what proof did she have? A car parked on a public street?

But it wasn't just the car. It was the way it had followed her earlier, the way it had shown up again here. The way the driver sat so still, watching.

Let him watch, she thought. Who cares?

Kelly paced her small living room, her bare feet silent on the carpet. The room was sparse—she still hadn't decorated much beyond the basics. The walls were bare except for that one photo of her and her siblings as children. She glanced at it now, at their innocent smiles. So much has changed since then.

A memory surfaced: her first weeks with the cartel, learning to spot surveillance vehicles, to identify when she was being watched. The cartel had its own enemies, its own watchers, none of whom would have shown her the least bit of kindness if she'd fallen into their hands. She'd learned to recognize the signs—the same car appearing multiple times, the way followers would maintain a consistent distance, the stillness of someone trying not to draw attention.

All the signs she was seeing now.

Kelly moved back to the window, staying to the side where she wouldn't be easily visible. The sedan was still there, its silver paint turning gray in the fading light. She could see the driver more clearly now—a figure in what appeared to be a baseball cap, face hidden in shadow.

Who were they? Someone from the cartel, coming to punish her for her escape? Or someone else entirely?

She went to her bureau, opened her sock drawer, and pulled out the snub-nosed .38 Special revolver. She shoved it into the back of her jeans and covered it with her shirt.

It's only a precaution, she told herself. Nothing more. But if push came to shove, she was more than ready to defend herself.

As much as Kelly wanted to avoid violence, she felt a sudden urge to force this moment to its crisis. She was tired of being afraid, tired of wondering when her past would catch up with her. She'd survived seventeen years with the cartel. She'd endured things that would have broken most people. She was done hiding.

Moving with purpose now, she went to her bedroom and pulled on her shoes. Then she headed for her apartment door.

Her hand hesitated on the doorknob. Was this smart? Shouldn't she at least call Harley first?

But no. She needed to do this herself. Needed to prove—to herself more than anyone—that she could handle threats without running to her sister for protection.

Kelly took a deep breath and opened her door. The hallway was empty, the building quiet. Her footsteps seemed unnaturally loud as she walked to the stairs—never the elevator, elevators were traps—and began to descend.

Each step felt deliberate, measured. She was hyperaware of every sound, every shadow.

When she reached the building's entrance, she paused. Through the glass doors, she could see the sedan. Its engine was still running—she could see the exhaust in the cooling evening air.

Kelly pushed through the doors and walked purposefully toward the vehicle. She kept her hands at her sides, ready to reach back for the revolver if necessary. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her steps were steady.

She'd faced down worse threats than this. She'd survived worse situations.

She was twenty feet from the sedan when the engine revved. Fifteen feet when the car's lights came on. Ten feet when it suddenly pulled away from the curb.

Kelly stopped, watching as the sedan accelerated down the street with a squealing of tires. At the corner, it turned right and disappeared from view.

She stood there for several long moments, her hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade. She'd tried to get a look at the license plate, but it had been muddy—an accident, or a deliberate attempt to keep anyone from tracking down the driver?

Either way, they were gone now. That was the important part.

Relief coursed through Kelly. Pride, too. She'd stood up to the danger, brought the fight to the enemy. She hadn't cowered in fear.

As she entered her apartment building, however, the relief and pride drained away, and in their place came a sense of unease. The vehicle was gone, yes, but there was no telling when it might be back—tomorrow, the next day…

Maybe even later tonight.

Because one thing was for sure: Whoever she'd glimpsed in that car, they knew right where she lived.

And they could come back whenever they wanted.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kyle Granier lived at the end of a long dirt road, his property marked by a rusty gate with a "No Trespassing" sign. Beyond it, Harley could make out a small house surrounded by desert scrubland. No lights were visible.

Is he even home? she wondered.

"Private," Callaway said as they pulled off onto a side road where they could observe the property. "Remote."

"Perfect place to plan murders." Harley killed the engine but left the key in the ignition. "Or hide from the world."

They'd decided against approaching the house directly—at least not yet. If Granier was their killer, confronting him without backup could be dangerous. And if he wasn't, spooking him might make him harder to question later.

"Better to watch," Harley had argued. "See his patterns. Maybe catch him in the act of planning something."

Now she pulled out her laptop, grateful for the cellular hotspot that would let them do some digging while they waited. Callaway had already started searching on his phone.

"Here's something," he said. "Granier worked on some big films. The Gun for Hire movie—the remake. That Orlov Brothers thing from a few years back."

"The Western?"

"Yeah. He was the stunt coordinator." Callaway scrolled through his phone. "Got nominated for another Academy Award for it."

Harley pulled up an old interview with Granier. He was talking about the importance of authenticity in stunt work, particularly in Westerns. "Modern audiences think they want everything bigger, flashier," he was quoted as saying. "But there's beauty in the classics. Poetry in the way those old stuntmen died on screen."

"Sounds like our guy," she murmured.

"Maybe." But Callaway sounded doubtful. He turned his phone so she could see another article. "But look at this. After his daughter died, he started drinking. Heavy. Did two stints in rehab. Lost his last film job three years ago—showed up drunk to a set, nearly got someone killed."

Harley frowned. "Not exactly the profile of someone methodically recreating classic movie deaths."

"No." Callaway set his phone down. "Guy seems more likely to drink himself to death than plan elaborate murders."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the dark house. A coyote called in the distance, and somewhere an owl answered.

"Still," Harley said finally, "we have to talk to him."

"Tomorrow." Callaway stretched in his seat. "With backup."

She nodded, then noticed him trying to suppress a yawn. "Want me to take first watch?"

"Nah, I'm good." He grinned. "Just need something to keep me awake. Tell me that story about the time Ray tried to hack the coffee machine."

Harley laughed. "God, that was a disaster. You should have seen Newbury's face when it started spewing coffee all over the break room. And Ray just standing there saying, 'But the algorithm should have worked!'"

"Kid's brilliant with computers but can't make a decent cup of coffee to save his life." Callaway's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Speaking of which, when is he gonna get it through his thick head that you're taken?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

They were both silent for a few moments. When Callaway spoke again, his voice was sober, reserved.

"So," he said, "given any more thought to what we talked about?"

"Moving in together?"

Callaway nodded.

Harley stared out at the darkness, gathering her thoughts. "It's not that I don't want to," she said finally. "It's just..."

"Kelly?"

"Partly. But not entirely." She turned to face him. "When Rob and I lived together, I was never really there. Even when I was physically present, my mind was always on cases, on work. He used to say living with me was like living with a ghost."

"I'm not Rob."

"I know that. But I'm still me. Still obsessed with work, still terrible at maintaining any kind of work-life balance." She gestured at their current situation—sitting in a car late at night, watching a potential murderer's house. "Case in point."

"Harley." Callaway's voice was soft. "I knew who you were when I fell in love with you. Hell, it's part of why I fell in love with you. Your dedication, your drive—they're not flaws that need fixing."

She felt tears threatening and blinked them back. "You say that now, but-"

Her phone buzzed, interrupting whatever she'd been about to say. Kelly's name appeared on the screen.

"Kelly?" Worry immediately crept into her voice. Her sister rarely called, especially this late. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine," Kelly said, but something in her voice suggested otherwise. "But I need to tell you something. Just don't freak out."

"I wasn't going to, but now I might. Just tell me—what is it?"

A pause. "Someone's been following me."

Harley sat up straighter. "Following you? Who?"

"I don't know. They're driving a silver sedan. They followed me earlier today, then showed up outside my apartment tonight."

"At your apartment?" Harley's heart gave a sharp, painful beat. Callaway watched her, looking worried.

"Did you get a plate number?" Harley asked.

"No. They took off when I tried to confront them."

"You what?" Harley's free hand clenched into a fist. "Kelly, you should have called me immediately. Going after them on your own like that—it's reckless, crazy."

"I can handle myself." Kelly's voice held a note of steel.

"I know you can. I know you've been through hell. But you don't have to go through this on your own now."

"That's why I'm calling you. And I also wanted you to be aware in case…" She trailed off.

"In case what?"

"In case something happens to me."

Harley felt her blood run cold. "Nothing's going to happen to you. I won't let it."

Kelly said nothing.

"I'm going to make sure you're safe," Harley went on. "I'll have a patrol car at your place in minutes. They'll set up surveillance, so if that vehicle shows up again—"

"I don't need a security detail," Kelly interrupted. "I just needed you… I needed you to know."

Harley sensed that Kelly really did want her help, but didn't know how to ask for it—or accept it. After everything Kelly had been through, after so many years with nobody to rely on except herself, it had to be incredibly difficult to trust anyone else.

"Just stay inside and keep your doors locked," Harley said. "I'll send someone to keep an eye on things, okay? We'll touch base in the morning."

"Okay." Kelly's voice was quiet.

"I love you."

"You, too," Kelly said. There was no emotion in her voice. Harley couldn't think of the last time her sister had actually said the words, 'I love you' to her.

Harley took a breath to say something more, but Kelly had already hung up.

Harley lowered the phone, her mind racing.

"What is it?" Callaway asked quietly.

"Someone's stalking Kelly." Harley's voice was tight. She quickly dialed dispatch, requesting a patrol car for Kelly's neighborhood. After arranging the surveillance, she let out a long breath.

"At least she told you about it," Callaway said.

"Yeah, but only after confronting the person herself." Harley rubbed her temples. "She keeps everything so close to the vest. Won't let anyone in, won't share what she's going through." She paused. "Sometimes I wonder if she'll ever trust me again—really trust me, I mean. The way she did before."

"Give her time."

"That's what everyone says. But what if time isn't enough? What if-"

Movement caught her eye. A figure had emerged from Granier's house, weaving slightly as they walked toward a pickup truck parked in the driveway.

"You seeing this?" she asked.

"Yeah." Callaway sat up straighter. "Think that's our guy?"

The truck's headlights came on, and the engine roared to life. The vehicle pulled out onto the dirt road, kicking up dust as it accelerated.

"Only one way to find out." Harley started their car and pulled out, maintaining a careful distance. The truck ahead swayed on the road, crossing the center line before jerking back into its lane.

"He's all over the place," Callaway said.

They followed as the truck reached the main road and turned toward town. There wasn't much traffic at this hour, but the few cars they passed had to swerve to avoid the truck as it repeatedly drifted into the oncoming lane.

"Shit," Harley muttered as the truck barely missed a collision with an approaching sedan. "He's going to kill someone."

"Drunk," Callaway said. "Those rehab stints clearly didn't take."

"We need to stop him before he hurts someone." Harley flipped on her lights. The truck continued weaving for several seconds before finally pulling onto the shoulder.

They approached cautiously, one on each side of the vehicle. Through the driver's window, Harley could see a man slumped over the steering wheel. He didn't move as she approached, didn't seem to register their presence at all.

"Mr. Granier?" she called out. "FBI. We need you to step out of the vehicle."

The man lifted his head slowly. His face was haggard, eyes bloodshot. He fumbled with the door handle before practically falling out of the truck.

"Kyle Granier?" Harley asked, steadying him.

He squinted at her. "Who wants to know?"

The smell of whiskey rolled off him in waves. This was not the calculating killer they'd been looking for—just a broken man trying to drink away his pain.

"Sir, have you been drinking tonight?" Callaway asked.

Granier laughed, a harsh sound with no humor in it. "Tonight? Hell, I've been drinking since Sandra died." He swayed on his feet. "You gonna arrest me? Go ahead. Might as well. Nothing else left anyway."

Harley exchanged a glance with Callaway over the truck's hood. This wasn't their killer—couldn't be. The man who'd staged those elaborately choreographed murder scenes would never be this sloppy, this out of control.

Still, they couldn't just leave Granier. They had to take him in. The paperwork would eat into valuable investigation time, but they couldn't risk him getting back behind the wheel.

Stopping murderers wasn't the only way to save lives.

And maybe, just maybe, they could glean some information from him before they were through.

*   *   *

At the station, Granier sat slumped in an interview room chair while Harley brought him coffee. His hands shook as he took the cup, but his eyes were starting to show signs of clarity.

"Tell us about Paradise," Harley said, settling into the chair across from him.

"What's to tell? They killed my little girl." His voice cracked. "She was born to ride, you know? Could handle a horse better than most professionals by the time she was fifteen."

"We heard about the accident," Callaway said. "The support beam that gave way."

Granier's face darkened. "'Accident.' Yeah, that's what they called it, alright. But I saw the maintenance logs. Saw how many times that beam had been flagged for repair." He took a shaky sip of coffee. "They knew it was dangerous. Just didn't want to spend the money to fix it."

"What about Mario Delgado?" Harley asked. "Thomas Whitman?"

"Delgado was running things by then. Everything had to go through him." Granier's hands tightened around his coffee cup. "And Whitman... he was supposed to be looking out for the riders. Safety judge, they called him. But he just rubber-stamped whatever Mario put in front of him."

"Did you confront them about it?"

"Confronted everyone I could find. Went to the shareholders' meeting, tried to show them the evidence." He gave a bitter laugh. "Security dragged me out. Said I was making a scene."

"We heard about that," Callaway said. "About the threats you made."

Granier met his eyes. "Threats? Yeah, I made threats. Said they'd pay someday. But look at me now." He gestured at himself, a broken man in a drunk tank. "I couldn't even make good on those threats. Couldn't do anything except drink and remember my baby girl's smile."

Harley watched him carefully. There was real pain there, real anger. But also a defeat that seemed too profound to be an act.

"Tell us more about the safety violations," she said.

"They used to inspect the rigging every morning," he said, staring into his coffee. "But then it became every other day. Then weekly. They said it was to streamline operations, but everyone knew it was about money."

"Who made those decisions?" Harley asked.

"Mario signed off on them. But the real pressure came from investors. They wanted bigger shows, more spectacle, faster turnaround between events." He took a sip of coffee. "Safety protocols take time. Time costs money."

"What about the beam that killed Sandra?" Callaway asked quietly.

Granier's hands began to shake. "Three different maintenance reports flagged it. I found them after... after. All marked 'routine maintenance required.' Then someone changed the priority level. Pushed the repairs back." He set down his cup before he could spill it. "My daughter died because someone decided saving a few hundred dollars was more important than her life."

"Do you know who changed those reports?" Harley asked.

"Whitman signed off on the changes. Said the beam could last another season." Granier's voice grew bitter. "Guess he was wrong about that."

"And Mario?" Callaway prompted.

"Mario knew. Had to know. Every repair over five hundred dollars needed his signature to postpone." Granier rubbed his face. "They were all cutting corners by then. The rigging inspectors, the safety team, even the damn veterinarians. Started rubber-stamping everything just to keep the shows running."

"What about other accidents?" Harley asked. "Before Sandra?"

"Little things at first. Equipment wearing out faster than it should. Minor injuries that could have been worse." He shook his head. "We all saw the signs. Just didn't want to believe it could happen to us."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Granier looked up, his eyes red-rimmed but steady.

"I heard they were murdered," he said. "Mario and Thomas. Guess somebody finally made them pay."

"Any idea who?" Harley asked.

But Granier just shook his head and reached for his coffee again. "Wish I could say it was me. But I've been too busy trying to drink myself to death." He gave a hollow laugh. "Can't even do that right."

He sighed heavily and cradled his head in his hands. It was clear the combination of alcohol and emotional exhaustion was catching up with him, despite the help of the caffeine.

Still, Harley had a couple more questions to get through before ruling him out as a suspect.

"Where were you two nights ago?" she asked. "The night Mario Delgado was killed?"

Granier frowned, rubbing his temples. "Two nights? Let me think." He closed his eyes. "Yeah, I remember. I was at Pete's Bar over in Las Cruces. They had to cut me off around midnight. Pete himself drove me home."

"And last night?" Callaway asked. "Between midnight and three AM?"

"Was that when Whitman was killed? I was passed out on my couch. Had a delivery guy wake me up around noon—been ordering my groceries since they took my license. Most of the time, anyway." He gave them a sheepish look, no doubt thinking of their earlier pursuit of him.

