A F T E R

H E

W A I T E D

(A Sloane Riddle Mystery—Book 4)

R y l i e   D a r k

Rylie Dark

Bestselling author Rylie Dark is author of the SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books; of the HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books; of the TARA STRONG MYSTERY series, comprising six books; of the ALEX QUINN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books; of the MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books; of the KELLY CRUZ FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books; of the JESSIE REACH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising seven books (and counting); of the BECCA THORN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the CASEY FAITH SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the ARIA BRANDT SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the HAYDEN SMART SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); and of the new SLOANE RIDDLE SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting).

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

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

BOOKS BY RYLIE DARK

SLOANE RIDDLE MYSTERY

AFTER HE TOOK (Book #1)

AFTER HE STRUCK (Book #2)

AFTER HE SNAPPED (Book #3)

AFTER HE WAITED (Book #4)

AFTER HE WATCHED (Book #5)

HAYDEN SMART MYSTERY

ALL FOR ME (Book #1)

ALL FOR NOTHING (Book #2)

ALL FOR VENGEANCE (Book #3)

ALL FOR YOU (Book #4)

ALL FOREVER (Book #5)

ARIA BRANDT MYSTERY

THE UNKNOWN WOMAN (Book #1)

THE UNKNOWN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNKNOWN NEIGHBOR (Book #3)

THE UNKNOWN GUEST (Book #4)

THE UNKNOWN PAST (Book #5)

CASEY FAITH MYSTERY

BEHIND HIS EYES (Book #1)

BEHIND HIS SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HIS MASK (Book #3)

BEHIND HIS LIES (Book #4)

BEHIND HIS THOUGHTS (Book #5)

BECCA THORN MYSTERY

GONE COLD (Book #1)

GONE DARK (Book #2)

GONE SILENT (Book #3)

GONE HOLLOW (Book #4)

GONE FOREVER (Book #5)

JESSIE REACH MYSTERY

HIS OTHER SIDE (Book #1)

HIS OTHER SELF (Book #2)

HIS OTHER SECRET (Book #3)

HIS OTHER WISH (Book #4)

HIS OTHER PLAN (Book #5)

KELLY CRUZ MYSTERY

WHERE YOU GO (Book #1)

WHERE YOU HIDE (Book #2)

WHERE YOU SLEEP (Book #3)

WHERE YOU RUN (Book #4)

WHERE YOU FEAR (Book #5)

MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

WITH MALICE (Book #1)

WITH ENVY (Book #2)

WITH VENGEANCE (Book #3)

WITH RAGE (Book #4)

WITH YOU (Book #5)

ALEX QUINN SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIRST, MURDER (Book #1)

SECOND, DEATH (Book #2)

THIRD, ENVY (Book #3)

FOURTH, LUST (Book #4)

FIFTH, WRATH (Book #5)

TARA STRONG MYSTERY

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE (Book #1)

GIRL WITHOUT A HOME (Book #2)

GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE (Book #3)

GIRL WITHOUT A NAME (Book #4)

GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER (Book #5)

GIRL WITHOUT A PAST (Book #6)

HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND YOU (Book #1)

BESIDE YOU (Book #2)

AFTER YOU (Book #3)

WATCHING YOU (Book #4)

JUDGING YOU (Book #5)

FOLLOWING YOU (Book #6)

SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ONLY MURDER (Book #1)

ONLY RAGE (Book #2)

ONLY HIS (Book #3)

ONLY ONCE (Book #4)

ONLY SPITE (Book #5)

ONLY MADNESS (Book #6)

MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SEE HER RUN (Book #1)

SEE HER HIDE (Book #2)

SEE HER SCREAM (Book #3)

SEE HER VANISH (Book #4)

SEE HER GONE (Book #5)

SEE HER DEAD (Book #6)

CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NO WAY OUT (Book #1)

NO WAY BACK (Book #2)

NO WAY HOME (Book #3)

NO WAY LEFT (Book #4)

NO WAY UP (Book #5)

NO WAY TO DIE (Book #6)

MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TOO LATE (Book #1)

TOO CLOSE (Book #2)

TOO FAR GONE (Book #3)

TOO LOST (Book #4)

TOO BROKEN (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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Michael Torres woke with a start. His eyes shot open, and he immediately knew something was wrong. He had escaped the darkness of his unforgiving nightmares, brought on by… he couldn't remember what, but he knew they were driven by something just out of his grasp. He was still coming to but understood that something was very, very wrong.

Michael lay still for a second to get his bearings. Cold concrete pressed into his body; he could feel the chill creep into his skin, even through his clothing. His hip pulsed with a dull throb where it had taken his weight against the cold, hard floor. He didn't shift his weight—not yet. He had to understand what was happening before escaping his… captivity?

It all came rushing to him as if his other senses were enhanced by the lack of sight. The former prison guard blinked three or four times, trying to clear the darkness from his eyes, but he could not. He was awake, and his eyes were open, but he could not see anything.

He licked his lips and could taste a faint metallic taste in the air. He consumed the chilled darkness, which felt thick and syrupy as it trickled down his throat. Whatever was in the air tightened his stomach.

He could not hear anything. No, that was not quite right. There was silence all around him, and even though it made no sense, the silence felt muffled. He had no gag in his mouth or blindfold around his head, but there was something stuffed into his ears. Not anything that caused discomfort, but material that muffled the silent darkness around him so that he heard less than nothing, a negative hearing experience.

Michael could feel it. He could feel the bindings on his wrists, his hands tied behind his back. He could feel the cold constantly probing him as if it were sharpened rock and not flat concrete, so long he had been lying there. He could feel the loss of time, unable to say what time of day it was or pinpoint the current day. He could have been in the confined, dark space for minutes or days.

Confined? Is this a confined space or a vast cavern without any light?

Michael finally pushed himself to a sitting position, his calf cramping. He pointed his toe upward, stretching his leg as the pain shot through like a dagger-ed heartbeat. He tensed his leg over and over, forcing the cramp to subside. The air was oppressive around him, but he didn't know if that was because there was so much or if the pressure came from the confined space and the air squeezed into it.

The pain lessened, and it felt like a small victory. For the briefest moment, Michael Torres could forget he was bound and had just woken in the darkness.

What do I last remember?

He had been walking in the park. Even though it was pitch black, he closed his eyes and walked the route in his mind, remembering the faces of the people he passed. Michael tried to recall every detail from his last moments, trying to reach the point where the bright blue sky and surrounding greenery turned to black.

Were those my last moments? Is that what I was doing before… this? Or have I forgotten?

His shoulders were uncomfortable but not sore from being pulled backward. He wanted to bring his hand up to the back of his head to feel for a wound. He did not feel any pain.

How did I get here?

Michael held back the tears welling in his eyes. They were a memory of the blue sky above him sometime before he had been taken. He had walked through the park, greeting those he passed and often looking up toward the blue expanse—not as vast as the surrounding darkness but impressive nonetheless.

As he visualized the richness of the clear sky, he could only think about never seeing it again. He might die a happy man if he died below the summer sky. He did not want the fate he had been delivered.

Something moved to his right. No, not movement. Was it sound? Had he heard the movement, and his mind had filled in the numerous blanks?

Will I hallucinate with my senses deprived? Will I see and hear things that are not there? Do I see something, or do I imagine it?

Michael was not sure which he was more afraid of: someone in the space or imagining someone in the space with him.

He had wanted to call out, if only to hear his voice returned to him and better discern the size of the room from the echo, but before he could consider it further, he found himself whispering into the darkness.

"Hello?" Michael said softly. "Is someone there?"

"What did you hear?" came the reply.

Michael’s head snapped around so quickly that it caused him pain. He moved his arms to bring a hand to his neck, forgetting that he was still bound.

"Please," Michael begged. "Please, let me go."

"Can you see me?" the voice asked from the darkness. The words were muffled and barely passed through whatever was crammed into his ears.

"I have a family," Michael whispered.

He didn't know why he remained quiet as he spoke to his captor. He could have called out for help, but something stopped him. Something whispered deep inside him that the best way to deal with the situation was to be as agreeable as possible and wait for his chance to escape—he also needed time to know where to escape.

"What do you feel?" the disembodied voice asked.

"I don't have any money," Michael whispered, his voice cracking. "I’ll do whatever you want, and we can figure this out."

The former prison guard was emerging, taking control of the situation. He had dealt with more violent situations than the one he was in, but he had never been more scared before.

"Yes, you will," the voice replied. It didn't sound like a threat.

"It’s not too late to let me go," Michael stated softly.

Something rattled in the darkness, and it wasn’t until the noise ceased that Michael realized it was laughter. A chuckle that was entirely real. His captor had no intention of letting him go.

"Please," Michael whispered again.

"Are you ready?" the voice asked.

Michael quickly turned his head but could not see. It sounded as if the voice came from all around him.

"R-ready for what?" Michael asked.

"You are finally ready to transcend," the voice told him.

"What?" Michael’s body squirmed as discomfort rushed through him. He could not reason with a crazy person. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I don't want anything from you," the voice in the darkness said. "It is what I can give to you that matters. It is time."

Even though it made no difference, Michael instinctively closed his eyes, ready to fight.

CHAPTER ONE

Sloane Riddle held her gun out before her, peering into the darkness. She moved like water, flowing down the hallway, searching for a pinprick of light but not finding it. She couldn't see she was in a hallway but knew she was. She sensed it. The air's thickness around her told that the walls were close on every side, shutting her in.

She pointed her gun ahead with one hand, using the other to wipe the sweat from her brow. The moisture was cold on the back of her wrist. Sloane measured her breaths to stop from making any sound at all. She did not know what was ahead, but she knew there was danger—a maliciousness she could not see or hear.

Sloane rolled her shoulder before continuing. She lifted one foot, probed forward with the toe of her shoe to ensure no obstacles, and then placed her foot gently down before repeating the process with the other foot. There was no end in sight, only the oppressive walls around her, just out of sight.

It was cold. The chill in the air did not pierce Sloane, but it touched her cheeks, reminding her that she had strayed far from the light. She looked back, not expecting to see anything or anyone, and she didn’t. She wished her partner was with her, but she had no idea where Max was.

Sloane pushed on, knowing she would find what she was looking for up ahead. She kept her gun trained ahead, ready to fire, but not trigger-happy. She remembered her training: if she came up against an attacker with a weapon, she needed to shoot first. Yet, it was a far worse fate than anything else to shoot an innocent. That was not something that anyone in law enforcement could live with.

Then she saw it.

It was far ahead, but in the darkness, it was unmistakable—the pinprick of light she had been searching for. She closed in on it, keeping her weapon pointed at the illumination. The closer she got, the more she could see. She had been right about the hallway; walls appeared on either side of her, with closed doors dotting them. Sloane didn't try any of them; she knew what she was looking for lay in the light.

Sloane slowed briefly when she got close to the lit room, readying herself for what lay within. Then, she swept quickly into the room, pointing the gun toward the back two corners before spinning around to cover the two corners inside the door. She twisted so her back faced into the room, and she could cover the door from an attack from behind.