Harley and Callaway exchanged a glance. The alibis seemed plausible—especially for someone who clearly spent most of his time drinking. But they'd need to verify them.

"We'll need Pete's contact information," Harley said. "And the name of your delivery service."

Granier rattled off the details. His voice was clearer now, more focused, though exhaustion had started to creep in.

"Get some sleep," Harley said, rising. They'd put him in a cell to sleep it off—standard procedure for drunk driving arrests.

Outside the interview room, the hallway lights cast harsh shadows across tired faces. Harley leaned against the wall, running a hand through her hair. "I wanted it to be him," she admitted quietly. "Wanted this whole thing wrapped up neat and clean."

"When is it ever neat and clean?" Callaway asked, but his voice held no judgment. Just the steady understanding that had drawn her to him in the first place.

"Pete's Bar is open till two," she said after a moment. "We could head over there now, see if anyone remembers seeing him."

"Place'll be closing soon. Catch the regulars before they leave."

Harley nodded, pushing off from the wall. Her shoulder brushed Callaway's as they walked, a small point of warmth in the sterile corridor. "I know he doesn't seem like our killer, but—"

"We have to be thorough," Callaway finished. "I know."

They stepped out into the desert night, stars scattered across the sky like evidence waiting to be collected. The air had grown colder, carrying that bite that reminded Harley of long stakeouts and endless searches. Of all the cases that had started like this—following leads that felt wrong, chasing shadows that always seemed to dance just out of reach.

She thought of Kelly then, of how many dead ends she'd hit during those seventeen years of searching. How each one had felt like failure until that final breakthrough that brought her sister home.

"You okay?" Callaway asked softly.

"Just thinking," she said, climbing into the driver's seat. "About how sometimes the wrong leads take us to the right answers."

He settled beside her, his presence as steady as the mountains on the horizon. "Then let's go talk to Pete."

They pulled out into the night. In their line of work, thoroughness often meant the difference between closing a case and watching it go cold. Between justice and another family left wondering. Between answers and endless questions that whispered in the dark.

It was like Thomas Edison and the lightbulb—sometimes all you were doing was figuring out who wasn't guilty, narrowing the suspect pool. And sometimes, that was the only way you were ever going to get to the person actually responsible.

That was what she had to tell herself, what she had to believe. Because to give in to doubt, to start to believe in the impostor syndrome—that would mean the killer had won.

And Harley wasn't about to concede defeat. Not now, not ever.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pete's Bar was exactly what Harley expected—dark wood, neon beer signs, the lingering smell of decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the walls. At 1:45 AM, a handful of regulars still nursed their drinks at the bar.

It wasn't the kind of place Harley would frequent in her free time, but she couldn't be picky when she was on the clock.

The owner, Pete Sandoval, was a big man with graying hair and arms covered in faded tattoos. He remembered Granier clearly.

"Hard to forget," he said, wiping down the bar. "Guy was telling everyone who'd listen about his daughter. Kept saying he should've done something, should've made them listen." He shook his head. "Had to cut him off around midnight, drive him home myself."

"You're sure about the time?" Harley asked.

"Check the receipts." Pete gestured toward the register. "We close out tabs when we cut someone off. Policy."

The receipt showed Granier's last drink at 11:47 PM—right when Mario Delgado was still alive, according to the coroner's estimate.

They verified his second alibi just as easily. The grocery delivery service had records of dropping off his order at 12:15 PM, with a note from the driver about "customer appeared hungover but signed for delivery."

"Well," Callaway said as they walked back to their car, "that's that."

"So where do we go now?" Harley asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Back to researching Paradise, I guess." Callaway slid behind the wheel.

They drove to the field office, the streets empty at this hour. Inside, the building was quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner—the night cleaning crew making their rounds.

Harley and Callaway settled into the conference room with their laptops, surrounded by Paradise files. Ray had compiled an extensive database of everyone connected to the company, but they needed to dig deeper.

"Look at this," Callaway said. "Three performers suffered career-ending injuries in Paradise's final year. All blamed on equipment failure."

"Any of them file complaints?"

"All of them. Cases were settled out of court, sealed records." He frowned at his screen. "But I found some newspaper interviews. Jake Torres—he was a bull rider. Broke three ribs when a gate mechanism failed. Briana Bulling got a concussion from that same loose support beam that killed Sandra Granier."

"And the third?"

"Miguel Ramirez. Permanent knee injury from a faulty stirrup attachment." Callaway scrolled through more documents. "None of them ever worked rodeo again."

Harley made notes, but something was nagging at her. "What about the crew? The ones who had to maintain all this faulty equipment?"

"Good thinking." Callaway typed rapidly. "Here—maintenance logs, inspection reports. Most signed by... Jack Hawkins. Head rigger."

"Hawkins?" The name sounded familiar. Harley searched through her own files until she found what she was looking for. "Here—he tried to blow the whistle on Paradise's safety violations. Sent letters to the review board, the local papers."

"What happened?"

"Paradise's lawyers buried him in litigation. Claimed he was trying to extort money from the company." She read further. "He lost everything—his job, his reputation. No one would hire him after that."

"Perfect motive for revenge," Callaway said.

Harley nodded, scanning more documents. "Says here he'd been in the business thirty years before Paradise. Worked on movie stunts too, specialized in Western shows."

"So he'd know how to stage those death scenes," Callaway said. "Any current address?"

"Nothing recent." Harley frowned at her screen. "Last known residence was in Texas, but that was five years ago."

"What about employment records?"

"Nothing official since Paradise." She pulled up more documents. "But look at this—he used to work with Kyle Granier on film stunts. They had some of the same Hollywood connections."

"Think Granier might know where to find him?"

"Worth asking." Harley checked the time—nearly 4 AM. "Though maybe not right now."

They began building a profile of Jack Hawkins. The picture that emerged was troubling: a man who'd dedicated his life to safety protocols and proper rigging, only to be destroyed for trying to expose violations. His letters to the review board had been detailed, technical—the work of someone who knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Listen to this," Harley said, reading from one of his letters. "'These aren't just regulatory violations. They're a tragedy waiting to happen. When someone dies—and mark my words, someone will die—it won't be an accident. It'll be negligent homicide.'"

"Prophetic," Callaway murmured.

"Three months later, Sandra Granier was dead." Harley sat back, rubbing her tired eyes. "Hawkins tried to prevent it. Tried to warn them. And they destroyed him for it."

"Hell of a motive for revenge."

"More than that." Harley leaned forward. "Think about it—he knew every piece of equipment at Paradise, knew all their safety protocols. He would have known exactly who was responsible for what violations."

"And he had the technical expertise to stage elaborate death scenes," Callaway added. "Plus the industry knowledge to recreate classic Western stunts."

They sat in silence for a moment, both following the same train of thought. Then Callaway spoke:

"We need to find him."

"First thing in the morning, we talk to Granier again," Harley said. "See if he knows where Hawkins might be. And we need to look deeper into Hawkins's background—family, friends, properties in his or his relatives' names."

"I'll put Ray on it," Callaway said. "Kid can find anyone if they've left a single digital fingerprint."

Harley nodded, already planning their next moves. But something still bothered her about this case—something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"What is it?" Callaway asked, reading her expression.

"I don't know." She gestured at the files spread across the table. "All this makes sense—the motive, the technical knowledge, the connection to Westerns. Maybe it fits together too well."

"You think we're missing something?"

"I think..." She paused, organizing her thoughts. "I think we need to look at everyone who knew about these safety violations. Everyone who tried to speak up and got shut down. Because Hawkins wasn't the only one who saw what was happening at Paradise."

"No," Callaway agreed. "But he might have been the only one with the skills to stage these murders."

Harley wasn't so sure. But for now, Hawkins was their best lead. They needed to find him—if only to rule him out.

She looked at the photo attached to his employment file. Jack Hawkins stared back at her, his expression serious, professional. The photo was ten years old, taken when he still had a career, a reputation, a life.

What kind of man was he now? Someone hellbent on revenge?

They would have to find him to get those answers. But first, they needed sleep. Real sleep, not just coffee and determination.

"We'll pick this up in a few hours," she said, standing. "Fresh eyes might help us see something we're missing."

Callaway nodded, but she could tell he was as reluctant as she was to step away from the investigation. Every hour they spent sleeping was an hour their killer could use to plan their next elaborate death scene.

But they had to rest. Had to stay sharp.

Because somewhere out there, Jack Hawkins—or someone else connected to Paradise—was probably planning their next performance.

And they needed to find him before the curtain rose again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Stuntman watched Ellis work the crowd at the Las Cruces arena, shaking hands and slapping backs like he'd never left the circuit. Same plastic smile, same politician's grip. Same man who had signed off on equipment that killed a young girl.

Among others.

From his position in the bleachers, the Stuntman could see everything. He'd arrived early, chosen his spot carefully. Just another spectator watching the morning practice runs. His baseball cap and sunglasses were generic enough not to draw attention, and the newspaper in his lap gave him a reason to sit still for hours.

Ellis was talking to the current safety director now, gesturing at some rigging overhead. Probably offering his expert opinion, as if he had any right. As if his signature wasn't on a dozen falsified inspection reports.

The Stuntman's hand brushed the outline of the stone knife in his jacket pocket. He'd sharpened it meticulously the night before, preparing it for its next performance, if necessary. The weight of it was reassuring.

He watched Ellis check his watch, then start saying his goodbyes. Right on schedule. The Stuntman had studied his routine for days—Ellis always left practice by ten, always parked in the same spot in the far lot where the security cameras had blind spots.

Creatures of habit were so much easier to hunt.

Two younger riders approached Ellis, asking him something. He stopped to chat, that fake smile still plastered on his face. The Stuntman could read his body language—the slight lean forward, the animated hand gestures. Ellis was holding court, enjoying being treated like an authority figure again.

You don't deserve their respect, the Stuntman thought. You betrayed everything the job stands for.

He rose slowly, folding his newspaper. No sudden movements, nothing to draw attention. Just another spectator leaving early. He made his way down the bleachers, timing his descent to intersect with Ellis's path to the parking lot.

Ellis was finally moving now, walking with that slight swagger he'd always had. The Stuntman remembered that walk from Paradise—remembered how Ellis would stroll through inspections, barely glancing at the equipment before signing off on it.

The scene was already choreographed in the Stuntman's mind. He'd spent hours planning it, making sure every detail would match the source material perfectly. The hanging scene from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly—a fitting end for a man who'd hanged his own integrity.

He followed Ellis through the arena's back corridors, maintaining a careful distance. Other people passed them—riders, vendors, maintenance workers. None of them paid attention to either man. They were all focused on their own concerns, their own lives.

Just like they'd been at Paradise, when no one wanted to notice the corners being cut, the safety protocols being ignored.

Ellis pushed through the exit door into the morning sunlight. The Stuntman counted to ten before following. The parking lot stretched out before them, half-empty at this hour. Ellis's car was one of the few vehicles in the far section.

Everything was falling into place. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

The Stuntman touched the knife again, feeling its ancient power. He didn't want to have to use it—it could spoil the effect—but he wouldn't hesitate if things went awry.

He quickened his pace, closing the distance between them. Ellis was fumbling with his keys now, still distracted by his own self-importance. Still oblivious to the justice about to be served.

The Stuntman's boots made no sound on the pavement as he drew closer. Years of stunt work had taught him how to move silently, how to approach without being noticed. That training was serving him well now.

Three more steps. Two. One.

Then he pressed the knife into Ellis's back. "Don't turn around," the Stuntman said. "Not if you want to live."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Harley stared at her computer screen, struggling to focus despite the triple-shot espresso beside her keyboard. She and Callaway had managed three hours of sleep before returning to the field office at dawn, determined to track down Jack Hawkins.

Ray had been working through the night, fueled by energy drinks and his usual manic enthusiasm. His database search had yielded fragments: a P.O. box in El Paso that had been closed six months ago, a cell phone registered in his sister's name that never stayed active more than a few weeks at a time, sporadic credit card charges at gas stations throughout the Southwest.

"He's good at staying off the grid," Ray had admitted. "But nobody's perfect. Everyone leaves traces."

They'd spent the morning following those traces, making calls to Hawkins's old colleagues from his Hollywood days, checking property records under variations of his name. Most leads dead-ended quickly. The few people willing to talk about him described a man who'd grown increasingly bitter after Paradise's collapse, who'd cut ties with former friends and disappeared into obscurity.

Harley rubbed her tired eyes, thinking of the warnings Hawkins had tried to issue before Sandra Granier's death. The desperate tone of his letters, the specificity of his safety concerns. He'd known exactly what could go wrong—and then had to live with the knowledge that he'd been right.

"Here's something," Callaway said from his desk. He'd shed his jacket hours ago, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he dug through financial records. "Hawkins's sister owned a piece of land outside Alamogordo. Sold it eight months ago to a corporation called Western Ventures LLC."

"Shell company?"

"Looking like it. Ray's trying to trace the ownership structure now."

Harley was about to respond when her phone rang. The caller ID showed an Albuquerque number she didn't recognize.

"Agent Cole."

"This is Sandra Mitchell with Desert View Properties." The woman's voice was tense. "I'm calling about Bob Ellis. He didn't show up for an important client meeting this morning, and he's not answering his phone. This isn't like him at all."

Harley sat up straighter, suddenly wide awake. "When was the last time you heard from him?"

"Yesterday afternoon. He said he was going to the Las Cruces arena this morning to check out some rigging concerns. He's been consulting with them occasionally—guess he couldn't stay away from the rodeo circuit completely." Mitchell paused. "I wouldn't normally worry, but with everything that's been in the news about those murders..."

Harley's throat tightened as she remembered Ellis's casual dismissal of their warnings. She'd seen that attitude before—people who thought they could handle anything, who didn't realize how vulnerable they really were until it was too late.

"We'll look into it right away," she said, already grabbing her jacket. She hung up and turned to Callaway. "Ellis is missing."

Callaway was on his feet immediately. "The arena?"

"That's where he was headed." She filled him in as they hurried to her Jeep. The morning sun was brutal, the air already shimmering with heat as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"He knew he was a potential target," Callaway said, making no effort to hide his frustration. "We warned him."

"Maybe nothing's wrong," Harley said, but they both knew better. Ellis's lackadaisical attitude about his safety had practically invited disaster.

They made it to the Las Cruces arena in record time. Ellis's car sat in the far corner of the parking lot, exactly where Sandra Mitchell said he always parked. No signs of struggle, no blood, nothing obviously out of place.

"Camera coverage out here is spotty," Callaway said, studying the lot. "Probably why he liked this spot. Fewer prying eyes."

That choice might have just cost him his life.

Inside the arena, morning practice was in full swing. Riders worked their horses in the practice ring while others gathered near the chutes, discussing technique and trading stories. It was like any other day—except somewhere in this facility, Bob Ellis had vanished.

They split up to interview potential witnesses. Most people remembered seeing Ellis that morning—he'd been talking to several riders about the rigging setup, offering his expertise. But no one had seen him leave.

After an hour of dead ends, Harley noticed a young woman watching them from the shadows near the maintenance office. Their eyes met briefly before the woman looked away, but something in her expression made Harley approach.

"Mind if we talk?" Harley asked quietly.

The woman glanced around nervously. Her name tag identified her as "Jenny Torres."

"Not here," Jenny said. She led Harley to an empty storage room, closing the door behind them. "I saw something this morning, but I'm not sure..."

"Anything could help," Harley said.

Jenny took a deep breath. "I was bringing in supplies through the back lot. There was a van parked near Ellis's car—one of those white commercial vans with no windows. I didn't think much of it until I saw Ellis talking to someone by the van. But it was so strange—the other man was standing behind Ellis, and Ellis didn't turn around."

"Could you describe the other person?"

"Baseball cap, sunglasses. Average height and build. Nothing remarkable." Jenny wrapped her arms around herself.

"What time was this?"

"Around nine-thirty, maybe? The van was gone when I came back through fifteen minutes later. Ellis's car was still there, but no sign of him."

Harley took detailed notes about the van, though she knew it would be nearly impossible to track down. White commercial vans were as common as tumbleweeds in the Southwest.

Still, it was more than they'd had before.

She thanked Jenny and found Callaway, who was finishing up his own interviews. They put out an APB on the van, knowing it was probably long gone—possibly abandoned somewhere, maybe even burned out to destroy evidence.

"Something's different about this one," Harley said, studying Ellis's empty parking space. "The other victims were killed where they were found. Delgado right here at the fairgrounds, Whitman in the stairwell. Why transport Ellis?"

"Too many people around," Callaway said, gesturing at the busy arena lot. Several horse trailers had pulled in while they were interviewing witnesses, and riders were gathering near the practice ring. "Middle of the morning like this, he couldn't stage anything elaborate without being seen."

"Which means he needs somewhere isolated." Harley pulled out her phone, looking at her notes on the previous crime scenes. "Both earlier murders recreated death scenes from classic Westerns. He'll want to do the same with Ellis."

"There's no shortage of remote places around here that would work for that kind of staging," Callaway said. "Abandoned ranches, old mining towns, ghost towns. Half the state looks like a Western movie set."

"But he's methodical," Harley said. "Everything we've learned about him suggests he plans these scenes carefully. He won't just pick any random spot."

"No," Callaway agreed. "He'll want somewhere that matches whatever scene he's recreating. Problem is, we don't know which movie he's working from this time."

Harley frowned, thinking. "What kinds of death scenes appear in classic Westerns? When they're not getting shot in gunfights, I mean."

"Hangings are popular," Callaway said. "Falling from heights. Getting dragged behind horses." He paused. "Though I imagine staging something with horses would be complicated. Our guy seems to prefer controlled environments where he can get all the details right."

"Which means we should focus on locations that would work for hanging scenes or falls," Harley said. "Places with existing structures he could use."

She began making calls, coordinating with local law enforcement to check likely locations. But there were dozens of potential sites within a two-hour radius, and they had no way of knowing which direction the van had gone after leaving the arena.

"We're casting too wide a net," she said after ending another call. "We need to think like him. What would he be looking for in a location?"

"Privacy," Callaway said immediately. "Good sight lines to spot anyone approaching. Probably multiple escape routes. And whatever structures or features he needs to match his chosen movie scene."

Harley's phone rang. Ana Delgado's name appeared on the screen.

"Agent Cole? I just heard about Bob Ellis." Ana's voice was tight with worry. "Is it true he's missing?"

"We're doing everything we can to find him," Harley said, trying to sound reassuring despite her own growing concern. "When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"Two days ago. He called to tell me he was consulting at the arena. Said it felt good to be back, even if it was just advisory work." Ana paused. "He was different from the others, you know. After Paradise collapsed, he tried to make things right."

"What do you mean?"

"He used to do presentations about safety protocols, using his collection to demonstrate what could go wrong. Even after Paradise destroyed his career, he kept trying to prevent other accidents."

Harley paused. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, 'his collection'?"

"Just some memorabilia he kept from his days as a safety inspector. Movie props, old rigging equipment, photographs, that kind of thing."

Harley straightened, catching Callaway's eye. "This collection—where did he keep it?"

"At his house. He converted his garage into a kind of museum. Said it helped him remember why safety protocols mattered." Ana's voice cracked slightly. "You don't think..."

"What's his address?" Harley was already moving toward her Jeep, Callaway right behind her.

After Ana gave them the address, Harley ended the call and turned to her partner. "A private museum of Western movie props and rigging equipment."

"Perfect staging ground," Callaway agreed grimly.

They climbed into the Jeep, Harley behind the wheel. She started the engine and flipped on the lights and siren.

"How far?" Callaway asked.

"Twenty minutes." Harley accelerated onto the highway. "Maybe fifteen if we push it."

"Then push it."

Harley pressed the gas pedal harder, hoping they weren't already too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY

As they turned onto Ellis's street, something nagged at Harley. "It doesn't make sense," she said.

"What doesn't?"

"If the killer wanted to stage something here, in Ellis's garage with all his movie props, why grab him at the arena? Why not wait until he came home, or attack him before he left?"

Callaway frowned. "Remember what Ellis said about the precautions he'd taken? The cameras and such? Maybe our killer didn't want to take the chance."

"Then why come back here at all?"

"Maybe he takes Ellis, grills him about the house, and learns everything he needs to know about how to come and go without leaving a trace."

Harley pondered that. She didn't have long, however. Ellis's house appeared ahead, a low-slung adobe structure set back from the street. Desert landscaping surrounded it—carefully arranged rocks and drought-resistant plants that spoke of someone who valued order. The three-car garage dominated the front, its blank doors revealing nothing of what might lie behind them.

Harley pulled up across the street, studying the property. Security cameras mounted at the corners stood silent sentinel. If Ellis had been brought here, the cameras would have captured it—assuming the killer hadn't already disabled them.

Harley's hand moved to her weapon, drawing comfort from its familiar weight. Every instinct told her they needed to move quickly, but rushing in blindly could get Ellis killed—if he wasn't already.

They approached the house carefully, staying low and using the desert vegetation for cover. Somewhere, a dove called out its mournful song. Harley noticed fresh tire tracks cutting through the pristine landscaping—marks that could have been left by a van.

The front door looked undisturbed, its heavy wood intact, the doorbell camera still blinking. Harley rang the bell, the sound echoing inside. No response. She tried the handle—locked.

"Listen," Callaway whispered.

They stood perfectly still. At first, Harley heard nothing but the whisper of wind through desert sage. Then—was that movement from inside? Or just the house settling in the growing heat?

They circled the property, checking windows and doors. Everything seemed secure until they reached the back. Harley tried a sliding glass door and found it unlocked.

She and Callaway exchanged a brief glance. Then they drew their weapons.

They entered the house, announcing themselves as FBI. The interior was cool and dim after the bright desert morning. Family photos lined the walls—Ellis with what looked like nieces and nephews, Ellis accepting awards, Ellis in his Paradise days looking young and confident.

They cleared the rooms methodically, communicating with hand signals. They found no sign of Ellis. Moving toward the garage door, Harley noticed scuff marks on the tile floor—as if something, or someone, had been dragged. The door itself was closed, but light seeped underneath, along with something else. A shadow, moving.

Someone was in there.

Harley met Callaway's eyes. He nodded once, positioning himself on the opposite side of the door. Her heart pounded as she reached for the handle, every sense hyperaware. If Ellis was alive, if the killer was still here...

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Then she turned the handle.

The door swung open, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the hallway. The sudden brightness made Harley blink, her weapon trained on the moving shadow she'd seen. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a female figure crouched near one of the display cases, her hands raised.

"FBI! Don't move!"

"Please," the woman said, her voice trembling. "I work with Bob—worked with him. I'm his assistant at Desert View Properties." She kept her hands visible, her face pale with fear. "Sandra Mitchell. I called you earlier about him being missing."

Harley kept her weapon steady while Callaway moved to clear the rest of the garage. The space was a museum of Western memorabilia—movie posters in careful frames, props arranged on shelves, rigging equipment mounted on the walls. The air smelled of leather and dust and something else—something metallic that made Harley's stomach clench.

"Why are you here, Ms. Mitchell?" Harley asked.

"Bob wasn't answering his phone. After I called you, I kept trying, but still nothing. I have a spare key for emergencies..." Her voice cracked. "I thought maybe he'd come home sick, or..." She gestured toward the back of the garage, where shadows gathered despite the overhead lights.

Callaway's voice came from the darkness. "Harley."

She knew from his tone what she would find. Still, she wasn't prepared for the sight of Ellis hanging from one of his own display ropes, his body casting a long shadow across the concrete floor. The killer had positioned him beneath a poster for "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly"—a final, cruel touch of theatrical flair.

Guess he doesn't want us guessing about which movie he's referencing, Harley thought.

Sandra Mitchell sobbed behind her. "I only just got here. Maybe ten minutes before you. I was about to call 911 when I heard you outside."

Harley lowered her weapon, her throat tight. Another victim they'd failed to protect. Another death staged like a scene from the movies Ellis had loved.

"Did you touch anything?" she asked Mitchell.

"No. I couldn't..." The woman wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "I just kept thinking about all those safety presentations he used to give, using these props to show what could go wrong. He was so careful about everything. How could this happen?"

Harley didn't answer. She was studying the scene, noting the precision of the knots, the careful arrangement of items around the body. Everything positioned just so, like props on a movie set.

Their killer had taken his time. Had made sure every detail was perfect.

Which meant he'd been here for hours, turning Ellis's sanctuary into a stage for his final performance.

*   *   *

Harley fell silent, waiting while Newbury took in the news she'd just shared. The most galling part of it all was that they'd identified Ellis as a potential target, and still the killer had gotten to him.

The desert sun had climbed higher over the past hour, baking the adobe walls of Ellis's house as forensic technicians moved in and out like ants at a disturbed hill. Their white coveralls seemed to glow in the harsh light, creating ghostly shapes that drifted through doorways and around corners. Camera flashes punctuated the morning air, documenting every detail of Ellis's final moments in the sanctuary he'd created.

Through the front window, Harley could see Callaway addressing the press gathered at the end of the driveway. His broad shoulders blocked their view of the house, his hands moving in measured gestures as he gave them just enough to satisfy their immediate hunger for headlines without compromising the investigation. Light glinted off the assembled camera lenses like predatory eyes.

"We warned him," she said into the phone, more to herself than her boss. "We told him he was in danger."

"Some people can't accept protection," Newbury replied, his voice gravelly with fatigue and concern. "They think they're invulnerable until suddenly they're not."

"There's one more thing," Harley said, moving away from the garage doorway where techs continued to document the scene. She found a quiet corner of Ellis's living room, sunlight streaming through wooden blinds to cast prison-bar shadows across the floor. "It's about Mario Delgado. Before he died, he was meeting with an FBI agent named Bryce Hammond."

The silence on the other end of the line felt heavy, charged. "Hammond?" Newbury's voice had changed, grown sharper. "You're certain?"

"We have surveillance footage of them meeting. When we questioned him about it, Hammond admitted to the meeting but refused to discuss why."

More silence. Harley could picture Newbury in his office, probably standing now, staring out his window at the mountains. She'd seen that stance before when cases took unexpected turns.

"I've known Bryce Hammond for fifteen years," he said finally. "He's one of the best agents I've ever worked with. What exactly did he tell you?"

Harley chose her words carefully, aware of the delicate ground she was treading. "He said he couldn't discuss the meeting. That revealing information could put lives at risk." She paused. "He seemed... troubled. Like he was carrying something heavy."

Newbury said nothing. Harley could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

She took a deep breath, watching dust motes dance in the sunbeam beside her. "Sir, given the connection to Delgado, and now with Ellis..." She let the implication hang there, unspoken.

"Hammond's not involved in these murders." Newbury's tone left no room for debate. "Whatever he was doing with Delgado, it was legitimate Bureau business." A pause, shorter this time. "But you're right that we need to know what that business was."

"He won't tell us."

"Maybe not." Newbury sighed. "But he'll tell me. Leave Hammond to me—I'll get to the bottom of what Delgado was involved in."

"Thank you, sir."

"Just focus on finding our killer. Whatever Hammond knows, whatever Delgado was mixed up in—it might be connected, but right now we've got a murderer staging elaborate death scenes. That's your priority."

"Understood."

After ending the call, Harley stood for a moment in the striped shadows, thinking about the certainty in Newbury's voice when he'd defended Hammond. She hoped that certainty was justified.

Because if the FBI was somehow responsible for these murders, then this whole investigation was about to become a shitshow in a hurry.

She only had a few moments to ponder this grim possibility before her phone rang again. Ray's name appeared on the screen, and something in her chest tightened. His usual enthusiasm for sharing discoveries meant either very good news or very bad.

"Tell me you found something," she said.

Ray's voice crackled with barely contained excitement. "Phoenix PD just picked up Jack Hawkins. He was at a diner off Highway 60, just sitting there eating pancakes like he didn't have a care in the world."

Harley's breath caught. Behind her, in Ellis's garage, camera flashes continued to document the killer's latest performance. "They're sure it's him?"

"Positive ID. And get this—he's been living in a trailer park just outside the city. Working as a maintenance man under his mother's maiden name." Ray paused, keys clicking in the background. "Local PD are holding him for questioning. They're waiting for us."

Harley watched a desert dove land on Ellis's window ledge, its mournful call seeming to echo the hollow feeling in her chest. After all their searching, could it really be this simple? Hawkins found eating breakfast while another man hung dead in a garage full of movie memorabilia?

Would Hawkins even have had time to kill Ellis, then drive to the diner?

"I'll let Callaway know," she said. "Tell Phoenix we're on our way."

She ended the call, her reflection in the window looking back at her with uncertainty. Because that was all she felt right now.

Except for the bedrock certainty that their killer, if given the chance, would surely strike again.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Harley watched dust devils dance across the empty parking lot of the Apache Junction Police Department, her mind churning with possibilities. Despite having Jack Hawkins in custody, something nagged at her—a sense that this was all too convenient, especially with Ellis's body barely cold.

The low-slung building before them had seen better days, its beige paint faded by decades of desert sun. A few patrol cars sat in the lot, their white paint dulled by a layer of red dust. The mountains loomed in the distance, silent sentinels over this small outpost of law enforcement.

"Ready?" Callaway asked beside her.

She nodded, though 'ready' wasn't quite the right word. After three murders and countless dead ends, she felt more wary than ready. More suspicious than hopeful.

Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows in the narrow hallway. A dispatcher looked up from her desk, phone pressed to her ear, and pointed them toward Interview Room B when they showed their badges.

"He's already being questioned," she whispered, covering her mouthpiece.

Harley and Callaway exchanged glances. What had happened to the police waiting for Harley and Callaway to arrive?

As they approached the interview room, voices filtered through the partially open door. A man's voice—not Hawkins, but someone else—was asking questions in a measured tone.

"And you've been living at the Desert Palms Trailer Park for how long?"

"Three years." The second voice was tired, weathered. "Ever since Mary got sick. Needed somewhere quiet where I could take care of her."

"Mary being your sister?"

"Yeah. She's got cancer."

Harley pushed the door open wider. Inside, a local detective sat across from a man she recognized from old Paradise photos—Jack Hawkins. But the man before them was a far cry from the proud safety inspector in those images. His face was deeply lined, his hair completely gray. He looked smaller somehow, diminished.

The detective glanced up, irritation flashing across his features. He was younger than Harley had expected, maybe early thirties, with a neat haircut and pressed shirt that suggested ambition beyond this small department.

"Can I help you?" he asked, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

"FBI," Harley said, showing her badge. "Mind if we step into the hall?"

The man hesitated, looking at Hawkins who sat slumped in his chair, staring at his hands. "Stay put," he told him, then followed them into the corridor.

Harley waited for the detective to close the door behind him before she spoke. "I have to say we're a bit surprised to find you questioning him," she said. "Detective…?"

"Reid. Jason Reid."

"We were told your department was waiting for us, given the seriousness of this case and its being our investigation."

Reid straightened his tie, a slight smile playing at his lips. "When the APB came through about Hawkins being a person of interest in the Paradise murders, I figured I'd get started. You know how it is—these first hours of questioning can be crucial. I didn't want to give him time to come up with a story."

Something in his tone set Harley's teeth on edge. There was an eagerness there, a barely concealed ambition. She had the sense he wasn't going to step aside easily.

"Kind of hard to get started when you don't know the details of an investigation," Callaway said.

"Look, I was just building rapport, getting him comfortable. I've been following the Paradise case closely—fascinating stuff, those movie recreations. I've actually got some theories about—"

"We appreciate the initiative," Harley cut in, "but we need to question him about the murders now."

"Of course, of course." Reid nodded quickly. "I'd like to sit in, if you don't mind. Strictly as an observer. These kinds of cases don't come through Apache Junction very often, and the experience would be invaluable."