The room was simple: four pale grey concrete walls, the same on the floor and ceiling, and no other openings except for the doorway she had come through. A yellowish bulb cast a dim light from above. The cement walls were not cracked, giving the impression that the room had just been finished and was waiting for a coat of paint. Yet, there was a dusty smell in the air, a stagnation that could only have come from years of being empty.

I… who am I chasing?

Sloane pointed her gun at the door, the darkness even more black now she was in the light. She racked her brain for the answer to her question.

Who am I chasing? Where am I?

Each question came with an answer: I don't know.

Sloane felt her heart beat quicker. She didn't show it outwardly, knowing that controlling her outer self helped her control her inner emotions and feelings. Her pulse quickened as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She wanted to turn around and look behind but knew there was nothing there. Something distracted her from the entrance to the cell, the place where the danger was.

But what danger?

The scraping of metal on metal startled Sloane. She instinctively stepped back, pointing out into the darkness, unable to see if someone was pointing a gun back at her. She had trapped herself. The metal scraped again, and Sloane moved the gun, pointing it at the concrete wall where the scraping sound came from. A metal gate suddenly sprung from the concrete in the doorway, thick metal bars sliding from one side of the door to the other.

Sloane ran to the bars as they closed her in, peering out into the darkness to find her captor. She scanned the metal bars, finding no handle or lock. It didn't make sense for the gate to have come out of the concrete and into the concrete on the other side. She pointed the gun through the bars and grabbed hold of one with her free hand, shaking it. It did not budge at all.

"No," Sloane muttered. "No, no, no."

She stumbled back from the barred exit until her back hit the wall. The cold stung her more than the thud of her spine against the hard stone. She pointed her gun still, her arm weakening. Her back scraped the wall as she fell down it. Cold sweat pooled on her forehead, and her heart beat so quickly that it threatened to burst from her chest like a bird pecking through a paper bag.

"No," Sloane cracked. "I don't want this. I don't want this."

She let go of the gun, and it clattered to the floor. Her body trembled as she realized she would never leave the cell. No one was coming for her. No one would ever find her.

The light in the cell suddenly popped, and Sloane’s world was turned to darkness.

Sloane fought, grasping at whoever was trying to wrap a hand around her throat. The cold sweat soaked her brow. She grabbed what she thought was an arm, but it flopped in her hand. She tossed the blanket from atop her and squirmed in the bed, trying to lose the feeling of the dream.

She looked at her bedside table to see the time on the digital clock: 6:08. Her eyes then went to the window. A small amount of light came through the crack in the curtain, but not yet from dawn—a streetlight gave the illusion of morning and safety.

Sloane clung to it. She had not been safe in her dream. She had been closed up in a prison cell, left alone in the darkness to perish. She stared at the tiny sliver of light in the darkness of the curtains, and though it reminded her of the small room down the corridor in her dream, it didn't bring the same feelings. She knew she was safe now. The fear still rippled in her heart, but she knew it would go.

Sloane had been going to therapy for her PTSD. Her time at Thornwood Prison years ago mainly had been a positive experience, but the small moments of darkness in the light had ruined everything. She had been attacked by inmates on two separate occasions, cornered in small cells, and saved only because other prison guards had gotten to her in time.

The trauma came in flashes. It often came in dreams where she was forced to relive the ordeals, usually without anyone present except the location of her abuse. She would be in a cell, locked away, or the cell walls closing in. Sometimes, she was falling through the floor. In daily life, small spaces still held fear for her, and she found it hard to trust people, especially strangers. She was constantly on edge.

The therapy was helping. She had not been going for long, but it helped just to talk about it with someone who might understand what she was going through. Sloane sat up in the bed and took deep breaths to calm herself more.

She had been given some visualization techniques but didn't want to close her eyes to use them—she didn't want to descend back into darkness. Instead, she stared at the sliver of light in the curtains' gap and continued to breathe evenly.

Sixty seconds later, she wiped her moist brow with the back of her hand. When she brought her hand before her, it was trembling slightly. It would pass soon enough.

Sloane went to the bathroom and washed her hands and face before returning to her bedroom to sit on the bed. She picked up her phone to check for any messages, and her heart quickened once more when she saw a message from her brother, Brendan. She almost dropped the phone.

She quickly unlocked her phone and opened it. There were multiple messages from her to him, and finally, one in response.

I’m safe. I need to lay low for a while

Sloane quickly replied: I can protect you, Brendan. Please let me know where you are, and I’ll come get you.

It had taken six messages and a dozen missed calls to get a reply from her brother, so she didn't hold out hope he would reply this time. Still, she stared at the screen for a few seconds in case a bubble popped up to show he was typing. It didn’t.

Sloane placed her phone back on the bedside table and flopped back onto the bed, her legs dangling over the side. She was calm enough to close her eyes.

She saw the chaos in the Warehouse District that had happened almost a week ago. Her brother had been missing since then, and she had been fraught with worry since then that he had lost his life.

After being released from prison, he slipped back into his old ways with his old crew. Sloane had caught word of an arms deal going down that Brendan was a part of. She had tried to stop him from going but had been too late. Two other detectives were down at the Warehouse District, ready to arrest those involved. Sloane and her partner Max had rushed down there to try and grab Brendan before he could be arrested, but it had not worked out like that. She wished now that he had been arrested.

From the information they had received from other arrests that night, the crime boss who organized and orchestrated the deal wouldn’t be happy it had gone south. He had worked out that someone had tipped off the police, and those who failed him would face his wrath. Brendan hadn’t tipped anyone off; Sloane had found out about the heist through him. If the boss found out, he would kill Brendan. Now, Brendan was out there somewhere, laying low.

Sloane was scared, but knowing he was still alive warmed her heart. She had been trying to help her brother since he was released from prison, but he had fought her at every turn. The night of the failed arms deal, he had messaged her to ask for her help, but then there was only radio silence—until now.

If you hadn’t been so stubborn, we could have avoided this. Maybe I should have done more to help you.

Kelsey sat back up when her phone rang. She grabbed it, expecting to see her brother’s name on the screen. She was disappointed when her partner’s name was displayed. She hit the button to answer the call.

"A call this early is never good news," Kelsey said.

"No, it’s not," Max said. "Get dressed and meet me in front of your apartment in fifteen minutes. We have another killer."

CHAPTER TWO

Sloane held her metal to-go coffee mug by the handle and stepped forward toward the curb when she saw the headlights approaching. Phoenix was a busy city, but she lived far enough from the downtown core. It was still early, so there was not a lot of traffic in the area yet. Max pulled up at the curb, Sloane got in, and Max pulled away.

"What? No coffee for me?" Max asked.

Sloane smiled and said, "I can make you a cup if you want to go back."

"Hmm," Max mused. "Investigate a possible murder with or without coffee? I should be fine for now."

Max smiled as he drove. He was a large man, and the kink in his nose told stories of previous brawls in which he had given as good as he had gotten. Max was a fighter but with words as well as fists. He didn't shy away from a fight but could often charm his opponent before it got to that stage. He ran a hand through his brown hair.

"It didn't sound like I woke you," Max told her. "You’re not sleeping still?"

"It’s on and off," Sloane admitted. "Although, it’s usually when I’m sleeping deepest that the dreams come." Sloane thought about it before clarifying, "Nightmares."

"Did you have another one last night?" Max asked. He indicated and took the next right, taking them away from the hustle and bustle of the city and toward the outskirts.

"Right before I woke this morning a little after six," Sloane admitted. "I was in a dark building and couldn't see anything. I thought you were there with me, but you weren’t. I was all alone."

Max reached over and placed his hand on Sloane’s leg. It was so unexpected that Sloane jerked a little, and Max immediately removed his hand.

"Sorry, I’m on edge with everything happening, and I didn’t…"

Sloane didn't know what the end of that sentence was. She didn't expect Max to put a hand on her leg and was sure it was only to comfort her and nothing more, but she relished the contact.

Is it human contact I need or Max?

She wasn’t sure of the answer to that either. She didn't like physical touch after what had happened back in Thornwood Prison, and something had shot through her at Max’s touch, causing her to jump a little. She reached out her hand and patted Max’s hand on the steering wheel. She needed him to know that he hadn’t done anything wrong.

"I shouldn’t have reached out like that," Max admitted.

"No, it was my… I wish I didn't jump like that," Sloane replied. "I need you more than anyone else right now."

"Ah, do you know how many women have said that to me?" Max grinned.

"And the moment is gone, the spell broken," Sloane said, already feeling better in Max’s company.

"That’s what I’m known for," Max told her. "Good at casting the spell, just as good at breaking it. I’m sure I’ll learn someday."

"You’ve had many years, Max," Sloane teased. "If you haven’t learned it by now, I don't know if you ever will."

"I’m only a couple of years older than you, Riddle."

"It’s those extra years that can make all the difference."

Sloane looked away and smiled, moving her head down a little to see her reflection in the side mirror outside the door. She could readily admit that Max was handsome, and the women often around him attested to that. She had been told she was attractive herself, but she didn't always feel it. She sometimes didn't want to be appealing, thinking that was part of what caused her attacks. Perhaps the fact that she was a woman was reason enough for an inmate to drag her into a cell. Maybe it was her attractiveness, but if it was, she never wanted to be considered attractive again. Yet, a part of her did. Everyone wanted to be appealing to someone else.

She pushed a lock of her black hair behind her ear. She was tall and athletic with rich green eyes, a combination that gave her beauty even when she didn't feel it. When Max had put his hand on her leg, it made her feel beautiful. It wasn’t his intention, but it was the effect.

"I received a text from Brendan this morning," Sloane told her partner. She sat up straight again in her seat.

Max said nothing, turning his head to look at Sloane as he drove. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the information.

"He told me again that he’s safe," Sloane explained. "He needs to lay low but still won't tell me where he is. I should be more thankful that I know he’s safe, but I can't rest until I find and protect him."

"No one has ratted him out," Max said. "None of the guys we arrested have said much of anything, but they are all scared of some form of retribution."

"I’m sorry I caught you up in all of this, Max. We’re supposed to uphold the law, and—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Max told her. "Brendan is your brother, and family always comes first. He’s had a rough time of it, and he made mistakes he paid for. We both know that people who break the law are more likely to do it again—we all gravitate toward what we are familiar with. He needs a break, which you are trying to give him. As far as I’m concerned, he hasn’t broken the law. If he does, that’s a bridge we cross when we get to it."

"Still, you shouldn’t have to deal with all of this," Sloane told him. "You have your own stuff to deal with."

"I wouldn’t do this for anyone else," Max told her. "I want you to know that, Sloane."

Sloane smiled but couldn’t respond. Her voice would break if she did. Sloane knew Max had her back in every situation, just as she had his, but it was pleasant to hear it vocalized at times.

She looked straight ahead as they left the city's outskirts and took the highway. The lanes going in the opposite direction were busier as people commuted into Phoenix. In around eight hours, the busyness of the lanes would be reversed. The sun rose in the distance. The few clouds in the sky became tinged with a dark purple that would soon change to pink and red.

"I don't even know where we are headed," Sloane said. "I know we have a dead body, but what are we looking at here?"

"I don't know much more than that," Max told her. "The victim was found in an old abandoned hospital on the outskirts of the city. That’s about all I know other than them being sure it was murder."