"Out of the question," Callaway said, but Reid stepped closer, his eager expression hardening into something more calculated.

"Look," he said, keeping his voice low, "I've already established a connection with Hawkins. He's talking about his sister, his life here. You shut me out now, he'll clam up. Is that what you want?"

Harley studied Reid. His pressed shirt and carefully knotted tie spoke of ambition, but there was something else there—a hunger in his eyes that made her uneasy. Still, he had a point about Hawkins already opening up to him.

"Besides," Reid continued, "I know this jurisdiction. I know the players. And I know things about Hawkins's time here that might prove relevant." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, if you'd rather handle this without local cooperation..."

The threat was clear enough. They could shut him out, but he could make things difficult—delay paperwork, withhold information, create bureaucratic obstacles they didn't have time for. Not with Ellis's body still being processed and their killer possibly planning his next scene.

Harley met Callaway's eyes, seeing her own frustration reflected there. They both knew this kind of power play—the local cop wanting his piece of a high-profile case. Usually, they could shut it down, but right now...

"Fine," she said. "You can observe. But we handle the questioning." She stepped closer to Reid, her voice dropping. "And if you interfere, if you compromise this investigation in any way, I'll have you writing parking tickets for the rest of your career. Clear?"

Reid's smile widened. "Crystal."

They re-entered the interview room, where Hawkins sat exactly as they'd left him, staring at his weathered hands. The overhead lights cast deep shadows under his eyes, making him look older than his photos from the Paradise days. Had caring for his dying sister aged him this much? Or was it something else—the weight of secrets, perhaps?

"Mr. Hawkins," Harley said, settling into the chair across from him. "I'm Agent Cole, this is Agent Callaway. We need to talk about Paradise Rodeo Company."

Hawkins didn't look up. "Nothing to talk about. Company's long gone."

"But the people aren't. At least, not all of them." She placed photos of Delgado and Whitman on the table. "You remember them, don't you?"

Now Hawkins did look up, his eyes sharp despite his worn appearance. "Saw it in the papers. Terrible business."

"And Bob Ellis?" Harley slid another photo across the table. "You remember him too, I imagine."

"The safety inspector." Hawkins's voice was carefully neutral. "Read about him this morning."

"Quite a coincidence," Callaway said, "you surfacing right after his murder."

"No coincidence. Been living here three years, like I told the detective." Hawkins gestured toward Reid, who stood against the wall, trying to contain his eagerness to participate. "Had to take care of Mary. She needed somewhere quiet, away from everything."

"Away from everything," Harley repeated. "Including the multiple subpoenas you ignored? The investigators trying to question you about Paradise's safety violations?"

Hawkins leaned back in his chair, something shifting in his weathered features. His eyes studied Harley with unsettling intensity.

"You want to know why I left?" he asked. "Why I ignored those subpoenas?" He spread his hands on the table, and Harley noticed the calluses there—not the soft hands of someone who'd spent years in hiding, but the rough palms of a man who still worked with equipment and rigging. "Because nothing would have changed. The investigators, the lawyers—they weren't interested in the truth. They just wanted someone to blame."

"And now?" Callaway asked. "Three people connected to Paradise are dead. Each murder staged like a scene from a classic Western. That's quite a coincidence for someone with your background in movie stunts and rigging work."

Reid shifted against the wall, clearly itching to interject. Harley shot him a warning glance.

"I knew it would happen eventually," Hawkins said quietly. "Not the murders—something else. Something to bring all this back up." He traced a pattern on the table with one roughened finger. "I tried to warn them, you know. Wrote letters, filed reports. Told them exactly what would happen if they kept cutting corners."

"And when they didn't listen," Harley said, "you decided to make them pay?"

Hawkins's laugh was bitter. "Is that what you think? That I spent the last three years planning elaborate revenge while watching my sister waste away from cancer?"

"How about you tell us where you were last night?"

"I was at St. Joseph's Hospital in Phoenix. Mary had a bad turn—they thought she might not make it through the night. I sat with her from eight PM until dawn." His voice cracked slightly. "She pulled through, thank God. But the nurses on the oncology ward can verify where I was. Every minute."

Reid pushed off from the wall. "That's awful convenient—"

"Detective," Harley cut him off. "Please."

She studied Hawkins, noting how his hands had started trembling at the mention of his sister. The emotion seemed genuine, but she'd seen killers cry real tears before. And Hawkins had both the expertise and the motive to be their murderer.

"You understand we'll need to verify that alibi," she said.

"Verify all you want." Hawkins met her gaze steadily. "But while you're doing that, ask yourself something. All these murders, staged like movie scenes—that takes time, right? Careful planning? How could I do that and take care of Mary?" He gestured at his worn clothes, the deep exhaustion evident in his face. "I barely had time to sleep between her treatments, let alone plan elaborate murders."

"Unless someone helped you," Callaway suggested.

Hawkins's weathered face tightened. "Mary's the only person I've had contact with these past three years. The nurses, her doctors—that's it." His voice grew quieter, heavy with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into bones. "And Mary... she can barely walk to the bathroom by herself most days. She's not helping anyone commit murder."

Sunlight slanted through the small window, casting prison-bar shadows across the interview room table. Outside, a train whistle echoed mournfully in the distance, a sound that seemed to underscore the desolation in Hawkins's voice.

"Tell us about her treatments," Harley said, her tone gentler now. Something about Hawkins's demeanor had shifted, the defensive edge replaced by a bone-deep weariness she recognized from her own experiences with family illness. She thought of her father's final days before he passed from lung cancer, and how the simple act of getting him water had become a complex choreography of tubes and timing.

"Three days a week, she gets chemo. I drive her there, sit with her through it. The other days..." He shook his head. "It's about managing pain, mostly. Making sure she eats, takes her meds. Some days are better than others."

"And last night?" Callaway asked. "What happened?"

"Her fever spiked around seven. Started coughing up blood." Hawkins's hands trembled slightly as he spoke. "I got her to St. Joseph's emergency room by eight. They admitted her to oncology right away—her regular nurses know her case." He paused, running a hand over his face. "Thought I was going to lose her this time."

Reid shifted impatiently against the wall, but Harley shot him a look. She could see Callaway doing the mental calculations—the timing, the distance between Phoenix and Las Cruces. It would have been nearly impossible for Hawkins to be at the hospital with his sister and still make it to Ellis's house in time to stage such an elaborate murder scene.

"We'll need to verify all of this," Harley said. "Talk to the hospital staff, check security footage."

"Of course." Hawkins nodded. "But please—be careful with Mary. She doesn't know anything about these murders, about Paradise, any of it. I've tried to protect her from all that. She's got enough to deal with."

"We'll be discreet," Harley assured him. "Just routine verification of your whereabouts."

"There's one other thing," Callaway said. "Your expertise with rigging, with movie stunts—that's exactly what our killer would need. And you had more reason than most to want revenge against Paradise."

Hawkins was quiet for a long moment, studying his callused hands. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with a different kind of exhaustion. "You want to know why I'm not out there killing the people who destroyed Paradise? Because I already watched it destroy them."

He looked up, meeting their eyes. "Mario drinking himself into oblivion, chasing that last bit of glory. Thomas obsessing over safety protocols until he couldn't function. Ellis trying to buy back his reputation with speaking engagements and consulting work." He shook his head. "They were all paying for their mistakes long before someone started killing them."

"That's an interesting perspective," Harley said carefully. "Almost sounds like you were keeping tabs on them."

"Obituaries," Hawkins said. "News articles. When you spend as much time in hospital waiting rooms as I do, you read everything you can get your hands on." He gave a bitter smile. "Didn't take much effort to follow their downward spirals."

"One more thing," Callaway said. "Those movie death scenes—they're very specific. Our killer knows classic Westerns inside and out."

"Like any stunt coordinator would," Hawkins agreed. "But you know what else I know? How dangerous those scenes are. How much can go wrong? I spent my career trying to make dangerous things safer. Do you think I'd start killing people now? Using the very techniques I fought to regulate?"

It was a compelling argument. Still, they'd need to verify everything. The hospital alibi, his sister's condition, his movements over the past months. But something in Harley's gut told her Hawkins was telling the truth. The genuine emotion when he spoke about his sister, the bitterness without rage when he discussed Paradise, the way his hands still showed evidence of regular manual labor—it all painted a picture of a man who'd found a different path through his grief and anger.

"We'll need your sister's permission to access her medical records," Harley said. "To confirm your presence at the hospital."

"She'll give it. But please—" His voice cracked slightly. "She's weak right now. This last episode... just be gentle with her. She's all I have left."

"We understand," Harley said. She did understand, more than Hawkins knew. She thought of Kelly, of how protective she felt of her sister's fragile recovery.

Some wounds went deeper than physical illness.

*   *   *

"He couldn't have done it," Harley said as they drove back to their field office that afternoon. "Not unless he has an identical twin we don't know about."

They'd spent hours verifying Hawkins's story. The hospital records confirmed Mary Hawkins's admission the previous night, her fever spiking dangerously high around seven PM. Security footage showed Jack arriving with her at 7:43 PM, then remaining in the oncology ward until well after dawn. Multiple nurses confirmed his presence, describing how he'd stayed by his sister's bedside through the night, helping her drink water and adjusting her pillows.

"Agreed." Callaway guided them around a sharp curve. "But who else would have the expertise to stage these murders? The intimate knowledge of both rigging and classic Westerns?"

Before Harley could respond, her phone rang. Alex Newbury's name appeared on the screen.

"Cole," she answered, putting it on speaker.

"I need to see you both," Newbury said without preamble. His voice was tight with an emotion Harley couldn't quite identify. "As soon as you can get here."

"Sir?" Harley asked. "What's this about?"

"About what Agent Hammond told me—and how it might turn this case on its head."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Harley's unease grew larger by the second as she watched Newbury close the door behind them. Late afternoon sun slanted through his window blinds, casting striped shadows across his desk where a thick file lay waiting.

"Have a seat," he said.

His jaw was tight, his eyes troubled. Whatever Hammond had told him, he didn't like it.

Harley and Callaway sat down in front of the desk and waited.

Newbury settled behind his desk, folding his hands atop the file. "Mario Delgado was working as an informant," he said. "Had been for almost six months before he was killed."

There was a moment of silence as Harley and Callaway took this in. It wasn't a huge shock—they'd known this was a possibility—but it was a surprise, nonetheless.

"Informant for what?" Callaway asked.

"Drug trafficking through the rodeo circuit." Newbury opened the file, revealing photographs of familiar faces. "As Paradise began falling apart, Delgado got desperate. Started taking money from some dangerous people to keep the company afloat. When that wasn't enough, he began letting them use Paradise events to move product."

Harley leaned forward. "The mysterious meetings Pete Rogers witnessed. The man in the Malibu—"

"That was Hammond," Newbury confirmed. "Meeting Delgado in secret to get updates on the cartel's movements." He sighed heavily. "Mario had worked his way deep into their operation. He could identify key players, track shipment routes. The intelligence he provided was invaluable."

"Until someone killed him," Callaway said.

"Exactly." Newbury pulled out another document. "The staging of the bodies—it could be misdirection. A way to make these murders look like they're about Paradise when they're really about silencing an informant."

"But Whitman and Ellis weren't informants," Harley said. "Why kill them?"

"Clean sweep," Callaway suggested. "Take out everyone who might have suspected what Delgado was doing. The elaborate staging gives it a different motive, throws us off the scent."

Newbury nodded. "The cartel found out Delgado was talking to someone. Maybe they didn't know it was the FBI, but they knew he was meeting someone regularly. From there, they could have watched him, seen who else he was in contact with."

"Both Whitman and Ellis had regular interactions with Delgado at the fairgrounds," Harley said slowly. "They might have seen something, even if they didn't realize what they were seeing."

"The cartel's smart," Callaway added. "They wouldn't just kill Delgado—that would draw too much attention. But making it look like revenge for Paradise? That gives us a whole different direction to chase."

"And it's working," Newbury said. "We've been focused entirely on the Paradise connection, the movie references. Meanwhile, a major drug trafficking investigation is effectively stalled because our key informant is dead."

They were all silent for a few moments.

Newbury leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Let me be clear about what's at stake here. This cartel operation isn't just about drugs. We're talking about hundreds of millions in weapons, human trafficking, money laundering—all moving through these rodeo events, using them as cover."

Harley felt a chill at the mention of human trafficking. She knew firsthand the devastation such exploitation could cause. Kelly knew it, too—far better than she did.

Newbury, seemingly unaware of where Harley's mind had taken her, ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Delgado was our key to bringing it all down. He'd gained their trust, learned their methods, identified the key players. We were weeks away from having enough evidence for mass arrests."

"And now?" Harley asked.

"Now we've got nothing. The cartel's still operating, but they've gone quiet since Delgado's death. Changed their routines, moved their channels." Newbury pulled another file from his desk. "The director's breathing down my neck. DEA's furious about losing the investigation. Even the governor's office is asking questions—they've got an election coming up, and they promised voters they'd crack down on cartel activity."

"So you need these murders solved," Callaway said.

"Yesterday." Newbury's jaw tightened. "If we can't figure out who killed Delgado—and fast—the whole operation falls apart. The cartel changes territories, finds new routes, and we lose any chance of stopping them." He looked between Harley and Callaway. "I don't have to tell you what that means. More drugs in our communities, more weapons on our streets, more lives destroyed."

"No pressure," Harley muttered.

"There's something else," Newbury added. "If these killings are cartel-related, you'd better tread carefully. There's no telling who they'll silence to keep their secrets—including, maybe, two FBI agents who won't take no for an answer."

*   *   *

"The cartel angle makes sense," Callaway said as they walked to their cars. "It explains why the murders started now, not years ago when Paradise collapsed. Why take revenge after all this time?"

"But the staging is too personal," Harley argued. "Too specific. Cartel killings are about sending a message, yes, but not like this. These deaths are about more than just silencing people—they're about making them perform one final role."

"Maybe that's exactly what the cartel wants us to think. They're not stupid—they know how to adapt their methods."

"Or maybe we're letting this new information distract us from what's been in front of us all along." Harley stopped walking, turned to face him. "Someone connected to Paradise is doing this. Someone who knows movie stunts, who understands rigging, who's been carrying this grudge for years."

"And just happened to start killing right when Delgado was working as an informant?" Callaway shook his head. "That's one hell of a coincidence."

"Unless Delgado's cartel involvement was what triggered them. Maybe our killer saw an opportunity and took it. Who knows?"

They stood in silence for a moment, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the parking lot. Harley could feel the weight of their disagreement settling between them, made heavier by the unresolved tension about moving in together.

"You seem awfully certain the cartel isn't involved," Callaway said.

"I'm not certain. I just want to keep our options open, not get so focused on one possibility that we neglect all the others."

"Is that why you haven't gotten back to me about moving in? You're keeping your options open?"

Harley felt her chest tighten at his words. Trust Callaway to cut straight to the heart of things.

"That's not fair," she said quietly.

"Isn't it?" He stepped closer, lowering his voice despite the empty parking lot. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you approach everything the same way. Always holding something back. Always keeping one foot out the door." His eyes searched her face. "I thought after everything we've been through, after Kelly coming home..."

"This isn't about Kelly."

"No? Then what is it about?"

Harley turned away, staring at the mountains in the distance. The truth was, she wasn't entirely sure herself. Was she really keeping her options open, or was she just afraid? Afraid of being wrong about the case, about Callaway, about everything?

"I lost Kelly once," she said finally. "I've spent seventeen years searching for her, and now that she's back..." She swallowed hard. "I keep thinking if I just focus hard enough, if I don't let myself get distracted, I can somehow make up for lost time."

"And moving in with me would be a distraction?"

"No." She turned back to him. "Yes. Maybe." She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "I don't know. I just know that every time I think about taking that step, I feel like I'm betraying her somehow. Like I'm choosing my happiness over helping her heal."

Callaway was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Has it occurred to you that maybe Kelly wants you to be happy? That maybe seeing you build a life—a real life, not just an endless crusade—might help her believe she can do the same?"

The words hit home in a way Harley hadn't expected. She thought of Kelly at lunch, telling her to move in with Callaway. Had her sister seen something she couldn't?

"I'm not Rob," Callaway said softly. "I'm not asking you to choose between me and your work, or me and your sister. I'm just asking you to let me be part of it all."

Harley felt tears threatening and blinked them back. "I know you're not Rob," she whispered. "That's what scares me. Because this—us—it could be real. And real things can be lost."

"Or they can last." He reached for her hand, his callused palm warm against hers. "But only if we give them a chance."

Harley squeezed his hand. She leaned close, staring into his emerald eyes…

And then suddenly she went rigid. "Oh God—Kelly." She yanked her phone from her pocket, her heart rate accelerating. "I was supposed to check on her this morning."

"The stalker?" Callaway asked, immediately alert.

Harley nodded as she dialed Kelly's number, silently cursing herself. How could she have forgotten? Between Hawkins and the revelations about Delgado, it had completely slipped her mind. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Each unanswered ring made her chest tighter.

"Come on, Kelly," she muttered. "Pick up."

Finally, on the sixth ring: "Hello?"

"Kelly." Harley closed her eyes in relief. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry I didn't call earlier—there were developments in the case and-"

"I'm fine," Kelly cut in. Her voice was steady, but there was something in it Harley couldn't quite read. "That car hasn't been back."

"What about the patrol car I sent? Did they-"

"They came by. Watched the building for a while." A pause. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did." Harley met Callaway's concerned gaze. "Someone was following you, Kelly. Someone was watching your apartment."

"And I handled it." Kelly's voice held that edge of steel Harley had come to recognize—the one that said she was done being protected. "I told you, I just wanted you to know. In case..." She trailed off.

"In case what?"

"Nothing. Look, I need to go. I have work."

"Kelly, wait—" But the line had gone dead.

Harley lowered the phone slowly, that familiar ache of helplessness settling in her chest. Every conversation with Kelly felt like navigating a minefield—one wrong step and all progress disappeared.

"She okay?" Callaway asked quietly.

"Says she is." Harley stared at her phone. "But something felt off. Like she was holding something back."

"Want me to put out another unit to watch her place?"

Harley considered it. "No. She'd see it as me not trusting her to handle things." She looked up at Callaway. "How do you do it? Help someone who doesn't want help?"

"Sometimes you can't." He squeezed her hand. "Sometimes all you can do is be there when they're ready."

"And if they're never ready?"

"Then you love them anyway." His eyes held hers. "And you don't let fear of losing them keep you from living your own life."

She stared at him for a few long moments. "You make it sound so easy."

He shrugged. "Didn't say it was easy. Just… important."

Harley opened the door of her Jeep. "I'll keep that in mind. For now, we've got a cartel to investigate—which, believe it or not, sounds a lot more straightforward than what we've been talking about."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

James Cooper knew something was wrong even before he saw the figure stumbling along his fence line.

The horses had been restless all evening, their usual quiet munching replaced by nervous shuffling. Even now, as he walked his final loop of the property, he could hear them moving anxiously in their stalls.

The sun had set an hour ago, leaving only a faint purple glow on the western horizon. A quarter moon hung overhead, casting just enough light to navigate the familiar paths between house and barn. Cooper had walked this route every evening for the past twenty years, ever since Paradise's collapse had forced him to sell his event center and move his breeding operation to this smaller ranch outside Las Cruces.

He paused to check the lock on the feed room door, his movements automatic after so many years. The brass padlock gleamed dully in his flashlight beam. All secure, just as it had been an hour ago when he'd first locked up. Just as it had been every night since he'd heard about Mario's murder.

Mario. The name caught in his throat like a bone. He'd been avoiding news coverage of the killings, trying to push away thoughts of his old colleagues. But alone in the growing darkness, those thoughts crept back. Mario's body arranged like a scene from Stagecoach. Thomas found in that stairwell. And now Bob Ellis...

A horse whinnied sharply from the barn, startling Cooper from his dark musings. That was Starlight, his prize mare. She wasn't usually vocal at night unless something had spooked her.

Cooper turned toward the barn, swinging his flashlight in a wide arc. The beam caught something moving near the southern fence—a human figure, weaving unsteadily between the fence posts.

Damn trespassers, he thought, anger temporarily displacing his unease. He'd had problems with locals cutting across his property before, usually drunk college kids taking shortcuts back to town. He started toward the figure, rehearsing the speech he'd given so many times before about private property and calling the sheriff.

But as he drew closer, the figure resolved into a familiar shape. The stooped shoulders, the shuffling gait—he'd seen Kyle Granier walk that way a hundred times at Paradise events, usually after too many drinks at the end of a long day.

Cooper's steps faltered. "Kyle?" he called out. "That you?"

The figure stumbled, caught itself against a fence post. A soft laugh drifted across the darkness—definitely Kyle's laugh, with that bitter edge it had carried ever since his daughter Sandra's death.

Cooper moved closer, his flashlight beam bobbing with each step. Something felt wrong about this, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. The horses were still restless in the barn, pawing their hooves against the stall floors.

"You shouldn't be here, Kyle," Cooper said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Let me call you a ride."

Another laugh, closer now. Cooper could make out more details—Kyle's gray hair gleaming in the moonlight, the familiar slope of his shoulders. But something was off about the way he moved, like an actor doing a poor imitation of Kyle's drunk stumbling.

That's when Cooper remembered seeing the morning paper, a small article buried in the local section: Kyle Granier arrested for DUI, held in county lockup.

The realization hit him just as he heard the footstep behind him—soft, deliberate, nothing like Kyle's exaggerated stumbling.

Cooper started to turn, but something struck him hard across the back of the head. His flashlight flew from his grip as he fell, beam spinning crazily across the desert scrub before going dark. The ground rushed up to meet him, rough gravel biting into his palms.

Ears ringing, Cooper managed to roll over onto his back. He found a tall shadow looming over him.

"Ready for your performance?" the shadow asked.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Harley rubbed her tired eyes, staring at the documents spread across her desk. The sun had set hours ago, but the evidence wasn't getting any clearer. If anything, each new piece of information they uncovered seemed to point them further away from their initial theory about cartel involvement.

"This makes no sense," she said, gesturing at her laptop screen. "If the cartel knew Delgado was informing, why go to all this trouble? Why not just make him disappear—without the staging and movie reference?"

They'd spent the afternoon chasing down every possible cartel connection. Hammond had provided detailed records of Delgado's activities as an informant—his meetings, his contacts, the information he'd passed along. They'd cross-referenced dates, locations, known cartel associates.

None of it lined up with the murders.

Callaway looked up from his own desk, where he'd been going through cartel murder reports. "Maybe they wanted to send a message."

"By recreating scenes from old Westerns?" Harley shook her head. "The cartels have their own ways of sending messages. Their own signatures. This is something else entirely. Besides, even if they decided to off Delgado, it's not logical that they'd target others using the same MO. It just doesn't add up."

Callaway drummed his fingers on the desk. Finally, he nodded slowly. "So we're back to Paradise."

"We never should have left it." Harley returned to her desk, gathering the papers they'd spent hours poring over. "The movie connections, the technical expertise needed, the timing of the murders—it all points to someone with a personal stake in Paradise's collapse."

"Someone who's been carrying this grudge for years," Callaway agreed. "Just waiting for the right moment."

"But why now?" Harley wondered. "What changed?"

She studied the crime scene photos more closely, then reread the summaries she'd gathered of the three movies the murders were supposed to recreate.

As she studied them afresh, she made a new connection, something she hadn't noticed before.

"Each scene corresponds to a specific stunt," she murmured. "One that went wrong during filming."

Callaway leaned closer. "What do you mean?"

"That scene from Stagecoach—the one Delgado's body was posed to match?" She pulled up an article on her laptop. "A stuntman was seriously injured filming it. They had to reshoot the whole sequence."

"And Whitman?"

"The Wild Bunch. The staircase death scene." Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "The first attempt went wrong when the rigging failed. The stuntman fell wrong, broke three ribs."

"Ellis's hanging scene—"

"Exactly. From The Good, the Bad and the Ugly." Harley turned her screen so Callaway could see. "The original stunt performer nearly died when the quick-release mechanism jammed. They had to cut him down."

Callaway ran a hand over his jaw. "So our killer isn't just recreating iconic deaths—"

"They're recreating specific failures. Stunts that went wrong because of equipment problems, safety violations." She met his eyes. "Just like at Paradise."

"Who would know these details? These aren't the kind of stories you find in movie trivia books."

"Someone who worked stunts," Harley said. "Someone who studied accidents, learned from them." She was about to elaborate when her phone rang.

"Cole," she answered.

"Agent Cole? This is Deputy Wilson out at the Cooper ranch." The man's voice was tight with tension. "We've got a situation here."

"What kind of situation?"

"James Cooper's missing. His ranch hand Tommy showed up for evening feed and found the horses unfed, Cooper's truck in the driveway but no sign of him."

Harley frowned, the name tugging at her memory. James Cooper. She'd seen it somewhere in the Paradise files, hadn't she? Then it hit her—Cooper had been more than just another Paradise employee. He'd been the owner, the one who'd signed off on every cost-cutting measure, every ignored safety warning. His signature had been on the documents postponing the replacement of that support beam, the one that had killed Sandra Granier.

"When was he last seen?" she asked, her heart beginning to race. Their killer had already taken out the head safety inspector, the chief judge, and the man who'd been running daily operations. Now, it seemed, they might have the owner, the one ultimately responsible for all of it.

"Around sunset, according to Tommy. Said Cooper always does one final property check before dark."

"And the house? Any signs of disturbance?" She glanced at Callaway, who was listening intently.

"Nothing obvious. Everything locked up tight."

"Don't touch anything. We're on our way." She ended the call and looked at Callaway. "James Cooper's missing."

"Well, shit," Callaway said as he grabbed his jacket.

*   *   *

The Cooper ranch materialized out of the desert darkness like a ghost ship on black waters, its adobe walls painted in alternating sweeps of red and blue from the police cruisers. Harley killed the engine but sat for a moment, studying the scene. Two patrol cars, their doors open. Deputies with flashlights sweeping the property.

Beyond them, the barn loomed against the star-scattered sky, its weathered walls holding secrets in every shadow. And there, stark against the wooden door, was the poster—its edges curling in the desert wind, its imagery faded but unmistakable. "How the West Was Won" in bold letters that seemed to mock their inability to prevent another killing.

"Damn it," Callaway muttered. "He's not even trying to hide it anymore."

Deputy Wilson approached their car, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. "Blood by the fence line," he said. "Not much, but fresh. And signs of a struggle—scuff marks, disturbed gravel."

They followed him to the scene. Harley crouched by the fence post, studying the dark stains on the gravel. The desert wind carried the metallic scent of blood, mingled with sage and horse manure from the nearby barn. A flashlight lay nearby, its lens cracked.

"Cooper always walks the property at sunset," Tommy, the ranch hand, explained. His weathered face was pale in the harsh emergency lights. "Checks the locks, makes sure the horses are settled. Been doing it twenty years, ever since Paradise went under."

"Any enemies?" Callaway asked. "Anyone who might want to hurt him?"

Tommy shook his head. "Jim keeps to himself mostly. Breeds horses, minds his own business."

But Harley knew better. Cooper might have been living quietly these past twenty years, but his decisions at Paradise had cost people everything—their savings, their careers, their lives. The kind of decisions that created enemies who never forgot, never forgave.

They organized search parties, flashlight beams cutting through the desert darkness like probing fingers. Callaway took charge, directing deputies to likely hiding spots, coordinating with highway patrol to watch the roads. But something held Harley back.

She stood by her car, staring at that movie poster. The killer was telling them something—had been telling them something all along. These weren't just random scenes from Westerns. They were specific stunts that had gone wrong, accidents that had cost lives or nearly did. Just like at Paradise.

"You coming?" Callaway called out. He stood by his truck, ready to join the search.

"No." She opened the door of her Jeep and reached inside for the files they'd brought. "I need to go through everything again. We're missing something—something obvious."

"Harley—"

"I know how it looks," she said. "But our killer... he has to be someone we've already considered. Someone connected to Paradise." She met his eyes across the hood of her vehicle. "I need to figure out who we eliminated too quickly."

Callaway studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Stay in radio contact."

She settled into the passenger seat of her car, spreading files across the dashboard. The emergency lights still painted everything in alternating red and blue, creating strange shadows across the papers. She started with Kyle Granier' file—they'd eliminated him based on his hospital alibi, but had they looked deeply enough into his background?

That's when she saw it—a detail buried in an old interview transcript. Kyle mentioning his older brother Derek, another stunt performer who'd worked extensively in Western films. Derek hadn't worked with Paradise directly, but he'd grown up on the rodeo circuit before moving to Hollywood.

Could Derek be involved with the murders?

Harley's pulse quickened. She tried calling Kyle, but the call went straight to voicemail. She pulled up property records instead, searching for Derek Granier. The results made her breath catch.

Six months ago, Derek had purchased the old Vista Ranch movie set—an abandoned filming location where dozens of classic Westerns had been shot. The perfect stage for someone recreating iconic movie deaths.

She was reaching for her phone to call Callaway when another detail caught her eye. According to the interview transcript, Derek had been with Kyle the day Sandra died. He'd been the one who identified her body, who'd held his brother back when he tried to attack Cooper at the shareholders' meeting.

The person who'd watched his brother's life implode because of Paradise's negligence.

The perfect witness. The perfect student of both rodeo safety and movie stunts.

The perfect killer.

Harley stared at the file, memories clicking into place like tumblers in a lock. The way each murder scene had been meticulously staged, the technical expertise required, the intimate knowledge of both rodeo safety protocols and movie history. It all pointed to someone who straddled both worlds.

Someone like Derek Granier.

Outside her car window, the search for Cooper continued. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the desert darkness like desperate fingers searching for answers. The wind had picked up, carrying the soft sounds of horses nickering in their stalls, unsettled by all the activity. That movie poster still fluttered on the barn door, its imagery a taunt, a promise of what was to come.

She spread more files across her lap, heart pounding as she dug deeper into Derek's background. His stunt work history read like a catalog of Western film disasters—he'd been present for three separate incidents where safety equipment had failed, had even testified in the subsequent investigations. He knew firsthand how corner-cutting and ignored protocols could end in tragedy.

Just like at Paradise.

The desert wind whispered against her car windows, carrying the scent of sage and creosote. In the distance, a coyote called out—a lonely sound that seemed to echo the hollowness in her chest. She'd been so focused on the obvious suspects, the people directly connected to Paradise. But what about those one step removed? The ones who'd watched their loved ones destroyed by the company's negligence?

Her phone lay silent in her lap. She should call Callaway, tell him what she'd found. But something held her back. The pieces were still shifting, forming a pattern she couldn't quite grasp. Derek Granier hadn't just bought any abandoned movie set—he'd bought Vista Ranch, where some of Hollywood's most notorious stunt accidents had occurred. Where stunt performers had died because of faulty equipment, ignored safety protocols, corner-cutting...

Just like Sandra.

The parallel struck her like a physical blow. Derek wasn't just recreating famous movie deaths—he was telling a story. Each murder was a chapter, each staged scene a lesson about the cost of negligence. And now he had Cooper, the man ultimately responsible for all of Paradise's safety violations.

Including the one that killed his niece.

Harley's fingers flew across her phone, pulling up old news coverage of Sandra's death. There—a grainy photo from her funeral. Kyle supported by a taller man, their faces mirror images of grief. The caption identified him as Derek Granier, "uncle of the deceased."

The uncle who'd watched his brother descend into alcoholism after Sandra's death. Who'd seen Paradise's leaders escape any real consequences for their negligence. Who'd spent years in Hollywood learning exactly how dangerous faulty equipment could be.

Who'd waited twenty years to make them pay?