"An abandoned hospital?" Sloane asked. "Who found him?"

"We won't know that until we get there," Max replied.

Sloane nodded gently as she considered it. The building she had dreamed of before waking was reminiscent of an abandoned hospital, with long hallways and multiple rooms off either side. Sloane didn't believe in signs from beyond the veil, but it was a weird coincidence. She didn't relay that to Max just yet; she wanted to see the place first.

They approached the abandoned building soon after. The old hospital was ten minutes from the city’s outskirts and stood alone with a smattering of large pine trees surrounding it. There was no fence or wall around the building, but the large open gate that the road passed through suggested there had been at one time.

The abandoned hospital was grey and dirty, stained over time by the wind whipping dust and dirt into the facade. No windows on the front of the three-story building were intact. Some windows were completely empty, while others displayed sharp shards of blackened glass. A large white van, a patrol car, and a grey sedan were parked by the front entrance, and a uniformed officer stood by the door.

Max slowed and pulled behind the grey car. He and Sloane looked up at the front of the building before exiting the vehicle.

The day was not supposed to be cold, but there was a chill in the air, as if a cold bubble had replaced the wall that might have once surrounded the hospital. As Sloane looked into the darkness of one of the lower windows, she thought the iciness in the air was fitting—the darkness within looked cold.

In her dream, she had not seen the exterior of the building before entering it; everything had been inside.

They approached the officer by the door and showed their badges. The officer checked the IDs before allowing them in. "They’re expecting you down there," he said, pointing through the main entranceway toward the hallway beyond.

"Who found the body?" Sloane asked. "Someone must have called this in."

"A private security guard," the officer said. "They’ve taken him down to the station to get a formal statement, but I don't think he’s a suspect. Apparently, the hospital is owned by the city, and they’ve had problems with squatters in the past, teens roaming around when it’s unsafe, and things like that. He walks the building weekly to ensure there are no trespassers. He found the body early this morning."

"If the victim was murdered, then the killer either knew that or got lucky," Sloane wondered. "He could have been discovered at any time."

"He’s reckless or careful," Max noted with a sarcastic grin.

"We might know more when we see the body," Sloane replied.

They entered the large building, and though they didn't initially speak, Sloane was sure she could hear the echo of her breathing. She was glad that the inside of the building did not resemble the building in her dream in any way.

A reception area filled half of the main entrance. Half a room that had once been completely walled off from the main foyer showed a desk with chairs behind. Glass lay scattered on the floor, and the metal above the desk revealed that it had once sat there, providing a barrier between the incoming patients and the hospital staff. There was enough natural light from outside to illuminate the foyer. That light dimmed as they walked carefully past the reception desk and into the hallway.

Doors dotted each side of the hallway, just like in Sloane’s dream, but the walls were not concrete—they had once been a pale green, but most of the paint had chipped and flaked. Broken lights hung above, and a white and black checkered linoleum covered the floor. The hallway darkened in the middle before it became brighter at the end. The familiar glow of police lights came from the room at the end of the hallway.

Presumably, the body is in there. The ground floor gives the most risk of being discovered, but also the easiest escape. Was that a conscious choice?

Sloane and Max made it to the room to find a small flurry of activity. The forensic team had already arrived, and two of the team dressed from head to toe in white suits examined the body.

A uniformed officer from within the room approached Sloane and Max before they could enter.

"You’re the detectives on the case," he said, more of a statement than a question.

"Detective Riddle," Sloane said.

"Detective Callahan," Max introduced.

"The body was discovered this morning by a security guard doing the rounds. He seemed a little shady to me when I spoke to him but claims he didn't kill the vic."

Sloane could tell from the officer's words and manner of speaking that he dreamed of being a detective one day. That was fine with Sloane as long as he didn't try to take over. He might have the skills, but he wasn’t a detective yet, and something was to be said for experience.

"Do we know the cause of death?" Sloane asked.

"I don't know," the officer said.

"But you are sure it was murder?" Max asked.

"He was tied up," the officer told them. Dust was all over this place, and footprints were coming and going. We took photos of them; maybe we’ll find a match. " I can't be sure, but with the amount of footprints coming and going, it looks like whoever held him captive had him here for at least a few days with the amount of footprints coming and going."

"Alright, thank you," Sloane said.

She looked past the officer, and he took that as his cue to step aside and let the detectives do their jobs.

The first thing that struck Sloane was the padding on the walls. She had been told that the building was an old abandoned hospital, but it was a room that someone suffering from deep mental health issues would have been put in to stop them from harming themselves. She glanced at the body on the floor, but he was not in a straightjacket.

She didn't focus on the body just yet. The padding on the walls looked in better condition than the walls they had walked past, but there were some rips and tears. Sloane couldn’t be sure if the victim was brought to the room because of the padding or because it was one of the nicer rooms in the building.

She looked to where the window should have been and then back toward the door. The large lamp the forensics team had brought illuminated the room, and without it, it would have been dark. The window had been boarded over, and wood was nailed to the interior walls. The door looked in good condition, likely another reason the captor had chosen the room. With the window boarded and the door closed, there would be no light.

What is your reason for that? You could have chosen an interior room and saved yourself the trouble, but you wanted the darkness, didn't you?

There was one surprising element to the room: a bedpan in the corner. The metal shone—it had been cleaned recently and was not caked in dust like the rest of the building.

She jerked her head toward it to draw Max’s attention. "They planned on their captive being here for a while. Whoever kept him hostage meant to do so for a long time."

"Maybe they didn't mean for their captive to die," Max suggested. "They had him tied up in the room, but they were caring for him at the same time. Maybe they wanted to punish him."

"Maybe," Sloane agreed.

She finally went to the body. The man lying bound on the floor was a middle-aged man who was a little overweight and had grey skin. The grayness of his skin had more to do with his death than anything else. His hands were bound behind his back with zip ties, and a circle of red provided what looked like a weird shadow beneath the zip ties. They would not know until the autopsy how long he had been there, but the redness suggested it had been days rather than hours.

The man’s cheeks were sunken, his eyes red, and his lips chapped and cracked. He was a little overweight, which would have stretched his skin over time, but his skin was pulled tight, too. Again, they would have to wait for the autopsy, but Sloane hazarded an initial guess of dehydration.

If he had died of dehydration, then it was unlikely he had eaten. His captor had not fed him, but he had cleaned up after the dead man.

 If the officer is correct, then you brought your captive here and returned many times. You wanted to see him suffer before you but didn't want to smell his stench? Is that it? Is the room blacked out to provide sensory depreciation?

Sloane drew a line across the floor in the room between the bindings on the man’s wrists to a pipe on the wall where he had been chained. The metal had scraped the pipe, presumably through the man trying to escape his bindings.

"Any injuries?" Sloane asked. "Was he tortured in any way?"

"We haven’t found anything yet," one of the forensic officers said.

"What do you think?" Max asked as he walked over to Sloane.

"I don't know yet," Sloane replied. "Whoever he is, he was brought here for a reason. He was placed in a dark room, and the captor meant to keep him alive, at least for a while. To me, that suggests he planned this. Did he know the security guard would eventually come, or was the captor oblivious? I don't think the victim was fed or given water, and that is what killed him. It would have taken at least three days—we won't know until the autopsy. It doesn't look like he was tortured."

"So, the killer brings him here, cleans up after him, and slowly watches him die?" Max asked.

"That’s what it looks like," Sloane replied.

"I have his name," the officer said, reentering the room.

Sloane still hadn’t gotten the officer’s name.

"Michael Torres," the officer said. "He was reported missing four days ago."

"Give us whatever you have on him," Max said. "Let’s find out if anyone had a grudge against Mr. Torres."

CHAPTER THREE

Sloane never liked this part of the job. She hesitated at the door and looked at Max. He frowned slightly—he didn't want to do it either. Sloane let out a deep breath and mustered the courage to knock on the door.

Footsteps came from within the bi-level house, and the two detectives waited a long time before the door finally opened. They were met by a short woman in her forties.

"Yes?" she asked impatiently.

The woman had a mousy look and a blonde bob streaked thinly with gray. She gave a tight smile and furrowed her brows a little as if trying to comprehend having two people at her door.

Sloane and Max took out their IDs.

"I’m Detective Riddle," Sloane said.

Max showed his badge and introduced himself.

The woman’s entire demeanor changed, and her eyes widened. "Oh, is this about Mike? Have you found him?"

"Are you Mrs. Torres?" Sloane asked.

"Yes, I am," she replied, looking past the two detectives. "Where is he?"

"Can we come in?" Sloane asked. "It would be better if we spoke inside."

"Inside?" Mrs. Torres paled a little, and her complexion reminded Sloane of her husband’s. "Yes, please come in." She tried to sound hopeful, but they had not immediately told her that her husband had been found, so the news was not positive.

"Is anyone else in the house?" Max asked. "You have two boys, don't you?"

"They are at school?" Mrs. Torres replied. She frowned again, not understanding the reason for the question being asked.

Mrs. Torres had two teenage boys. They knew that about The Torres family, along with where they lived. Other than that, there was everything still to discover.

"Are they doing well at school?" Sloane asked, hoping to connect a little before she shared the awful news. She also wanted to get Mrs. Torres into the living room and a seat before she broke the news. Nothing could be done once she knew what had happened to her husband, but being in a comfortable chair was a lot better than slumping to the floor in the hallway.

"Yes, they’re doing fine at school," Mrs. Torres replied.

When they got to the living room, Sloane gestured toward the chair so Mrs. Torres could sit while she and Max took the opposite couch. Mrs. Torres stared at the chair momentarily as if she expected someone to be sitting there; then she sat down.

"I’m afraid we have some bad news, Mrs. Torres," Sloane said, choosing to get it over with as quickly as possible.

From the way Mrs. Torres’ face slackened at the words, Sloane could see the woman already knew what was coming. She and Max had been in this position many times before, and one thing was common among almost everyone they had to break the news to. Even when they knew what was coming, they still clung to hope until they heard the words.

Mrs. Torres leaned forward a little in her chair, her features dropping slightly except for the tension she held around her eyes.

"I’m sorry to have to tell you this," Sloane continued, "but your husband was found dead this morning."

Mrs. Torres slumped back into her chair, shaking her head in disbelief. She blinked a couple of times and then scrunched her eyes shut for a few seconds before opening them again. Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she didn't cry or make a sound. She only frowned, continued to shake her head slightly, and stared at Sloane, waiting for answers to the dozens of questions no doubt swirling in her mind.

Sloane gave it a second to sink in before she continued fully. "I know you will want nothing more than to be with your family, your sons, during this time. You can pull them from school and explain what has happened to them, but we do need to ask you a few questions before we go. And we will need you to identify the body formally at some point."

"Can you tell me what happened to him?" Mrs. Torres asked. Some people broke down into inconsolable fits of tears when they were given the news, and other people were shocked into doing something about it straight away. It was also not uncommon for a loved one not to show much initial emotion, breaking down at a later point.

"We don't know everything yet," Max admitted. "You reported him missing four days ago, didn't you?"

"He was gone a full day before that," Mrs. Torres stated matter-of-factly. "I should have reported it sooner. I knew I should have reported it sooner, but they always tell you to wait twenty-four hours, don't they."