Static crackled from her radio—Callaway coordinating another search grid. She should tell him what she'd found. But first, she needed to confirm one more thing. She pulled up property records for Vista Ranch, scanning until she found what she was looking for: the old stunt practice area, complete with a canyon setup similar to the one used in "How the West Was Won."

The perfect place to recreate one final, fatal scene.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her radio. Because she knew now—knew with a certainty that settled in her bones—that they wouldn't find Cooper here at his ranch. Derek had taken him somewhere else, somewhere meaningful.

Somewhere, he could stage one last performance.

The perfect finale to his twisted tribute to safety violations and their consequences.

The only question was: Could they reach Vista Ranch in time to stop it?

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Harley clenched her hands around the steering wheel in anticipation as the old movie ranch materialized out of the darkness like a mirage, its weathered buildings stark against the star-scattered sky. Moonlight painted the empty Western facades in shades of silver and shadow, transforming what had once been a bustling film set into something more sinister. More real.

She killed the headlights before they reached the main gate. No sense announcing their presence if Derek was here. The desert wind whispered through the scrub brush, carrying the lonely sound of creaking timber and rusted hinges.

"You sure about this?" Callaway asked quietly. She'd brought him up to speed along the way, but he hadn't gone through the details himself, hadn't made all the minute connections she had. He was trusting her judgment. They both knew how important it was not to get sidetracked when the killer had just taken another victim, a victim who might still be alive.

"It's Derek," she said, with more conviction than she felt. "Has to be."

"Okay," Callaway said, nodding. "I trust you."

They left their vehicle hidden behind a stand of Joshua trees and approached on foot. The ranch sprawled across several acres, a patchwork of different eras and settings. An Old West Main Street sat adjacent to mission-style buildings.

"Where do we start?" Callaway whispered.

Harley studied the layout, remembering the property records she'd reviewed. "There's a soundstage that was converted to living quarters. If Derek's been staying here..."

They moved carefully through the shadows, every sense alert. Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud on the wooden sidewalks, though they tried to step quietly. A tumbleweed skittered past, startling them both.

The soundstage loomed ahead, its corrugated walls rising like the hull of a great ship. The padlock on the door hung open—not broken, but unlocked. Waiting.

Harley drew her weapon, nodding to Callaway. He eased the door open, hinges protesting softly.

The beam of Harley's flashlight revealed a space that had been thoroughly lived in. A cot against one wall. A makeshift kitchen. But it was the other wall that drew their attention—a massive collection of photographs, newspaper clippings, and diagrams all connected by red string.

"Shit," Callaway murmured.

Harley moved closer, her flashlight beam traveling across the display. Paradise Rodeo Company featured prominently—articles about its collapse, photos of board meetings, maintenance reports with damning details highlighted. But there was more. Movie stills showing famous stunt accidents. Detailed diagrams of rigging setups. And photographs of their victims—Mario, Thomas, Bob—each one annotated with precise notes about recreating specific death scenes.

"Look at this." Callaway indicated a section devoted to James Cooper. Photographs tracked his movements, his daily routines. Diagrams showed exactly how to stage a scene from "How the West Was Won." And there, pinned beneath it all, was a maintenance report bearing Cooper's signature—the one postponing repairs on the support beam that killed Sandra Granier.

"He's been planning this for months," Harley said. "Maybe years." Her light caught something else—a workbench covered in tools and equipment. Coils of rope. Climbing gear.

They found more evidence as they searched the space. A laptop contained video files—practice runs of different stunt sequences. A journal detailed Derek's thoughts about each murder, his justification for choosing specific scenes. Even a timeline showing when each victim's guard would be lowest.

"This is incredible," Callaway said, leafing through the journal. "The level of detail, the planning..."

"He's not just killing them," Harley said. "He's directing them. Every death is a performance meant to remind people what happens when you ignore safety protocols." She moved to another section of the wall, where photos of Kyle and Sandra held central position. "And it all comes back to family."

Harley stepped closer to the wall, studying a section they hadn't noticed before. Behind the photos of Kyle and Sandra was a yellowed newspaper clipping about the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad. The article detailed how the historic railway had been used in countless Western films. But what caught her eye was the date—tonight's run would mark the twentieth anniversary of Sandra's death.

"Callaway." Her voice was tight. "Look at this."

He moved beside her, close enough that she could feel the tension radiating from him. His flashlight beam revealed more details: train schedules, track layouts, calculations about speed and timing. And there, marked in red: tonight's journey through the mountains.

Harley's fingers traced a diagram showing exactly how Derek planned to throw Cooper from the moving train. "Look where he's marked the spot—the same kind of curved mountain track where that support beam gave way. Where Sandra died." She turned to Callaway, her heart racing. "He's not just recreating movie scenes anymore. He's forcing Cooper to experience exactly what Sandra felt in those final moments—and then he's going to kill him."

The desert wind rattled the soundstage walls, carrying with it the distant whistle of a train—probably a freight line, but the sound made Harley's skin prickle.

"We need to move," she said, already heading for the door. "That train's last journey of the day leaves within the hour. If we're right—"

"Derek will want everything perfect," Callaway finished. "The timing, the lighting. One final scene, played out exactly as he's planned."

They raced back to their vehicle. The moon had risen higher, casting long shadows across the movie ranch like accusing fingers. As Harley slid behind the wheel, she couldn't shake the image of those diagrams, the meticulous planning that had gone into each death.

"Should we call it in?" Callaway asked as they sped toward the highway.

Harley gripped the steering wheel tighter. "No time to convince anyone this isn't a wild goose chase. Besides..." She met his eyes briefly. "Derek's been planning this for years. If he sees a tactical team coming—"

"He might just kill Cooper and disappear."

The highway stretched before them, a ribbon of black cutting through the desert night. Harley pushed the accelerator harder, her mind racing faster than the engine. Everything about Derek's patterns suggested he wouldn't deviate from his plan. He needed this final scene to be perfect—needed Cooper to fully understand the terror Sandra had felt when that support beam gave way.

But what would he do when they tried to stop him?

The train whistle sounded again, closer now. Or maybe that was just her imagination, already hearing the sound that would signal the beginning of Derek's final act.

Unless they could reach the railway in time.

Unless they could stop this twisted performance before the curtain rose one last time.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Harley moved through the crowd of tourists with practiced casualness, hyper-aware of the weapon at her hip and the radio silence from Callaway. He'd split off twenty minutes ago, planning to board farther up the line where the train would make a brief maintenance stop.

The Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railway was a remnant of another era, its historic engine and restored passenger cars a testament to the enduring romance of the American West. Today, that romance would turn deadly if they couldn't find Cooper in time.

A whistle pierced the night air, steam billowing from the locomotive like dragon's breath. Harley studied the faces around her, searching for Derek Granier. She knew what he looked like from photographs—taller than his brother Kyle, with the same haunted eyes but a harder set to his jaw. A man who'd spent twenty years planning the perfect revenge.

The conductor called for boarding. Harley felt the weight of time pressing down on her as she climbed the steps into the first passenger car. Where was Cooper? Where would Derek stage his final scene?

The answer hit her as she moved through the car: He wouldn't keep Cooper here with the tourists. No, he'd want somewhere more symbolic. Somewhere that echoed Sandra's final moments.

The baggage car, she thought. Right behind the engine.

She made her way forward, ignoring curious glances from passengers settling into their seats. The moon continued to rise, spilling silver light through the windows. In less than an hour, they'd reach that curved stretch of track where Derek planned to recreate his niece's death.

The door to the next car was locked. Harley glanced around, then pulled out her lockpicks. Thirty seconds later, she was through.

The baggage car was dark, lit only by thin streams of moonlight filtering through gaps in the wooden walls. Canvas-covered shapes loomed like sleeping giants. The air smelled of old leather and machine oil.

And blood.

"Don't move." Derek's voice came from the shadows. "Or Mr. Cooper here gets to experience Sandra's death a little ahead of schedule."

Harley's eyes adjusted slowly. Cooper sat propped against the far wall, blood matting his gray hair. Derek stood over him, something glinting in his hand—not the stone knife this time, but what looked like climbing equipment.

"It's over, Derek," she said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "You've made your point."

"My point?" He gave a bitter laugh. "You think this is about making a point?" He gestured with the metal tool—a piton hammer, she realized. The same kind used to secure climbing ropes. "This is about justice. About consequences."

The train lurched into motion. Through the gaps in the walls, Harley could see the platform falling away, the mountains rising to meet them. Somewhere ahead, Callaway was waiting. But would he reach them in time?

"What about Sandra?" she asked. "What would she think about all this?"

"Don't you dare say her name." Derek's voice cracked like a whip. "You didn't know her. Didn't see what their negligence did to her. To Kyle."

"I know she wouldn't want this." Harley took a careful step forward. "She wouldn't want you turning yourself into a killer."

"I'm not the killer here." Derek pressed the piton hammer against Cooper's throat. "He is. They all were. Every time they ignored a safety warning, postponed a repair, chose profit over people's lives." His eyes gleamed in the fading light. "They killed my niece by inches, one budget cut at a time."

The baggage car swayed beneath their feet, metal wheels singing against iron rails. Moonlight slanted through the wooden slats, painting bars of amber across Cooper's bloody face. Each passing shadow felt like a countdown, a reminder that they were hurtling toward that final curve where Derek planned to end this performance.

"You mapped out every detail," Harley said, studying the way Derek positioned himself between her and Cooper. The piton hammer caught the light as he shifted—a tool meant for securing safety lines, now transformed into an instrument of vengeance. "Every death staged like a movie scene. But this isn't a movie, Derek. These are real lives you're destroying."

"Like they destroyed Sandra's?" His voice carried the weight of twenty years of grief, sharp as the metal in his hand. "You want to talk about real lives? She was seventeen. Had her whole future ahead of her." The train rounded a curve, making them all sway. "Until they decided that replacing a support beam was too expensive."

Cooper stirred, his eyes focusing on Derek. "I'm sorry," he mumbled through split lips. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" Derek's laugh was hollow, echoing off the wooden walls. "Sorry doesn't bring her back. Sorry doesn't help Kyle sleep at night. Sorry doesn't—" He broke off as the train whistle pierced the night air, his face twisting with some private agony.

Harley took another careful step forward. The gap between cars rattled beneath them, a reminder of their precarious position. Through the slats, she caught glimpses of the landscape falling away—they were climbing now, the track carrying them higher into the mountains where the air grew thin and mistakes turned deadly.

"You're right," she said. "Sorry isn't enough. What they did was criminal." She kept her voice steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "But this? Recreating movie deaths, forcing them to experience the same terror Sandra felt? You're just adding more tragedy to the world."

"You don't understand." Derek's grip tightened on the hammer. "This isn't just about punishment. It's about education. About showing everyone what happens when you cut corners, when you ignore safety protocols." His eyes burned with a zealot's fire. "Every death is a lesson. Every scene is a warning."

"And what about Kyle?" Harley asked. "What about what this will do to him?"

Something flickered in Derek's expression—doubt, maybe, or pain. "Kyle couldn't do what needed to be done. He tried to fight them legally, tried to make them pay. But the system protected them." He gestured at Cooper with the hammer. "Protected him. While my brother drank himself into oblivion, they just kept living their lives like nothing had happened."

The train began to climb steeper now. Harley could feel the grade in the way her balance shifted, in the deeper note of the engine's strain. Somewhere ahead, Callaway was waiting. But they were running out of track, running out of time.

And Derek was running out of script.

His shadow stretched long across the wooden floor, distorted by the passing light into something almost monstrous. But his face, when she caught glimpses of it in the moonlight, showed something else entirely—a deep well of pain that two decades hadn't managed to fill.

"You planned every detail," Harley said, her voice barely carrying over the rhythmic thunder of their ascent. "Studied the original accidents, recreated them perfectly. But you made one mistake."

"Did I?" Derek's laugh was bitter as mountain wind. "Enlighten me."

"You forgot what Sandra really died for." Harley took another careful step, feeling the ancient boards creak beneath her feet. "She died because people ignored safety protocols. Because they decided human lives were worth less than profit." She gestured at Cooper, who was still slumped against the wall. "But now you're doing the same thing. Deciding which lives have value. Playing God with other people's fate."

Something flickered in Derek's eyes—doubt, perhaps, or recognition. The piton hammer wavered slightly in his grip.

"They had to pay," he whispered, but the zealot's fire had dimmed. "Someone had to make them understand—"

"Understand what? That death comes suddenly? That safety matters?" Harley kept her voice gentle, though her heart raced with the engine's thunder. "They already knew that, Derek. They just didn't care. And now you're becoming exactly what you hated. Another person who decides other people's lives don't matter."

For a moment, Harley caught a glimpse of the man he must have been before Sandra's death—someone who understood the sacred trust of safety protocols, who knew that every life balanced on the edge of disaster.

Then the moment passed, and his features hardened again.

"No," he said. "This is different. This is justice."

The mountain air grew thinner as the train climbed, each breath carrying the metallic tang of coal smoke and impending violence. Shadows lengthened across the baggage car's wooden floor.

"You know what the hardest part was?" Derek asked, his voice barely carrying over the thunder of wheels on rail. "Learning to tie those knots the way they did in the old movies. Had to get them exactly right." The piton hammer trembled in his grip. "Just like Sandra's rigging had to be exactly right. Only it wasn't, was it, Cooper?"

Cooper's bloodied face caught the moonlight. "Please," he whispered. "I never meant—"

"Never meant what?" Derek's voice cracked like a whip. "Never meant to sign off on faulty equipment? Never meant to ignore safety protocols?" He laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Tell that to Kyle. Tell that to Sandra's empty chair at Christmas."

The train began to cant to one side as it entered the first part of that fatal curve. Through gaps in the wooden walls, Harley caught glimpses of the valley floor dropping away beneath them. They were running out of straight track, out of time.

"You remember that day, Cooper?" Derek stepped closer to his captive, each word precise as a blade. "I do. Perfect autumn afternoon. Sandra was practicing her routine—she'd been working on it for weeks. Said she was going to make Kyle proud." His fingers whitened around the hammer's handle. "Then that beam gave way. Snapped like it was made of matchsticks. And my brother... God, my brother just kept screaming her name, over and over, like he could call her back."

Harley saw movement beyond Derek's shoulder—a shadow approaching. Callaway. He'd made it aboard, was working his way toward them. But they were already entering the curve, the track beginning its treacherous arc around the mountainside.

"You know what movies get wrong about death scenes?" Derek continued, his eyes never leaving Cooper. "The timing. Real death isn't dramatic. Don't wait for the right camera angle, the perfect light." He raised the hammer. "It just happens. Quick and brutal and—"

The train lurched suddenly, wheels shrieking against rail as they hit the steepest part of the curve. Derek staggered, catching himself against a stack of crates. In that moment of imbalance, Harley saw her chance.

She lunged forward, reaching for the hammer.

The baggage car's swaying motion transformed her lunge into something more desperate, less controlled. Derek twisted away, but not before she caught his wrist. The piton hammer hung between them.

Time seemed to fracture: the rhythmic thunder of wheels on rail, Cooper's ragged breathing, the cold bite of metal as they wrestled for control of the hammer. Each second carried the weight of Sandra's memory, of Kyle's grief, of twenty years of carefully planned vengeance.

"You don't understand," Derek gasped, his face inches from hers. This close, she could see the tears in his eyes, the way madness and grief had carved permanent shadows beneath them. "I have to finish it. Have to make them see—"

The train hit another curve, harder this time. They slammed against the wall, wood groaning beneath their combined weight. The hammer slipped, then caught again. Beyond the slats, mountain darkness deepened like an audience waiting for the final act.

Movement flickered in Harley's peripheral vision—Callaway, working his way through the shadows. But Derek saw it too. His whole body tensed, coiled like a spring about to release.

"It was supposed to be perfect," he whispered. Then he shoved hard, breaking Harley's grip. The hammer swung in a vicious arc.

Harley threw herself backward, feeling the wind of its passage. Her heel caught on an uneven board, sending her stumbling. Derek raised the hammer again, his face transformed into something ancient and terrible.

The shot caught them both by surprise.

Callaway's bullet took Derek high in the shoulder, spinning him around. The hammer clattered to the floor, its metallic ring lost in the thunder of wheels and Derek's cry of pain. He staggered, caught himself against a stack of crates.

"It's over," Callaway said.

But Derek wasn't done. His hand disappeared into his jacket, emerging with something that gleamed dully in the pale light—one of his stone knives.

"No," he said. "Not yet." Derek's eyes were primitive and hungry, honed by decades of pain into a weapon as deadly as the blade in his hand.

"You want to know what I see when I close my eyes?" he asked, his voice carrying beneath the thunder of wheels on rail. "I see Sandra's face. Not when she died—before that. When she still believed in things. In justice. In consequences." His injured shoulder left a darker trail down his jacket, but he seemed beyond noticing pain. "She trusted the system. Trusted that safety protocols meant something."

The train entered the final curve, metal shrieking against metal as tons of steel and wood fought against gravity and momentum. Through gaps in the wooden walls, the valley floor wheeled away beneath them, a dizzying drop that seemed to pull at their souls.

"Derek," Harley said softly. "This isn't what she would have wanted."

"You don't know what she would have wanted!" He lunged, not at them but at Cooper's bonds. "But I'll show you. Show everyone."

Before either Harley or Callaway could react, Derek had hauled Cooper to his feet and kicked open the baggage car's side door. Mountain wind howled through the opening, carrying the scent of pine and approaching darkness.

"Twenty years I've planned this," Derek shouted over the wind's fury. "Studied every accident, every death. But you're right about one thing." His grip shifted on Cooper's collar. "This isn't a movie. This is poetry."

Understanding hit Harley like a physical blow. "He's going to take Cooper with him," she said, the words nearly lost in the wind's howl. "Make them share Sandra's fate."

The curve tightened, the train's wheels screaming against the rails. Derek stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the dark sky. His face held something almost peaceful—a man who'd finally found his ending.

Callaway shifted as he tried to get a clean shot. But in this chaos of wind and motion, any shot risked hitting Cooper.

"Sandra trusted the system," Derek said, his voice carrying strange and hollow over the wind's howl. "Now the system can fall with him."

He stepped backward, dragging Cooper toward the threshold where the solid floor gave way to empty air. The knife caught the light, its ancient surface promising one final performance.

Harley didn't remember moving. Didn't consciously decide to launch herself across the gap between them. But suddenly she was there, her hands closing around Derek's knife arm as the mountain wind tore at them all.

They struggled at the edge of oblivion, three bodies tangled in a dance of desperation and gravity. Cooper's weight pulled them forward. Derek's knife slashed air inches from Harley's face. And beneath it all, the relentless thunder of wheels carrying them toward journey's end.

The shot, when it came, sounded almost gentle against the wind's fury.

Derek stiffened, surprise replacing rage in his eyes. The knife fell from nerveless fingers, clattering away into darkness. For a moment, they hung suspended between earth and sky, between vengeance and redemption.

Then Callaway was there, helping Harley drag them both back from the threshold. They collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and ragged breathing, the mountain wind still howling its ancient songs through the open door.

It was over.

Sandra's final scene would remain unfinished, her memory honored not by death but by the broken man bleeding onto worn wooden boards. Derek's eyes held something like peace as Harley snapped handcuffs around his wrists—or maybe that was just a trick of the light.

The train began its descent, carrying its cargo of fractured lives down from that high curve where vengeance had finally met justice. Behind them, the darkness deepened, leaving only stars to witness the end of a performance twenty years in the making.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The hospital corridor stretched before Harley like a white, featureless river. James Cooper lay in a room down that expanse, tubes and monitors tracking his survival in electronic chirps and digital readouts.

She paused outside his door, studying her reflection in the window. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and desert dust still clung to her clothes from the train. The past twenty-four hours felt like a fever dream—Derek's capture, the frantic rush to get Cooper medical attention, the mounting revelations that followed.

"He's awake," Callaway said, appearing at her elbow like a ghost in the artificial light. "The doctors say he'll recover, though it'll be a long road."

Harley nodded, stealing one more glance at Cooper through the window. He looked smaller somehow, diminished by white sheets and medical machinery. The man who had once ruled Paradise Rodeo Company with casual negligence, now reduced to monitoring systems and IV drips.

"Has he said anything useful?" she asked.

"Not much. Still in shock." Callaway checked his phone. "The forensics team just finished processing Derek's residence. Found something interesting we should look at."

"The evidence from Derek's house?"

"Boxes of it. Apparently, he'd been cataloging Paradise's negligence for decades."

They walked in silence toward the elevator, both lost in thought. The hospital's rhythms continued around them—nurses making rounds, families waiting for news, the endless dance of healing and suffering that made these places feel like liminal spaces between worlds.

"What about Kyle?" Harley asked as they rode down to the main floor. "Any sign of him?"

"Still no contact. His neighbors say they haven't seen him since before Derek's arrest. His phone goes straight to voicemail."

"He must have known," Harley said, her voice hardening. "About the murders. Nobody spends that much time with a family member without noticing something."

"If he did, he'll face conspiracy charges. We've got units watching his house and workplace."

The drive to the field office was quiet, the desert night giving way to the first hints of dawn on the eastern horizon. Harley thought about the Granier brothers—one in custody, one in the wind. Both consumed by a tragedy that had happened twenty years ago, both unable to move beyond it.

At the field office, evidence boxes from Derek's residence filled one of the conference rooms. Forensic techs had worked through the night, cataloging and organizing the material into neat rows labeled by date and content.

"Shit," Harley murmured, taking in the sheer volume. "Derek was thorough."

"Obsessive is more like it," Callaway said. "Tech supervisor says these records go back to the day of Sandra's death."

Agent Tony Wynn, the tech supervisor, nodded in greeting as they entered. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but he seemed energized by the discovery.

"You're going to want to see this," he said, leading them to a box labeled 'PRIMARY EVIDENCE.' "Derek wasn't just collecting evidence for revenge fantasies. He was building a case."

Wynn pulled out several folders and spread their contents across the conference table. "Falsified inspection reports, maintenance logs with dates altered, emails between Cooper and the other board members discussing ways to 'optimize expenses'—which was code for ignoring safety regulations."

Harley picked up one of the emails, reading Cooper's casual dismissal of a safety concern that would later lead to Sandra's death. The clinical language made the negligence all the more chilling.

"There's more," Wynn continued, opening another folder. "Derek had a system. Everything cataloged, cross-referenced, annotated with legal statutes that were violated. This isn't just a revenge collection—it's a prosecution roadmap."

Harley moved to another box, this one labeled 'MOVIE REFERENCES.' Inside, she found meticulous notes on Western movie stunts that had gone wrong, alongside diagrams of how Derek planned to recreate them with his victims.

Wynn pointed to a journal found in Derek's bedroom. "This is where it gets interesting. Derek documented conversations with Kyle over the years. According to these entries, Kyle was pushing to take the evidence to authorities through legal channels, while Derek wanted more direct action."

Harley flipped through the journal, stopping at an entry from six months ago:

Kyle still believes in the system. Brought another lawyer to the house today—this one specializing in corporate negligence. I played along, showed the evidence we've collected. The lawyer seemed impressed but gave the same line about statute of limitations. Kyle doesn't understand that these people will never face consequences unless someone forces them to. He doesn't see that justice sometimes requires sacrifice.

"Brothers on different paths," Callaway murmured.

"But both obsessed with the same goal," Harley said. "Where are these lawyers now? Anyone talk to them?"

"Working on it," Wynn said. "Most consultations were off the books, paid in cash."

They continued through the evidence, building a picture of two brothers consumed by a quest for justice—one through legal means that repeatedly failed, one through a darker path that led to murder.

"Look at this," Callaway said, pulling a document from another box. "Emails between Kyle and a private investigator he hired to track Cooper's movements. Dated three weeks ago."

"So Kyle was investigating Cooper," Harley said, "but not necessarily aware of Derek's murder plans."

"Maybe, maybe not," Wynn interjected. "We found this in Derek's desk drawer." He handed Harley a handwritten note in what appeared to be Kyle's handwriting:

I can't be part of this, D. What you're planning isn't justice—it's revenge. I've given the material to someone at the DA's office. He said he'd look into it. Please stop before you do something that can't be undone. - K

"So Kyle tried to stop Derek," Harley said, "but didn't report him to authorities."

"Making him potentially guilty of misprision of a felony, at minimum," Callaway agreed.

Just then, Harley's phone rang. The dispatcher's voice was tense: "Agent Cole, we've got a situation at Vista Ranch. Local PD responded to reports of a suicide attempt."

"Who?"

"He claims his name is Kyle Granier."

*   *   *

The old movie ranch appeared through the dust cloud kicked up by their vehicle, its weathered buildings stark against the empty desert landscape. Harley spotted police cruisers with flashing lights arranged in a loose perimeter, officers crouched behind open doors with weapons drawn but pointed downward.

At the center of the standoff stood the Vista Ranch's old water tower, its metal skeleton rusted and precarious. And there, on the rickety platform near the top, was Kyle Granier.

"Shit," Callaway muttered as they pulled up. "He's got to be forty feet up."

The local sheriff, a stocky man named Mattison with deep lines etched into his leathery face, approached as they stepped out of their vehicle.

"Glad you're here," he said. "He's been up there almost an hour now. Says he'll jump if anyone approaches. Keeps asking for the agents who arrested his brother."

"That would be us," Harley said, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at the tower. "He's got a weapon?"

"Revolver. Old .38 from the looks of it. Been holding it to his head on and off." Mattison gestured toward the police negotiator, who stood at a respectful distance from the tower base, megaphone in hand. "My guy hasn't made much progress."

"Maybe I can make a difference," Harley said. "But I want to be close, close enough for him to hear my voice without needing a megaphone."

Mattison raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You should about that? He's made it clear what happens if someone approaches."

"Let me try," Harley insisted. "He asked for us specifically."

Callaway placed a hand on her arm. "Let me go with you."

She shook her head. "Too many people might make him panic. I can reach him."

Before Callaway could argue further, she was moving forward, her steps measured and deliberate. She stopped at the base of the tower and looked up. Kyle was perched on the platform, legs dangling over the edge, the silver revolver glinting in the sunlight as it rested against his temple.

"Kyle," she called, loud enough to carry but without shouting. "It's Agent Cole. Harley Cole."

He peered down, his face gaunt and hollow in the harsh daylight. "That's far enough."

"I just want to talk."

"Not much to say." His voice carried the weight of decades of grief, hollow and distant like an echo in a dry well. "I let him do it. I knew what Derek was planning, and I did nothing."

"That's why we need to talk," Harley said. "May I come up? Just me."

The revolver wavered slightly in his grip. "Why? So you can arrest me when we're done? Take me to join Derek in a cage?"

"So I can understand," she said simply. "About Sandra. About you and Derek. About all of it."

Kyle was silent for so long Harley thought he might refuse. Finally, he nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. "Ladder's on the far side. Watch the third rung—it's loose."

Heart pounding, Harley circled the tower to find the metal ladder, its rungs orange with rust. She tested each step carefully as she climbed, aware of the eyes following her ascent—Callaway's concerned gaze, the officers with fingers hovering near triggers, Kyle watching her approach with that defeated expression.

The platform creaked under her weight as she reached the top, a sound that sent her stomach lurching. She moved slowly, easing herself down to sit beside Kyle, leaving enough space between them to not feel threatening.

The desert stretched out in all directions below them, a vast ocean of sand and scrub. The movie set looked like a child's plaything from this height, its facades revealed as the hollow shells they truly were.

"Beautiful view," she said.

Kyle gave a bitter laugh. "Funny thing to say to a man about to jump."

"Is that what you're going to do?"

His fingers tightened around the revolver. "Haven't decided yet."

Up close, Harley could see the toll the years had taken on him—lines carved deep around his eyes, skin weathered by desert sun and grief. He looked like a man who had been carrying something heavy for so long he'd forgotten how to put it down.

"Tell me about Sandra," Harley said.

The question seemed to catch him off guard. "What?"

"Your niece. The reason all this started. Tell me about her."

Kyle stared out at the horizon, his eyes distant. "She was seventeen. Smart. Determined. Wanted to be the first woman to win the all-around championship at the National Finals." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Had her whole life mapped out. College rodeo scholarship, then the professional circuit."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was." His voice cracked slightly. "After she died, Derek and I... we couldn't let it go. The way Paradise just carried on, the way Cooper and the others faced no consequences. We started gathering evidence, building a case."

"I saw what you collected," Harley said. "Twenty years of work. That could still make a difference, Kyle."

The revolver trembled in his grip, but he said nothing.

"Did you help Derek plan the murders?" Harley asked.

"No." Kyle shook his head firmly. "I knew something was wrong. The way he started studying those old movie deaths, collecting the knives. I confronted him, but he denied it. Said he was just documenting things for our case."

"But you suspected."

"After Mario died... I knew." His shoulders slumped. "I should have gone to the police. Should have stopped him. But he was my brother. The only family I had left after Sandra."

Harley let the silence stretch between them, giving him space to continue if he wanted to. Below, she could see Callaway pacing anxiously, never taking his eyes off the tower.

"I tried to talk him out of it," Kyle said finally. "Went to his place the night before Thomas was killed. Begged him to stop. But Derek said the legal system had failed us for twenty years." His voice grew bitter. "And he wasn't wrong. We'd been to every authority, every regulator, every agency. Nobody would touch it."

"And now?"

"Now my brother's going to prison for life. I'm facing accessory charges. And for what? Cooper's still alive. The others will probably cut deals. Nothing changes."

"That's not true," Harley said, shifting to face him better. "Those files you and Derek collected—they're evidence in multiple felony cases now. Corporate fraud, criminal negligence, falsification of safety records. The DA's already reviewing the material."

Kyle looked up, surprise momentarily overshadowing the despair in his eyes.

"Cooper and the others will face charges," Harley continued. "Not for murder, but for what they did to Sandra. For the safety violations that killed her. It's not the justice Derek wanted, but maybe it's the justice she deserved."

"Justice," Kyle repeated, the word hollow on his lips. "Twenty years too late."

"But it's still justice." Harley glanced down at the revolver, still pressed against his temple. "And it won't happen without you, Kyle. The prosecution will need you to authenticate the evidence, to testify about how it was collected."

"As what? A prisoner testifying from a jail cell?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Harley chose her words carefully. "Your cooperation makes a difference. Your remorse makes a difference. The fact that you tried to stop Derek makes a difference."

The platform swayed in the desert wind, the metal groaning beneath them. For a heart-stopping moment, Harley wondered if their combined weight might bring the whole structure down, rendering Kyle's decision moot in the most tragic way.

"I keep seeing her face," Kyle said, so quietly Harley almost missed it. "Sandra's. Not when she died, but before. When she still believed in things. In fairness. In consequences." He stared at the revolver in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "What would she think of all this?"

"I don't know," Harley admitted. "I never met her. But from what you've told me, it sounds like she believed in doing things the right way. In fighting for what's right, but through the system."

"She'd be disappointed in me," Kyle said. "In both of us."

"Maybe. Or maybe she'd understand how grief can twist people, make them lose sight of what matters." Harley thought of Kelly, of how her own grief and guilt had consumed her for seventeen years. "But I think she'd want you to keep fighting. The right way."

Kyle was silent, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the desert met the sky in a hazy line.

"I can't promise you won't face charges," Harley said. "I can't promise it will be easy. But I can promise that if you come down with me now, I'll make sure your cooperation is known. I'll make sure Sandra's story is told."

"And Derek?"

"He'll stand trial for what he did. But the evidence you collected together—that will be part of a different kind of justice. The kind that doesn't just punish individuals, but actually changes systems."

The silence stretched between them again, filled only with the creak of metal and the distant wail of police radios below. Then, with a movement so subtle Harley almost missed it, Kyle lowered the revolver completely.