"You did nothing wrong," Sloane said. "You put in a report, and the authorities couldn't find him. If you had reported him missing sooner, I don't think it would have changed anything. All we can tell you for now is that someone abducted your husband and held him in a building on the outskirts of the city?"

Mrs. Torres furrowed her brows some more. She looked between Sloane and Max before focusing on Sloane again. "He was kidnapped?"

"We believe so," Sloane said. "We don't know yet who abducted him, and we were hoping you might help us with that. Fill in some of the blanks, so to speak."

"I’ll help you with anything you need," Mrs. Torres said. It sounded like she was part of the team and not someone who had learned her husband had just died.

"Do you know of anyone who might want to harm him?" Max asked.

"Harm him?" Torres replied, shaking her head gently as if it were driven by a clockwork mechanism that would eventually stop working. "He didn't have any enemies or anything like that. But he worked at the prison for a while, and I’m sure none of the inmates there were friends with him."

"Which prison did he work at?" Max asked.

"Thornwood Prison," Mrs. Torres replied.

Sloane took a sharp breath involuntarily. She felt her heart skip a beat at the mention of the prison where her own trauma had occurred. She had worked there as a prison guard and never wanted to venture back into the place.

"Do you know who did it?" Mrs. Torres asked, her eyes lighting up.

"What?" Sloane stuttered. "No, I don't know."

"You look like you know something."

"No, it’s not that. I used to work there. It was a long time ago, now. When did your husband work there?" Sloane asked.

Everything always comes back to the prison as if I will never be free of the place.

Sloane didn't turn to look at Max but could see him looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

"He started there four years ago and worked there until last year," Mrs. Torres said.

"I left before he started," Sloane told her. "I know what it's like to work there, and the inmates don't like the guards, but I haven't heard of any former inmates going after the guards for doing their jobs. Could he have done something to antagonize one of them?"

"No, I don't think so," Mrs. Torres said. "My Mike is a good man. He always did his job and did it well, but he wouldn’t do anything to antagonize any of them there. He told me stories of what the inmates did to each other when the pent-up aggression and anger became too much. He wanted no part of that."

"How about after the prison?" Max asked. "What has he done for work recently?"

"He’s been working in a shipping warehouse, preparing orders to go out across the country. It’s all electronics, but not for one company. It’s like a hub for multiple companies across the US, and all the orders in the area are shipped from Phoenix. No criminals to deal with, but the work can be fast-paced, and if you don't meet your targets, you get in trouble for it."

"Was Mr. Torres ever in trouble at work?" Sloane asked.

"Oh, no, never," Mrs. Torres replied. "The work was hard at times, but he always pushed himself."

"Was there anyone at the warehouse he ever got into trouble with or talked about with you?" Max asked.

"No, never," Mrs. Torres said, snorting as if resenting the suggestion. "Mike always puts in the effort at everything he does. He’s not the most sociable person in the world, but his colleagues and bosses like him. He goes in, does the work, and goes home."

"How about before he went missing?" Sloane asked. "Did he change at all in the days leading up to that?"

"No, not that I remember," Mrs. Torres said. "He was not much of a person for change."

"Where was he going when he went missing?" Max asked.

"To work," Mrs. Torres said. "He left in the morning, and the first that I knew he hadn’t turned up was when he didn't arrive home at his usual time. I called the warehouse, and they told me he never turned up for work that morning. They have so many people working there that people don't show up occasionally, and they don't bother chasing them down. Maybe they tried to call him; I don't know. I tried calling him when I found that out, but his phone rang until going to the answering machine."

"What did you think when he went missing?" Sloane asked. "What was your first instinct?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Torres admitted. For the first time since they had entered the house, Mrs. Torres looked somewhat upset. "I called the hospitals. I thought maybe he was in some sort of accident and was in a hospital bed somewhere. He… there was something a few days before he went missing." Mrs. Torres leaned forward in her chair. "He walks and takes transit to work. When he was returning home two or three days before he went missing, he thought someone was following him. We didn't think anything of it at the time, and I still don't really, but what if someone was following him?"

"Did he know who it was?" Sloane asked.

"No, he didn’t," Mrs. Torres replied. "He just had a feeling he was being watched. It probably sounds silly, doesn’t it?"

"Not at all," Sloane said. "Anything you can tell us about your husband leading up to his disappearance is extremely helpful. Did he say where he thought he was being followed?"

"It was after leaving the warehouse while he was walking to the bus; it’s about a fifteen-minute walk on that end."

"We can check for any CCTV in the area," Max said to Sloane.

"I should have told the officers who came around after I reported the disappearance," Mrs. Torres complained. "I’m such an idiot. It didn't seem important at the time."

"It’s likely nothing," Sloane told her.

On the one hand, she wanted it to be something so they had a lead to follow, but she didn’t want Mrs. Torres to blame herself for the death of her husband.

Mrs. Torres’ eyes lit up. "Maybe he wrote it down," she said. "He was always in his office jotting stuff down. Making lists and researching stuff. You know, like how to fix things. He liked to tinker around the house instead of calling someone in."

"Can we see his office?" Sloane asked.

"Yes, of course." Mrs. Torres stood up. She looked happy to be of use after blaming herself for not thinking of every detail when talking to the officers previously. "It’s right through here." She led them through to the small home office.

Sloane and Max entered the room while Mrs. Torres stood by the door and watched.

They searched the office together, flipping through piles of notes and going through drawers. An old desktop computer sat on and under the desk. Max searched the browser history, but it didn't turn up anything useful. The notes were much as Mrs. Torres had described. Most of them were transcriptions of guides likely found online about how to fix common household issues. There were also random notes about the weather on certain days, transit options for getting to and from work along with other places in the city, and a lot of notes about local wildlife. Nothing pointed them in any direction, and there was nothing about him being followed.

"Hey, look at this," Max said. He held up a small notepad of unlined paper—a larger pad than regular sticky notes, but the same idea. The top of the pad was glued, but pages could be peeled off for whatever use was needed.

Sloane shook her head, not seeing anything written on the pad.

Max put the pad back on the table and took out a pencil, rubbing the lead over the paper. A name appeared where the paper had been indented from writing on the removed sheet above.

Sloane looked at the note when Max was done.

Marcus Chen

Release Date: 16.5.24

What do you want?

That’s a little under two months ago," Sloane said. "We have to assume the release date pertains to Thornwood Prison."

"Could he have been the person following Michael?" Max asked.

"We don't know yet if he was being followed, but Michael Torres was interested in a recently released prisoner, and we need to find out why."

CHAPTER FOUR

Sloane and Max headed back to the office. It was only late afternoon, but it felt like they had been on the go for twenty-four hours. They grabbed some subs on the way back, taking them to the office to eat while they made a start on the case. It would still be some time until the autopsy report came back, but there were crime scene photos to go through, Marcus Chen to find, and Michael Torres’ life to look into. Sloane was sure Mrs. Torres would talk to them more, but she didn't want to bother the woman when she would be grieving. She didn't show signs of it when they had spoken to her, but Sloane knew it was bubbling below the surface. It always was. The best thing for Mrs. Torres was to be with her children as they came to terms with not having a father anymore.

"Where do you want to start?" Max asked when they got back to the office.

The office was just off the main office area in the precinct, and while not many of the officers and other detectives were talking, there was still a lot of background noise. The clicking of keyboards, the screeching of chairs moving in and out, footsteps, and printers all combined to give the building a low hum that Sloane found comforting. It was a noise she was used to, and on those rare occasions when the office suddenly became silent, she found she wasn’t able to concentrate as well.

"I want another look at the crime scene," Sloane said. "I’ll go through the photos they took there."

"I’ll see what I can find out about Marcus Chen," Max said. "Maybe we can pay him a visit this evening."

Sloane nodded. She pushed her back against the cushioned chair, stretching out a little, then took a large bite of her sub and placed it on the paper to the right of her keyboard.

Her desk was as messy as Max’s, but there was a method to the chaos. It was like the noise in the main office area—it helped her to concentrate, and if her desk were clean and organized, it wouldn’t be the same.

Sloane opened the folder with the crime scene photos while Max went to work on his laptop, trying to locate Marcus Chen.

There were photos of the room where the body had been found, some of them close-up images of the padding, window cover, and bedpan that Sloane had spotted. The zip ties on Michael Torres’ wrists looked generic, and the chain and padlock that tethered him to the pipe on the wall were the same. A close-up of the victim’s face showed the stretched skin and chapped lips in more detail but didn't give anything additional. There were photos of his hands—they looked dirty from scrambling around in the dirt of the abandoned building, but there didn't seem to be anything else visible under the fingernails.

It doesn't look like there are any signs of a struggle.

Addition photos showed the rest of Michael Torres, but his body wasn’t fully uncovered—she would have to wait for the autopsy for that. Still, there were no injuries except for the abrasions around his wrists. The photos so far backed up the assumption that Michael Torres had not fought back against his captor.

The pictures of the floors were of more interest to Sloane, especially the ones in the hallway. She studied the marks in the dust. There were multiple sets of footprints, most overlapping each other, but some clear pictures had been taken of the shoe prints before they had been stepped on and lost. A ruler lay beside one of them, showing the show was a size ten. It didn't prove anything conclusive, but it made it more likely to be a man than a woman. There was also a single drag mark through the hallway, mostly obscured by the footprints but visible in parts. The strength needed to drag a body through the abandoned hospital, along with the shoe size, strongly suggested the captor was a man.

"He dragged Michael Torres through the building to the prepared room," Sloane said to Max. "Michael must have been unconscious at the time, either knocked out or drugged. Most likely drugged with there being no visible head injuries."

Max looked across the desk, holding the phone to his ear. As the phone rang, he nodded, indicating that he had received the information.

"Hi," Max said after the person on the other end of the phone answered. "My name is Detective Callahan. I’m hoping you can give me some information about a former inmate and former employee of yours. I don't have anything specific I am looking for, but if there were any interactions or altercations between the two, that would be helpful to our investigations…Yes, I can hold."

Max held the phone to his ear but covered the bottom with one hand to better address Sloane.

"The release date is accurate," Max told her. "Marcus was in prison for four years for aggravated assault, so his time there would have overlapped with Michael Torres. I’m having trouble locating where Mr. Chen is right now."

Max raised his eyebrows, and Sloane could hear the person was back on the other end of the line. Max went back to his conversation with his contact at the prison, and Sloane moved on to find out more about Michael Torres.

She requested his phone data, hoping that he might have contacted the person who abducted him. She also asked the tech department to find any CCTV cameras between Michael’s workplace and the bus stop where he took his bus home. Sloane hoped they would find footage of Marcus Chen following Michael Torres and that the case would be wrapped up quickly. However, she had worked enough cases to know it was usually not as simple as that. She also put in a request for the missing person file that had been created for Michael Torres.

"Thank you," Max said, ending the call with the prison.

"Anything?" Sloane asked.

"Either the wife is lying about her husband, or he didn't tell her everything," Max said.

"What did you find?" Sloane asked.

"Apparently, there were multiple altercations between Marcus Chen and many of the prison guards at Thornwood Prison, and at least three of the altercations were with Michael Torres. Marcus Chen attacked Michael Torres on three separate occasions, and on the third, Michael Torres put Marcus Chen in the infirmary."

"What happened?"

"They’re sending the report over, but from what she told me, the investigation showed that Michael Torres was defending himself and hit Marcus with his baton. It was only one blow, but it was enough to crack his skull. He was taken to the infirmary immediately and treated. After a thorough investigation, Michael Torres was not found guilty of any wrongdoing."

"I don't think the wife was lying to us, but I could be wrong," Sloane said. "She appears very straightforward and forthcoming. If that’s the case, then it seems more likely Michael didn't tell his wife about putting one of the inmates in the infirmary. That would be something you would remember."

"It sounds like self-defense, but maybe he was worried Marcus would want revenge. Maybe Marcus threatened that before Michael left the prison. Michael would have been worried about Marcus being released. Marcus was locked in a cell—he might have done the same to Michael Torres."

"Which means we really need to find Marcus Chen," Sloane said. "We know the wife believes no one would want to hurt her husband. We’ve just found the person most likely to want to hurt him."

Sloane’s workstation beeped.

"Do you have something?" Max asked.

"I don't know yet," Sloane said. She clicked to open the file. "I ran a search through our system, hoping to find something on Marcus Chen from the past two months, and I got a hit."

"What has he done now?" Max asked.

"I don't know if he’s necessarily done anything," Sloane replied. "He was in a car accident, but it was the other driver, Benny Jenson, who was arrested for drunk driving. Officer Lagos from the fifty-second precinct was the arresting officer. We must get over there now and find out if Officer Lagos can point us toward Marcus."

***

Sloane and Max were led into the precinct's main office area, where the officer pointed them in the direction of Lagos. The officer sat at a desk with his back to them. He was tall, apparent even when sitting, and had striking blonde hair. He nodded his head as he wrote a report at his station.

"Officer Lagos?" Sloane asked as they approached the desk.

The officer straightened and turned to face the two detectives. "Yeah?"

"Detective Riddle," Sloane said, showing her badge.

Max followed suit. "Detective Callahan."

Sloane had a copy of the report in her hand. She showed it to the officer. "We’re hoping you can help us with our investigation, Officer Lagos. You arrested a man for drunk driving, but we’re more interested in the other party, Marcus Chen. Do you have any contact information for Mr. Chen?"

"Has he done something?" the officer asked. "I thought he was shifty when I spoke to him. He was the victim, so I couldn’t do much about that, even after I ran his name and discovered he had a record. He did leave a number, but you won't reach him there. I called the number to follow up on a few details, and it wasn’t his. I didn't bother trying to find him; the drunk driver's case is closed now. You might have more luck at the hospital. He was taken to St. Cuthbert’s after the accident. Maybe he used legitimate information for insurance. They might be able to help you more than I can."

"Thank you," Sloane said before they turned and left the precinct.

***

"Marcus Chen?" the receptionist asked. "Let me see if I can find his file."

"He was brought in a couple of weeks ago, and we need any information he gave you before he left," Sloane said. "It was a car accident."

"Yes, his file is here. Name, address, phone number," the receptionist said.

"Let’s hope they lead to him," Max said.

Sloane was about to ask for a copy of the information when the receptionist spoke first.

"You said before he left?" she asked. "Looks like his injuries were pretty serious. He’s still in recovery."

"What?" Sloane asked. "You mean he’s still here."

"Floor three, ward four, room two-one-eight," the receptionist said.

Sloane looked at Max, and they didn’t need to say anything. Both of them ran from the reception desk toward the stairs. They took them two at a time, side by side, up to the third floor. They both looked at the sign in the corridor through the door at the top of the stairs and ran left toward Ward four. There was a set of double doors, but they were not locked. The two detectives moved through the doors and past a small reception desk where two nurses looked at them but didn't say anything or try to stop them.

Sloane watched the numbers on the doors as they moved past them quickly, counting down the numbers until…

Two-one-eight.

Sloane and Max pushed through the open door together to come face to face with… a recently vacated bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sloane couldn’t move for a moment as she stared down at the hospital bed. The blankets had been pulled to the side, and the pillow had a clear indent in it. She turned around, looking not only for Marcus Chen but for someone who might have tipped him off to their coming. She didn't understand how he had quickly exited without them spotting him.

She and Max were about to dash from the room to catch Marcus Chen before he left the hospital when the toilet flushed. Sloane and Max both spun in silence to focus on the door to the right of the bed. Sloane thought for the briefest time of drawing her gun and noticed Max’s hand flinched over his. Neither of them pulled a weapon.

The bathroom door opened, and Marcus Chen joined their silence for a second, stopping in the doorway when he saw the two people standing in his room, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he studied them.

The ex-convict was short and wiry with a thin layer of stubble across his chin and wavy, messy black hair atop his head.

"What’s going on?" he asked.

"Marcus Chen?" Sloane replied.

Marcus eyed both detectives warily before hopping toward the bed. He wore a hospital gown, and a bandage was visible around his ankle.

"My name is Detective Riddle," Sloane introduced. "And my partner, Detective Callahan. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

"What is this about?" Marcus asked as he grabbed the rail on the opposite side of the bed to pull himself in. He didn't ask if it was about the car accident. Marcus groaned a little as he hoisted himself into the bed, wincing. He held a hand to his ribs when he was back in bed.

"You look like you are still in some pain," Max noted as he and Sloane approached the bed.

"I’m doing alright," Marcus replied, not giving anything away. "Is that why you’re here? I thought the case was closed."

"It is," Sloane said. "That’s not why we are here. Do you know an ex-prison guard by the name of Michael Torres?"

"Yeah, I do," Marcus said.

"He put you in the infirmary back when you were in Thornwood Prison," Sloane continued. "How did that happen?"

"Don't remember much," Marcus said with a slight smile. "Took a nasty blow to the head."

"The report details it being self-defense," Max said. "What do you think about that?"

"I think it's weird that you are asking me questions about Michael Torres when I’m stuck in here because of a drunk driver. What did Torres say to you?"

"Why would he say anything to us?" Max asked.

"You tell me," Marcus said. "He called me right after I was released from prison, begging me not to come after him."

"Michael Torres called you?" Sloane asked, surprised.

"Yeah."

"And did you listen to that plea?" Sloane asked.

"What are you talking about?" Marcus frowned and ran his bottom lip over his teeth. "Did I go after him? I don't want to see any of them ever again."

"Any of them? The prison guards?" Max asked.

"I’m not going back there," Marcus said. "Got myself a job and a place, and I want to be left alone."

"Why would he be worried about you coming after him?" Max asked.

"Because I told him I would," Marcus said. "The day before his last at the prison, I told him I would find him and do what he did to me."

"You threatened him," Max said. "You could—"

"Nah, it’s not like that," Marcus interrupted. "I told you I don't want to go back there. I’m not stupid. I had no intention of ever finding him; I wanted him to be looking over his shoulder when I got out. Nothing worse than the expectation of being attacked. He deserved that."

"For what?" Sloane asked.

"For self-defense," Marcus replied.

"How about you give it to us straight instead of these insinuations," Sloane suggested.

"He was one of the worst," Marcus said, twisting his lips and flaring his nostrils. "He always did everything by the book, never willing to budge an inch. Most of the guards will let some things go, and in return, the inmates take care of some things by themselves. It’s give and take, even if we hate each other. Michael wouldn’t budge. Everything by the book, rules always followed, and he never lashed out at the inmates. Oh, no, he never beat anyone for fun or went straight to violence to resolve an issue. As I said, everything was done by the book; deescalation 101. Except, he acted in self-defense far more than anyone else. I wasn’t the only one he put in the infirmary. He put more inmates there than anyone else, but it was always self-defense."

"Do you know anyone who might want to hurt him?" Sloane asked.

"I know many people who would want to hurt him," Marcus said. "But, yeah, there was one guy I was in there with. He hated Michael, but it was more than just hate. If anyone would be out to get Michael, it would be him."

"Did he talk to you about getting revenge when he was released from prison?" Sloane asked.

"No, he never spoke about it. Kevin was quiet, but I could see it in his eyes. He came back from the infirmary one time and he didn't speak for a week. I remember watching him because I thought he might flip out and just start killing everyone around him. He had this intensity that—" Marcus shivered in his bed. "Have you ever looked anyone in the eyes and known exactly what they are capable of?"

Sloane nodded.

"I saw it in his eyes. He spent a week not saying a word to anyone, sitting alone in the cafeteria and the yard, but the entire time, he stared at Michael. There was an intensity in the way he looked at that guard. Kevin never mentioned revenge once, but he wanted it. If anyone did anything to Michael, it was Kevin. What happened to him anyway?"

"You’ve been in here for the past two weeks?" Max asked, changing the subject.

Marcus placed a hand on his chest. "One broken rib and a fractured ankle. I must have been running on adrenaline because right after the crash, I managed to drag the other driver from his car, and I would have knocked him out if he wasn’t already unconscious. I didn't want to come to the hospital at first."

"Alright, I think we are done here," Sloane said. "Thank you for your time, Marcus."

"You know where I am if you need to talk to me again," Marcus said, waving to them as they left.

"What do you think?" Max asked when they left the room.

"It doesn't look like he’s faking his injuries, but we’ll talk to the nursing staff."

"Then we’ll chase down Kevin Walsh," Max said. "It’s already been a long day, but I’d like to find out where he is so we can pay him a visit first thing in the morning."

"Nurses first and then back to the station again," Sloane agreed.

***

The man turned the large steering wheel of the van and turned down the side road past the warehouse buildings. It was a location he had chosen months ago as one of the places he would take one of them. The abandoned hospital had served its purpose, even if the experiment had ended in failure. That failure did not deter him.

The warehouses were in the city's industrial area, but he had brought soundproofing materials just to be safe. The noise from the nearby factories drowned out any noise that would come from his prepared room, but he couldn’t rule out a vagrant or a group of interested teens venturing into one of the buildings and hearing his captive.

He stopped the van by one of the abandoned warehouses and got out of the vehicle. He wore a high-visibility vest, so he looked like he was supposed to be there. If anyone watched him unloading his equipment, they would just think he was doing some authorized work in the building. Of course, he had scouted the area, and there was unlikely anyone nearby.

I will have more time with this one, but that does not mean I can take my time. I had a week in the abandoned warehouse, and that was enough. I don't know how long I have here, but I have to count every second as fleeting.

The man went to the back of the van and opened the double doors. He pulled out a couple of squares of soundproofing and took them into the building. He walked through the large front area to the back, where there was a walk-in freezer. No power was connected, and it was unlikely the freezer worked anymore, but it was the perfect place to test the next person. He placed the material against the interior side wall and made his way back to the van to unload some more.

The man had been in the room before, taking some time to sweep it out and ensure there were no structural issues. Once the door was closed and locked, he needed them to remain in the room until it happened.

Once he had unloaded all of the soundproofing material, the man stood inside the freezer and closed the door on himself. He had checked on a previous visit that the transformation chamber could be opened from the inside. He would need to close himself in with his next test subject, and it would be foolish not to have an easy exit.