"I don't want to die," he admitted quietly. "I just don't know how to live with all this."

"One day at a time," Harley said. "That's all any of us can do."

Kyle nodded, the gesture small but definitive. He handed her the revolver, its weight solid and cold in her palm. She carefully removed the bullets before tucking it into her jacket.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now we climb down. You'll be taken into custody, but I'll be there for the questioning. We'll talk to the DA about your cooperation." She stood carefully, extending her hand to him. "And then we'll make sure Sandra's story helps change things."

Kyle took her hand, his grip surprisingly strong for a man who had seemed so defeated. As they began the careful descent down the rusted ladder, Harley could see Callaway's shoulders relax, the tension draining from his stance.

The desert wind picked up as they reached the ground, stirring dust around them in miniature cyclones. Officers moved in immediately, securing Kyle. Harley handed the emptied revolver to one of them.

"You did good," Callaway said quietly as they watched Kyle being placed in a patrol car.

"He just needed someone to listen," Harley replied. "Someone to remind him why he started this in the first place."

As the patrol car pulled away, Harley gazed back at the water tower. She thought about choices—the ones Kyle had made, the ones Derek had made, the ones she herself faced every day. How thin the line sometimes was between justice and vengeance, between healing and destruction.

She thought of what she'd told Kyle: One day at a time. That's all any of us can do.

Maybe that was the only wisdom any of them could hope for in this imperfect world. To choose, each day, to move forward rather than remain trapped in the past. To seek justice without becoming consumed by it.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

As they walked back to their vehicle, Callaway spoke the question hanging between them: "Think it was worth it? All those years of obsession, the brothers ruining their lives to bring down Paradise?"

Harley looked back at the movie set, its façades bleached by decades of desert sun. "Worth it isn't the right question," she said finally. "Nothing brings Sandra back. Nothing undoes the damage to all those lives. But at least now there's a chance for consequences."

"Just not the kind Derek wanted."

"No. And maybe that's the only justice possible—something incomplete, something imperfect. But something."

The desert stretched before them as they drove away, its vast emptiness a reminder of how small human affairs truly were against the backdrop of time and space. The case would leave marks on all of them—Derek, Kyle, Cooper, even Harley and Callaway themselves. Some cases ended cleanly, with arrests and convictions and the satisfaction of a job well done.

This one would haunt them all, a ghost that would never quite be exorcised.

Because some stains, Harley knew, never truly washed away.

The case had cracked open something in her chest—seeing how grief and justice had twisted Derek Granier, how love for family could curdle into obsession. It made her examine her own carefully constructed walls, the barriers she'd built to protect herself from loss.

They drove in silence through streets beginning to gleam with the first scattered raindrops. Harley watched the water bead on the windshield, each drop containing its own tiny reflection of the light. When Callaway turned onto the winding road that led to his ranch instead of her place, she didn't protest.

The old adobe house emerged from the gathering darkness like a ship materializing through fog. Its weathered walls held decades of stories, generations of lives lived in the shadow of these same mountains. Callaway had told her once how his grandfather had built it by hand, making each adobe brick from the red earth itself.

He parked beneath the covered carport just as the sky opened up, rain drumming against the metal roof like distant applause. Neither of them moved to get out.

"I've been thinking," Harley said finally, her voice barely carrying over the storm's percussion. "About what you said before. About not letting fear keep me from living."

Callaway turned toward her, his face half-hidden in shadow. Lightning flickered in the distance, briefly illuminating the hope and uncertainty in his eyes.

"Kelly told me something similar," she continued. "That maybe seeing me build a real life might help her believe she could do the same." She traced a raindrop's path down the passenger window with her finger. "I've spent so long being defined by her absence. By the search. I'm not sure I know how to be anything else."

"You don't have to figure it out alone," Callaway said softly.

The rain intensified, creating a cocoon of sound around them. Through the windshield, Harley could see lights glowing in the ranch house windows—warm, welcoming beacons against the storm's fury.

"I'm not good at this," she whispered. "At letting people in. At trusting that they'll stay."

"I know." His hand found hers in the darkness, callused palm warm against her fingers. "But maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe being careful with your trust means when you do give it, it matters more."

Another flash of lightning transformed the landscape, catching the silver at Callaway's temples and the gentle curve of his smile. In that frozen moment of illumination, Harley saw their potential future spread out before her like the desert after rain—vast and uncertain, but full of possibility.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move in with you." She squeezed his hand. "But I have conditions."

His laugh was as soft as the desert wind. "Of course you do."

"Kelly needs to feel welcome here. Not just as a visitor, but really welcome. She needs to know she has a place here, if she ever needs it."

"Already planned on it," he said. "Got a room picked out for her. East-facing windows, good sight lines to all approaches. She'll be safe there, if she ever wants to stay with us."

Harley felt tears threatening and blinked them back. Of course, he'd thought of that—thought of what Kelly would need to feel safe.

"What else?" he asked.

"I need space for my case files. And sometimes I'll work late or get called out at odd hours. That won't change."

"Wouldn't expect it to." He shifted to face her fully. "That dedication of yours? It's not a flaw, Harley. It's who you are. I'm not asking you to change. Just asking you to let me be part of it."

The rain was softening now, its rhythm gentling into something almost musical. Through breaks in the clouds, stars were beginning to emerge—ancient light traveling across vast distances to reach them.

"One more condition," Harley said.

"Name it."

"When I wake up from nightmares about Kelly, about the cases we can't solve, about all of it—you have to promise not to try to fix it. Just... be there."

Callaway reached out, his fingers brushing a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "I can do that."

They sat in companionable silence as the storm passed, leaving behind the clean scent of petrichor and renewal. Finally, Callaway spoke:

"So when do you want to start moving your things?"

"Let's take it slow," she said. "One box at a time. Give Kelly time to adjust to the idea." She smiled slightly. "Besides, I need to figure out what to do with all those case files."

"Already built you shelves in the study," he admitted. "Just in case."

Harley laughed, the sound carrying all the lightness she felt in her chest. "Pretty confident, weren't you?"

"Nah." He squeezed her hand. "Just hopeful."

They got out of the truck then. The storm had left everything transformed—each rock and branch gleaming with captured starlight. As they walked toward the house, Harley felt something settle inside her, like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

She wasn't giving up her search for justice. Wasn't abandoning her drive to protect Kelly, to solve the unsolvable. She was just adding something new—a foundation to build from, a partner to stand beside her in the storm.

And maybe that was the biggest transformation of all.

EPILOGUE

The late afternoon sun painted Greg's backyard in shades of amber and memory, casting long shadows across the weathered picnic table where the three Cole siblings sat. Their childhood home rose behind them, its adobe walls holding decades of both joy and pain, triumph and loss. The autumn air carried hints of piñon smoke from nearby chimneys, mingled with the sharp green scent of roasting chiles that seemed to define New Mexico itself.

Harley watched Kelly pick at her food, still unused to these family gatherings they'd been trying to maintain since her return. The plastic fork moved methodically around her plate, more an exercise in avoidance than eating. Three days had passed since Kelly's stalker had disappeared, but her sister's vigilance hadn't softened—her back was to the adobe wall, her eyes constantly scanning the perimeter of Greg's property.

Harley had invited Callaway to this gathering, but he'd declined, saying he thought they would all appreciate having some family time to themselves. She hadn't yet moved in with Callaway, nor had she told her siblings that she was planning to do so. She was confident, though, that they would be supportive.

"The enchiladas okay?" Greg asked, his voice carrying that careful tone they'd all adopted around Kelly. "I followed Mom's recipe, but I might've gone too heavy on the oregano."

"They're fine." Kelly's words were quiet but not unkind. She even managed a small smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Better than Harley's attempt last week."

"Hey," Harley protested, grateful for this glimpse of her sister's old spark. "That was not my fault. The recipe said 'cook until done.'"

"Not 'cook until carbon,'" Greg said, and for a moment, the years fell away. They were just siblings again, teasing and comfortable in their shared history.

But the moment passed, reality settling back around them like desert dust. Kelly's shoulders tensed as a car drove by, its engine sound carrying over the adobe wall. Her hand moved instinctively toward her purse—where Harley knew she kept that snub-nosed .38.

"You're safe here," Harley said softly.

Kelly's laugh was as hollow as the autumn wind. "Am I?" She gestured at the house behind them, its windows reflecting the dying sun like wounded eyes. "I thought that back when I was a kid, too."

Greg reached across the table, his calloused hand covering Kelly's. "We're together now. That's what matters. And Harley and I… we won't let anything happen to you again. Not ever."

Harley glanced at her brother. She hadn't told him about the stalker, and she doubted Kelly had, either. It seemed almost cruel to keep him in the dark about such a danger, but given how protective he could be as their older brother, she worried what he might do with that knowledge. He suspected Kelly's reasoning was similar.

The silence stretched between the siblings. Above them, the New Mexico sky performed its nightly alchemy, transforming from turquoise to deepening shades of purple. A raven called from somewhere beyond the adobe wall, its voice carrying ancient warnings across the cooling air.

Kelly's fingers played with her water glass, leaving trails in the condensation like coded messages. Her eyes never stopped their careful scanning—fence line to gate, gate to street, street to the shadowed places where threats might gather. Even here, in the sanctuary of their childhood home, she moved like someone who'd learned the hard way that safety was an illusion.

"I've been thinking," Greg said, his voice carrying that careful weight of an older brother trying to rebuild broken bridges. "Maybe we could fix up Dad's old workshop. Make it into a proper art studio." He gestured toward the small building that squatted at the edge of the property, its weathered wood holding memories of copper-stained work clothes and the metallic tang of mining equipment. "Kelly used to paint out there, remember? Before..."

He trailed off, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them. Before Kelly was taken from them.

"I don't paint anymore," Kelly said softly. But something flickered in her eyes—a ghost of who she'd been, the girl who'd covered canvas after canvas with desert sunsets and mountain storms.

Harley watched her siblings navigate this delicate moment, aware of how easily it could shatter. Their attempts at normalcy felt like walking a tightrope, each gesture, each word carrying the weight of seventeen years of absence.

The sun dipped lower, casting their faces in amber light that softened the hard edges time had carved into them. Greg, his hands bearing the same calluses their father's had, marks of a life spent working copper and earth. Kelly, her posture still carrying echoes of cartel captivity, a predator's awareness wrapped in casual clothes. And Harley herself, caught between them like a bridge trying to span too wide a gap.

"Maybe we could start smaller," Harley suggested. "The garden needs attention. Mom's old rose bushes are still hanging on, somehow."

Kelly's expression softened slightly at the mention of their mother's roses. "Yellow ones," she murmured. "She always said yellow roses meant friendship and new beginnings."

"They're stubborn things," Greg said. "Like Mom was. Like all of us." He reached for the pitcher of iced tea, its sides sweating in the lingering heat. "Even after everything, they keep blooming."

A cool breeze stirred the yard, carrying the scent of sage and creosote—desert plants that survived on almost nothing, finding life in the harshest conditions. Kelly's hair lifted slightly in the wind, and for a moment Harley caught a glimpse of her teenage sister, laughing on this same patio, dreams still intact.

"I could help," Kelly said finally. "With the roses, I mean." Her voice carried the weight of someone testing boundaries, seeing how far she could stretch toward normal without breaking. "If you want."

Greg's smile was as gentle as a desert sunrise. "I'd like that."

They sat in companionable silence as true darkness began to settle over the yard. Greg switched on the string lights he'd hung along the patio cover, their soft glow creating a gentle barrier against the gathering shadows. A neighbor's wind chimes sang their metallic songs, accompanied by the distant whistle of a freight train cutting through the night.

Kelly rose, her movements fluid despite the constant vigilance. "I should get these dishes inside," she said, gathering plates with the precise economy of motion she'd developed during her time with the cartel. "Need to head home soon anyway. Early shift tomorrow."

"Stay," Harley found herself saying. "Just for tonight. Your old room's still here. I could stay, too. Just like old times."

Something complicated moved across Kelly's face—longing, perhaps, or fear. Or both.

Before Kelly could answer, Greg's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. "Do you smell that?"

The acrid scent hit Harley a moment later—sharp and chemical, with an underlying sweetness that made her throat tighten. Burning paper. The desert breeze carried it to them like a warning.

Then came the sound—glass exploding inward, a crystalline burst of violence that shattered the evening's fragile peace. Kelly was already moving, her body dropping into a defensive crouch that spoke of years spent anticipating threats. Greg bolted toward the sound, but Harley caught his arm.

"Wait," she commanded, drawing her weapon. The patio lights suddenly felt too bright, making them perfect targets against the adobe walls. Shadows danced at the edge of their illumination, each one potentially concealing their attacker.

They rounded the corner of the house in formation—Harley leading with her gun, Kelly covering their rear with the practiced vigilance of someone who'd learned survival in the hardest possible way. The broken window gaped like a wound in the weathered adobe, its jagged edges catching the last light of day.

"There," Kelly whispered, her voice carrying that strange calm she adopted in moments of danger. She pointed to something on the ground—a rectangle of paper consumed by hungry flames, its edges curling into ash.

Greg moved with surprising speed, stomping out the fire with his boot. The flames died reluctantly, leaving behind a photograph scorched at the edges but still horrifyingly clear in its center. Three faces smiled up at them, frozen in a moment of domestic happiness that had preceded tragedy.

"The Fletchers," Harley breathed. There, in the middle, stood a smiling Jay, the man Kelly had been accused of—and then acquitted of—killing.

Kelly stared at the photograph, her face a mask of carefully controlled emotion. But Harley saw her hands trembling—not with fear, but with a rage so deep it seemed to vibrate through the cooling desert air.

"They found me," Kelly said softly, and in those three words Harley heard echoes of cartel threats and midnight executions. "They finally found me."

NOW AVAILABLE!

NOWHERE SILENT

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 14)

Murder casts a shadow over the vibrant desert art scene, with victims displayed in unnerving installations that baffle investigators. FBI Agent Harley Cole must navigate a labyrinth of eccentric creatives and harsh landscapes to catch a killer who sees human life as raw material for a perverse exhibition.

“This is an excellent book… When you start reading, be sure you don’t have to wake up early!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

NOWHERE SILENT is book #14 in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestseller NOT NOW (a free download) has received over 600 five star ratings and reviews.

A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured FBI agent, the HARLEY COLE series is a riveting mystery, packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll, and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are now available!

“This book moved very fast and every page was exciting. Plenty of dialogue, you absolutely love the characters, and you were rooting for the good guy throughout the whole story… I look forward to reading the next in the series.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Kate did an amazing job on this book and I was hooked from the first chapter!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“I really enjoyed this book. The characters were authentic, and I see the bad guys as something we hear about daily on the news... Looking forward to book 2.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“This was a really good book. The main characters were real, flawed and human. The story went along quickly and wasn't mired in too many unnecessary details. I really enjoyed it.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Alexa Chase is headstrong, impatient, but most of all brave with a capital B. She never, repeat never, backs down until the bad guys are put where they belong. Clearly five stars!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Captivating and riveting serial murder with a twist of the macabre… Very well done.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“WOW what a great read! Talk about a diabolical killer! Really enjoyed this book. Looking forward to reading others by this author as well.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Page turner for sure. Great characters and relationships. I got into the middle of this story and couldn’t put it down. Looking forward to more from Kate Bold.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Hard to put down. It has an excellent plot and has the right amount of suspense. I really enjoyed this book.”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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“Extremely well written, and well worth buying and reading. I can't wait to read book two!”

—Reader review for The Killing Game

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NOWHERE SILENT

(A Harley Cole FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 14)

Kate Bold

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

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

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIND ME (Book #1)

FIND HER (Book #2)

FIND HELP (Book #3)

FIND HOME (Book #4)

FIND HIM (Book #5)

FIND YOU (Book #6)

FIND HOPE (Book #7)

FIND NO ONE (Book #8)

FIND OUT (Book #9)

FIND DEATH (Book #10)

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)