The man stood in the darkness and listened. He looked into the pitch-black darkness, turning around slowly to survey what he should not be able to see. He had trained himself, and it was time to train others. They only had to give themselves over to him for their true potential to be unlocked. He put out his hands to each side, raising his arms as if being crucified. He could feel the air moving around his fingers, smell the rot and decay that still lingered in the freezer, and taste a faint metallic tang in the air.

He took a deep breath and smiled in the darkness.

Once you see what I can see, you will finally understand.

The man pushed the handle on the back of the door, and it opened to let the light back in. He did not want to cross back over from the darkness to the light, but there was work to be done. He went back to his van to retrieve the remainder of his equipment: tools to attach the soundproof panels to the wall, blocks of wax, a blindfold and head covering, ropes and zip ties, and the padlock for the outer door.

He had not worked out a solution for the disposal of human waste yet, but he was working on it. Cleaning out the bedpan after Michael Torres had used it was revolting but a necessary evil. Still, not giving them food or water cuts down on the amount of waste generated.

When he was done unloading, the man stopped again just inside the freezer door. He looked over the materials, making sure he had not forgotten anything. This was only a delivery; he would come back another time to install the equipment. For now, he left the freezer, closed the door, and padlocked it. The lock would deter anyone who entered the warehouse, not that he expected that to happen.

He stood in the middle of the open warehouse, staring at the freezer. He was excited not for the end result, but what he inflicted on them before it. He knew that if the senses were impaired long enough, it was the key to unlocking true human potential. It was a gift he would bestow on the world, no matter how many people had to die in the process.

He took one more breath and turned from the freezer. It was time to choose the next test subject.

CHAPTER SIX

Sloane rubbed her eyes as she sat at her desk. There had been no dreams to disturb her sleep the previous night, but she still hadn’t slept well, waking almost every hour on the hour as if her body wanted to protect her from any oncoming dreams. She felt as rough as she did when she woke after a nightmare.

"Everything okay?" Max asked from the other side of the desk.

"Yeah, fine," Sloane said, pushing out her chest to stretch her spine. "I didn't sleep great."

The precinct's unusually quiet atmosphere was characterized by a low hum as if the regular cacophony of noise had been muffled. However, that would change as the day went on. They had arrived early to get started on the day.

"Did we get anything on Kevin Walsh yet?" Sloane asked.

"There’s no current address listed on his file," Max replied. "I’ve left a message with his parole officer, so we will wait for him to get back to me soon, or I’ll call him again. There have been no parole violations since he was released six months ago, so we have to assume he’s still in the city and hasn’t gotten himself into trouble again."

Sloane could only think of Brendan and how he had gotten back into trouble after being released from prison. She still hadn’t received any word from him.

"Looks like the autopsy report is in," Sloane said when her workstation was fired up. She and Max both had mugs of black coffee taken from the coffee maker in the break room. The first brew was always the best before it became diluted by coffee being brewed over and over into the same pot and left to sit on the heater all day.

"Anything helpful?" Max asked.

"No injuries anywhere," Sloane said, flipping through the autopsy photos. "When he was abducted, there was no struggle, and he wasn’t abused during his captivity. The only injuries he has, the abrasions on his wrists and some bruising on his knees, are consistent with trying to get out of the restraints or escape from his cell. They did find cotton fibers in his ears."

"Cotton fibers?" Max asked.

"Yeah, as if cotton wool was stuffed in there."

"So, what? The killer didn't want his victim to hear him?" Max asked.

"No, it must be more than that," Sloane said. "When we were at the crime scene, there were other rooms he could have used to keep Michael Torres captive, but he chose one with a window and boarded it up. He wanted the padded room to make it more comfortable, but he also chose a room he could seal in darkness. That and the cotton wool in the ears makes me think this is some form of sensory deprivation."

"So, take away sight and hearing and slowly drive the captive mad?" Max asked.

"You don't have to do it for very long to drive someone insane," Sloane said. "When that happens, a padded room is not a bad idea."

"Is that how he tortures them?" Max asked. "He doesn't physically abuse them but mentally abuses them?"

"That’s what it looks like," Sloane agreed. "The cause of death was dehydration. The body basically shut down. They put the time of death around twelve hours before the body was found, and they estimate that he was held in the room, or held captive, for almost five days before he died."

"What a way to go," Max admitted. "I don't know. Maybe he slipped into some delirium before he died and didn't realize what was going on. I want to pass in my sleep, not like that."

"Don't we all?" Sloane said. We also got the missing person report." Sloane opened that on her workstation. "Let me see… They traced Michael Torres's route to work on the day he went missing. The walk from his house to the bus stop takes around twenty minutes, taking him through a residential area and two green spaces. The bus driver doesn't remember Michael Torres getting on the bus that day but can't be completely sure. They spoke to as many people as they could along the route who might have seen Michael Torres that morning but came up with blanks. They acquired some CCTV footage from businesses on both ends of the journey, but nothing showed Michael Torres, let alone him being taken by anyone. He essentially just disappeared."

"So, we have nothing," Max said. "The security guard who found him gave a full statement, and he has enough of an alibi over the past week to rule him out, giving us more of nothing. What we are left with is a man going missing and no one seeing anything. Then, days later, he turns up in an abandoned hospital, dead from dehydration."

"That’s exactly what we have," Sloane said.

That was all they had until a couple of hours later when Kevin Walsh’s parole officer got back to Max and told him exactly where he could find the ex-inmate.

***

Kevin Walsh lived in a halfway house but didn't spend much time there. The parole officer had instructed Max that they had a better chance of finding him at his work office before he headed out on his rounds.

"Is it a coincidence that Kevin Walsh is the second person we will speak to during this investigation who is a security guard?" Max asked. "The guy who found Michael Torres was a security guard, too."

"At the moment, it’s a coincidence," Sloane admitted. "Let’s find out if it is more than that."

They passed through an open gate and stood at the front of the building before finding a space close to the front door. The office was the main hub where the security guards would congregate to get their company vehicles and routes for their shifts.

Sloane and Max exited the vehicle and found the front door unlocked. There was no reception area, but rather a small office and employee area. The employees at the desks wore plain clothes, while those seated in the comfortable seats were mixed—some in security guard uniforms and others still in plain clothes—either not yet changed into their uniforms or having recently finished a shift.

Sloane wanted to smile when the place fell quiet. She felt like they were in the Old West and had entered a saloon. She looked at the faces looking back at her, checking for Kevin Walsh amongst the crowd.

"We’re looking for Kevin Walsh," Max asserted, taking the lead.

"Who’s asking?" the reply came from the back of the room.

Sloane looked to where the voice came from and recognized Kevin from his mugshot on file. He was a few years older but looked much the same.

"We need to ask you a few questions," Max said. "Better to do it here if we can than to take you down to the station."

"I’m about to start my shift," Kevin replied.

"Then we’d better get started," Max told him.

Kevin stood up and rolled his eyes, then looked over toward one of the desks.

"Use the back room," the man told Kevin.

Kevin shook his head and walked toward the back room. Sloane and Max followed him, and everyone watched them until they passed through the door leading to the back room. Sloane noticed that the chatter resumed as soon as they were out of the room, and she smiled.

The back room was larger than Sloane expected. It consisted of a seating area that looked like it was used for more private conversations—interviews, disciplinaries, and the like —and a storage unit for boxes of files.

Kevin Walsh's dark eyes contrasted starkly with his pale complexion. He was around the same height as Max but not as broad. Still, his posture and intense look suggested he didn't mind getting into a fight with a man bigger than him.

"You’re working as a security guard now," Max noted.

Kevin clicked his tongue. "I’m sorry, but I need to see some ID before answering any of your questions."

Max obliged him, showing his ID. Sloane followed suit.

"So, now that you know we are detectives, can you confirm that you work as a security guard?" Max asked.

"Yeah, I do," Kevin said confrontationally. "Making a go of it now I’m out of prison."

"They know you’re an ex-con?" John asked, "From what I’ve heard, security firms don't usually hire people with a record."

"They like to give second chances, don't they."

"I presume you have rounds all over the city," Sloane said.

"I go wherever they tell me, but they mainly keep us on the same routes. What’s this about anyway? I’ve done nothing wrong," Kevin said.

"Does the name Michael Torres mean anything to you?" Sloane asked.

Kevin scoffed. "Michael Torres? Yeah, I knew him. I hope he’s rotting in hell."

"You didn't get on with him?" Sloane asked.

"No, I didn’t, but you already know that, don't you?" Kevin replied.

"What makes you say that?" Sloane asked.

"I’ve been around enough cops and their questions to know what they want to know and what they already know," Kevin said. "You’ll have read my file, and you already know I had some run-ins with him in prison. He put me in the infirmary on multiple occasions. He acted holier than thou, and he was the worst of them. Wait, is that what this is all about? Did something happen to him? I really hope something did because he deserves everything coming to him."

"Why is that, Kevin?" Max asked. "What does he deserve?"

Kevin’s nostrils flared as he thought about it. He took a moment to calm himself before answering. "You don't understand how prison works, do you? It’s not just that you’re locked up in there; it’s a battle against the whole prison system, and if you turn your back for a second, your fellow inmates will take their chance to stab you in it." He took a step toward Sloane. "You don't ever want to be in a place like that because it’s kill or be killed. They stick you in a small cell, and you don't know when you’ll get out."

Sloane breathed a little heavier as she listened to Kevin's rant. She knew exactly what it was like to be in prison, but from the other side. As she listened to him talking about being in a small cell, she found she couldn't speak. It was all of her nightmares come true.

"The guards beat you with hatred in their eyes, no matter what you’re in there for," Kevin continued. "They’re not there to do their jobs; they’re there to make your life a misery, and they enjoy it. They relish beating on us."

Sloane’s pulse quickened as she listened to him. She couldn't speak to his experience in jail, but she could to her own, and it made her blood boil to hear his words. She was the one who had suffered abuse at the hands of the inmates and not the other way around. She felt her heart thumping in her chest.

"Most of us come out of there wanting to kill our captors, so if something has happened to Torres, then I’m glad. I hope he’s dead," Kevin said.

"He was your captor, so you made him your captive?" Max asked. "Is that what happened?"

Sloane couldn't bear it any longer. The room they were in was not overly small, but it felt like the walls were closing in on her. She thought she had control of herself, but his words took her back to the prison, the memories of abuse fighting in the back of her mind to be brought to the forefront. She looked Kevin Walsh in the eye as he spoke down to her and could see his disdain for law enforcement.

"We’re taking you down to the station," Sloane said. She grabbed Kevin and spun him around to cuff him.

"What are you doing?" Kevin asked. "Get off me!" He struggled against her.

Sloane could barely breathe as she took her handcuffs from her belt and slapped one cuff on Kevin’s left wrist.

"What are you doing?" Max hissed in her ear.

Sloane knew what she was doing was wrong, but something had snapped inside her. Max knew it was wrong, too, but he backed her up and grabbed Kevin’s right arm to force his wrist into the other cuff.

As soon as Kevin was in cuffs, Sloane stormed from the room. She didn't care about the eyes on her as she practically ran through the main office area. When she got outside, the fresh air slapped her in the face like a wet towel, and she almost stumbled and fell. Sloane walked five quick steps in the opposite direction of Max’s car, struggling to breathe.

"What have I done?" she asked herself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hey, how are you doing?" Max asked when Sloane came out of the precinct bathroom.

"I’m sorry, Max," Sloane moaned. "I messed up back there. I don't know what came over me."

"Don’t over-think this," Max said. He took her by the arm and led her down the hallway and away from the officer approaching the bathrooms. "You messed up. So what? Big whoop!"

"Big whoop?" Sloane asked.

"Do you know how much we all mess up every day?" Max asked. "You have the best record in the department. Yes, that means when you mess up, it’s scrutinized more, but cut yourself some slack, Riddle. I’d like it if you messed up a little more to make me look better."

Sloane smiled and shook her head.

"I mean it," Max told her. "Don't worry about what happened back there. I have your back. I heard the way he was talking about Michael Torres. We had enough probable cause to bring him in, so that’s not an issue. What is the issue is you freaking out like that."

"I’m fine," Sloane said. "It’s just with everything—"

"You’re not fine," Max stated, "and nor should you be. I know you have a lot going on, and you have a right to freak out from time to time, but this was about the prison, wasn’t it? I was there, Riddle. I heard what he said about inmates and guards. I saw how you reacted to that. It got to you, and you snapped at him. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. I don't mean that it shouldn’t have happened, only that it shouldn’t have happened there. You have trauma to deal with, and this will happen again. See, this is why you can't ever have another partner. No one else understands you as I do."

"Now, there’s a scary thought," Sloane said.

"Seriously, if you want to talk about any of this, I’m here for you."

"I know," Sloane said. "I don't want to talk about it right now. I’d rather forget about it if that’s alright."

"It’s fine," Max said.

"How is our prisoner doing since we brought him in?" Sloane asked.

"You’re not the only person freaking out," Max said. "Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. He’s been punching the wall and kicking the door and pretty much shouting at anyone who gets close to the cell. He wants out of there, and that tells me that he has something he’s not telling us."

"Alright, let’s get him in the interview room so we can get this over with. I would like to forget all about this as soon as possible," Sloane said. "Whether that means arresting him for murder or letting him go, I don't care."

Max raised an eyebrow at his partner.

"I don't mean to be so flippant," Sloane said. "I want to arrest whoever is responsible for the death of Michael Torres, but I want to stop internally cringing at my actions back there."

"You still look a little shaken, and after the altercation back at the security offices, I think it’s best if I do the talking in the interview room," Max said.

"You can't stop me from questioning him," Sloane complained.

"Hey, I have your back, and I always will, but that means you also need to listen to me when I’m being the voice of reason," Max said. "Even if you are in a good frame of mind to question the subject, he’ll give you less than he’ll give me, and we both know it."

Sloane tried to think of a logical argument against that, but she was all out.

"Alright, fine," was all she could manage

"Good," Max said. "I’ll go get him and take him to the interview room. I’ll meet you there."

Sloane nodded. She went back into the bathroom and ran the cold water, holding her hands under the flowing water and then rubbing her hands on her face. Her nostrils flared, and her cheeks were pink, but it had nothing to do with what Max had said. It was due to the memories of the past resurfacing. Sloane knew she had to deal with them, but she could only handle so much at a time, and now wasn’t the time to be dwelling on the past when there was a case to solve.

When she felt ready, Sloane went to join Max at the door to the interview room.

"You ready to go in?" Max asked.

"I am." Sloane nodded. "I’m sorry about what happened back there—the security offices and just now. I’m fine with you asking the questions."

"Good," Max said. "Let’s see if he’s calmed down some."

"Did he ask for a lawyer?" Sloane asked.

"Not yet," Max replied.

They entered the room to find Kevin Walsh sitting at the small table near the back corner of the room. He had been handcuffed to the table. Kevin was a suspect in the case, but they had nothing on him yet to suggest he was the killer. Still, he had lashed out in his cell, and the cuffs were for Max and Sloane’s protection.

When Sloane sat down, she looked Kevin in the eyes. He stared intently back at her. His nostrils were flared, and his cheeks slightly red. If it weren’t for the handcuffs, she would be worried he would leap across the table and attack her.

"Mr. Walsh, thank you for coming in today to speak with us," Max said.

"Not like I had any choice," Kevin replied, not taking his eyes off Sloane. There was something more in his look than just anger.

"Mr. Walsh, you admitted to us that you wanted Michael Torres dead, and he is dead. Would you care to comment on that?" Max asked.

"Just because I want him dead, that doesn't mean I killed him," Kevin replied. "I am very glad he’s dead, but I had nothing to do with it."

"We were told that, of all the inmates in the prison, you had the biggest grudge against him," Max said.

"So what if I did?" Kevin asked. "And how do you even figure that? Who have you been talking to?"

Max didn't answer that.

"It doesn't matter," Kevin said. "Sure, I talked about him a lot when I was in there, but I wasn’t the only one. If you spoke to most of the inmates during his time there, you’d find that almost everyone had a grudge against him. No one will shed a tear when they hear of his passing."

"You mean none of the inmates," Max corrected.

Kevin snorted. "Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m sure from their point of view, he did a great job."

"You mean the other prison guards?" Max asked.

"Anyone in the prison system," Kevin replied. "Listen, I’m happy he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him."

"You still haven’t given us an alibi for the past week," Max said.

"I told you when you brought me in that I’ve been working this past week and to check in with my office."

"Yeah, you said that, but see, that doesn't help us, does it?" Max said. "You do your rounds by yourself, and your rounds take you around mainly vacated buildings at night. We don't have any way to verify where you were except for your word."

"They have trackers in all the cars," Kevin said. He was a lot more serious now that his alibi was being questioned.

"Well, we’re still waiting on hearing back from your employer with all the data, and the longer it takes, the more concerned I become. The abandoned hospital on the edge of the city. Do you check that building as part of your rounds?"

"What?" Kevin asked.

"Do you go out there?" Max asked again.

"I told you where I do my rounds. Mainly the industrial areas and the empty buildings, and there are a couple of dozen office buildings that I check through the night once everyone has gone home. I don't go outside the city at all. I only look after a small area of the city. I don't know what more to tell you."

"I only want to help you, Kevin," Max said. "I want to clear you of his murder, but you haven’t given me any information that has helped. I don't know what else to think."

"Yeah, well, think what you want," Kevin said. "You can't keep me here if you don't have anything on me. It was bad enough that you hauled me out of my workplace, but if I miss work, they’ll start giving my shifts to the other guys."

"We need to keep you here until we’ve verified what you’ve said," Max told him. "The sooner your employer gets back to us, the quicker you can get back to your employer."

Kevin didn't look as fierce as he had when Sloane had sat down, but he still stared at her intently. He had calmed, and so had she, as if they were inextricably linked.

"We’re done for now," Max said. "We’ll take you back to your cell."

"You can't keep me without probable cause," Max said, becoming agitated again.

"We can keep you for forty-eight hours," Max said.

"What else do you want to know?" Kevin asked.

"What else do you want to tell us?" Max replied.

"I’ve told you everything," Kevin said. "I didn't kill him, and that’s the truth."

"Alright," Max said, standing.

The fire was back in Kevin’s eyes, and he finally looked at Max and not Sloane, the flames flickering in his gaze. He breathed heavily, his nostrils flaring once more.

"Give me a second," Sloane said to Max.

Max stopped moving and looked at Sloane, then at Kevin, before looking at Sloane again.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Two minutes," Sloane said. "I need to ask him something."

Max held her gaze but knew better than to question her before the witness she wanted to question. If there was one thing Sloane and Max both knew, it was to always display a united front.

Max nodded and slowly left the room.

Sloane remained sitting. When the door closed behind Max, she finally spoke.

"I shouldn’t have brought you in like that," Sloane said. "But you know we have to keep you here for now. You admitted to wanting him dead, and you have a good reason for wanting him dead. What happened when you got put in the cell?"

Kevin had been following along, but he cocked his head, and his eyes widened a little. "Huh?"

"What happened you were put in a holding cell here at the station?" Sloane asked.

"What the heck kind of a question is that?" Kevin replied.

"A simple one," Sloane said.

"What’s this got to do with the guard’s death?"

"Nothing and everything," Sloane said. "You had flared nostrils and a manic look on your face when I first sat down."

"I don't have to answer any of your questions, especially ones as idiotic as you are asking now."

"No, you don't, but I think you would prefer to sit here and draw the time out rather than go back to your cell."

Sloane watched Kevin, trying to discern exactly what he was thinking. She waited, but he didn't reply.

"You mentioned earlier that my partner and I didn’t know what it was like to be in prison," Sloane said. "You’re only partly right about that. I don’t know what it’s like to be an inmate, but I worked as a prison guard at Thornwood Prison. I know what goes on in there and what can happen to the inmates and guards. I also believe I know why you don't ever want to return to prison."

"Yeah? Do you?" Kevin asked. His look was a mix of derision and fear.

"We didn't treat you well with how we brought you in, but it didn't warrant your actions in the cell, and I don't often see that look in someone when I first come into the room. Yet, I did see that look in someone else today." Sloane paused. She didn't want to connect with him in any way, but that was out of her hands. "It messed you up being in there, didn't it?"

Kevin held her gaze but only shrugged.

"I know that being in prison changes you. I’ve been around enough criminals to know that. It messed me up, too. Are you getting any help for it?"

"Help?" Kevin scoffed. "You’re out of your mind."

"I’m not," Sloane said. "Well, maybe that depends on how you look at it. What happened when you were brought here and put in a cell?"

"Nothing happened," Kevin claimed.

"I have nightmares," Sloane said. "I don't like being in confined spaces. I feel like I can't control anything. I feel like the walls are closing in on me sometimes. I hate the feeling of not being in control."

Sloane couldn't believe she was being so vulnerable in front of a suspect, but if what she suspected was true, she knew Kevin Walsh was not the man they were looking for. She held his gaze and waited, needing a morsel from him. She watched as his eyes flickered. He could hide his emotions everywhere except for his eyes. She saw the pain, anger, betrayal, embarrassment, hatred, rage, and weakness pass through them.

"I don't want to go back to the cell," Kevin said finally. He sounded pitiful when he said it like a small child not wanting to be punished.

Sloane could see how much the words cost him. It was an effort just to get them out.

"Why?" Sloane asked.

"I don't do well in small spaces," Kevin admitted. "I spent six years in a cell, and it did something to my brain. I can be in small spaces like that, but I sometimes freak out when I am. I can't help it. I didn't want to punch up your cell, but…"

"I know," Sloane said. "I understand."

Kevin stared at Sloane, and the mix of rage and annoyance was there. He felt annoyed to have shared something so personal with the detective who’d arrested and interviewed him. Perhaps some annoyance that he felt better to have done so.

"We’ll figure out a way to hold you for now as long as you cooperate with us," Sloane said. "Once we look at the data, we’ll decide how to progress, but I believe we can release you once we have everything."

Kevin said nothing after that. Sloane got up from the table and left the room to find Max.

Kevin Walsh suffered as she did. Sloane was certain he had some form of PTSD. He didn't like enclosed spaces, and while he might want to hurt those who had put him in a confined space, she definitely didn’t think he could do so calmly, or without doing some harm to himself. Michael Torres had been held and visited by someone who had been in that small, dark room with him, and remained untouched through it all.

That person was not Kevin Walsh.

Still, that meant their killer was still out there, and Sloane had no idea whether he would kill again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sarah Patel stretched as she exited the clinic after her shift. Working in urgent care was stressful, even the night shift. It was much quieter, but that also meant fewer staff working, so the load was the same—sometimes more. She had stitched up two patients, sent another off for an X-ray, and monitored a baby with a fever. It was always a good night when there were no deaths.

It was still dark outside, but the sky was clear. Stars dotted the blackness, twinkling above Sarah and making her feel like she was in a fairy tale. As she had done her rounds, she had seen the moon from the second-floor window of the clinic, but a tall building on the other side of the parking lot now obscured it. She knew it was still there, even if it went unseen.

Sarah walked across the mostly empty parking spots to the other side of the lot where her car was parked. The staff took the spaces farthest from the front doors to allow patients with emergencies to get as close to the door as possible. Most of the patients they admitted could be treated in due time, but in a real emergency, the difference between life and death could be a matter of seconds.

Sarah was halfway across the parking lot when she heard a scrape behind her. She stopped, becoming statue-like, the blood in her veins freezing and stopping any movement. It took her far too long to turn around, her breaths coming in short gasps. When she finally spun to face the clinic, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She was all alone.

I’m all alone.

The thought scared her more. She was not scared in the existential sense of being alone, even though she didn't have a current partner and her family was living elsewhere, but she had not really thought about being alone when leaving the clinic. Finishing up work and walking to her vehicle felt normal, no matter the time of day. When she thought about it now, she realized it was the middle of the night, and no one else was around.

She hoped no one else was around.

Sarah turned back to face her car and quickened her pace. For some reason, she needed to retrieve her keys before getting to her car and fished in her bag for them. Her fingers felt far too big as they fumbled around, and when she finally found the keys, she almost dropped them when taking them from her bag.

She was five paces from her car when she selected the right key and held it pointed toward the vehicle, ready to insert it efficiently into the lock. Sarah let out a sigh of relief.

What am I doing? I’ve done this a hundred times, and now, I suddenly feel scared. All because I heard a sound.

Another wave of fright passed through her. She was sure she had heard the sound, but it had not been located. If she had heard the sound, it must have come from somewhere. She turned to look back toward the clinic to ensure she was not being followed back to her car.

As soon as the clinic came into view, it became obscured by a blackness. A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that rose from her stomach. Only a whimper came out between the gloved fingers. She didn't have time to struggle. Her panic was too fresh to understand it and fight back.

Then, a pinprick in her neck as something was injected. She had administered many injections in her time in the clinic, and all of them had been to help in some way, but this one was not. This injection was sinister.

Sarah didn't have time to consider the injection any more than that. Her world turned to black as she slumped into the person’s arms.

***

Sarah Patel groaned. She lived outside of time, unaware of how long she had been kept in the small room. The first time she woke had come with a throbbing headache, a side effect of whatever had been injected into her. She had not woken many times after that, but only because she had not gone to sleep. She had fought constantly against going to sleep in fear of what they might do to her. She had no idea who had abducted her or for what reason, only that she had woken up for the first time in a dark room, hands bound behind her back.

When she woke up this time, she was discombobulated. For a few precious seconds, she didn't know where she was, and in those few seconds of confusion, there was no sadness or desolation. There was only a need for understanding before the memories of the past… hours, days, weeks—came flooding back. There was no time in the room, only darkness.

Only the darkness and the hooded figure.

They came at points, but only to help her… Sarah shuddered to think about it. She thought about not holding it in and relieving herself where she lay, but she was far too proud for that. Being held captive should have been the worst part, but her captor helping her to relieve herself into a bucket in the darkness was far worse than anything else she could imagine. It was degrading.

She didn't want them to do that for her, but she also didn't want to disrespect herself. It was an awful situation that she saw no way out of.

As she had done every time on waking, she crawled around in the darkness, surveying her space. It remained unchanged. The walls had some form of padding. From the length of her body, she estimated the room to be eight feet by eight feet. There was a door on one side of the room, locked from the outside. A metal bar could be pressed in, but it didn't open the door. She had no idea how tall the room was. Her hands were bound behind her back, but she was not tied up in any other way.

Sarah Patel sat down on the floor and placed her back against the padded wall. She allowed herself a few minutes to cry—no more than that—because she didn't know when the figure would return, and she didn't want to show that weakness before him. Once she had cried, she planned what to do next.

The only certainty was that she was in a locked room and had been held there for some time. She didn’t know how long, but guessed from her weakness, hunger, and thirst, that it must have been a day or two. If she wasn’t given water, she would die within days.

She pulled on her wrists again, but the zip ties were too tight to do anything other than struggle against them. She sat on the floor and waited for the tears to dry on her cheeks before she pushed herself to her feet. Then, she made her way around the room, slamming her shoulder into the wall, moving a couple of inches after each attempt, and switching shoulders when one became too sore. It was her second-best chance of escape. If she couldn’t force her way through one of the weak points in the wall or door, then she would have to fight her captor. The next time they opened the door, she would be ready. She would slam her shoulder into them and run as far as she could.

When both shoulders were in pain, she sat back down to catch her breath. The sound of her breathing comforted her in the absence of any other sounds. Wherever she was, the exterior of her prison cell was probably empty or abandoned, going by the lack of noise. Having a plan of action helped to keep her sane, but that didn't stop lights randomly appearing in her vision. Sometimes, a small white light ahead of her or red and blue lights off to the side. She knew they were in her imagination and tried to ignore them.

For some reason, the darkness sapped her thoughts and dreams. When she awoke, she could not remember her dreams, and it was almost impossible to think of anything other than the darkness around her. However, as long as she clung to her plan, she would not descend into madness.

Sarah could not tell how long she had been sitting in the darkness before she heard the soft clink from outside. Her shoulders ached dully, and she jumped to her feet, readying herself. She had to think intentionally about the door.

Which way does it open? Outward to the right or outward to the left? No, it’s the left. I remember it being the left.

Sarah moved to the side so they would not be able to see her initially when they opened the door. She planted her back foot, ready to push off and put as much force into the charge as possible.

There was a slice of dull light, a dark grey visible against the black. The slice widened as the door was opened. Then, a dark figure in the dark grey. Sarah pushed with her back foot, took two steps, and slammed her shoulder into the figure.

The pain burst in her shoulder as he easily caught her in their arms and embraced her.

Sarah had promised herself she would not cry before them, but she could not help herself. She didn’t have the energy to fight back. The end of her life flashed before her eyes. It was the only reason someone could have abducted her and held her in a cell. He meant to kill her.

She wept freely, embarrassed to be so weak. She wanted to fight, but all the fight left her with a pitiful shoulder charge. She had no energy left to do anything.

"Careful," the man whispered. "You must conserve your energy for what is to come."

"Please," Sarah wept. "Please."

She couldn’t say any more than that. She couldn’t vocalize what she was asking for. She could only plead and hope that he gave her something, anything.

"It’s coming," he said. "I will give it to you. Your time for transcendence is near."

CHAPTER NINE

A week had passed since Michael Torres’ body had been found, and Sloane and Max were no closer to finding their killer. They sat in Mo’s Diner, trying to enjoy lunch before heading back to the station to go over everything they had.

All they had been able to do so far was clear Kevin Walsh. The data and schedule had come back from his employer, and they showed that he was nowhere near the abandoned hospital during any of his rounds. There were still opportunities for him to make his way there outside of work, but witness statements from the other men who lived in the halfway house put him in the clear, so he had been released from custody.

That left them with no strong lead to follow.

"I hate to say this, but if this is a one-and-done killing, we might not find him," Sloane said as she ate a fry. "We have no crossovers to make a connection with. Multiple people in Thornwood Prison disliked Michael Torres, but that doesn't mean the prison is the connection. We don't know what the connection is. We know his wife didn't know everything about him, and that only makes things worse. She told us a week ago that he was liked at work and always did a good job, but we now suspect that wasn’t true. This could be someone at any place he has worked at, or it could be a random killing."

"Do you really think it is a random killing?" Max asked before taking a swig of his coffee.

"No," Sloane admitted. "It was calculated and precise. They wanted Michael to be deprived of his senses and slowly die. They wanted him to suffer for some reason. It could have been anyone in his life, but we both saw how much hate there was in Kevin Walsh’s eyes. That’s why I keep coming back to one of the inmates."

"Yeah," Max said.

"What with the tone?" Sloane asked.

"What tone?" Max asked.

"That’s what I’m asking," Sloane said. She was frustrated that there were no leads and worried it would become a cold case.

"And I don't know what to tell you," Max replied.

"I mention Kevin Walsh, and you have that tone again."

"Again?" Max asked.

"Yeah, this is not the first time," Sloane said. "Every time I mention him, you get your backup. Come on, Max. I don't like whatever is growing between us. You've always been honest with me, so how about some honesty?"

Max bit his cheek before taking another sip of coffee. "You want to know the truth?"

Sloane nodded.

"I am annoyed at you," Max said. "I know I shouldn’t be, and I’m trying to deal with it, but he is a criminal, and I’m your partner."

"And?" Sloane asked.

"After your freak out at his security office, I told you I was there for you if you ever needed to talk about it, and you told me you were fine. It doesn't matter if you are fine or not, I’m not going to push you into talking when you don't want to, and I know you wanted to find out whether he was guilty or not, but you stayed in the room with him and had a nice heart-to-heart about your PTSD and trauma and whatever, and it really grinds my gears that you can speak to him so easily when you won't speak to me."

"It’s not like that," Sloane said, reaching her hand across the table to place it atop Max’s.

"I know it’s not." Max didn't move his hand away. "I know it’s idiotic to feel like this, but I want to be the one there for you."

"You are the one here for me, Max. I talk to you more than anyone else, and I wouldn't be as sane as I am without you by my side. You are my rock, and don't you dare think otherwise, okay? It’s just different when you talk to someone who has gone through the same thing you have. I mean, he didn't go through the exact same thing, but the trauma is the same. I don't know how to explain it, but it was different because I knew I would never see him again. I don't plan on that happening with you."

"It’s hard to see you suffer," Max said. "If I would take some of your pain, I would do it in a heartbeat. Heck, I would take all of it."

"I know," Sloane said, squeezing Max’s hand. "I want to talk to you about it all, but I often struggle to say what I want to say. I can’t—"

A gunshot came from outside.

Sloane gasped, and her heart almost stopped. She jumped up from her chair, scurrying to move away from the window. Max was on his feet, too, reaching out to embrace her and put himself between her and any danger.

"A car," Sloane gasped, half laughing. "It was a car back-firing. I thought it was a gun."

"I did, too, for a second," Max admitted. "I almost drew my gun."

Sloane laughed, and Max joined in. Sloane raised a hand and placed it on Max's arm as he embraced her, feeling safe and comforted in his grasp. She stood with him for a moment before it became awkward, and the two of them embraced in the diner.

Max cleared his throat, making it less awkward when he left the embrace first.

"I’m so jumpy," Sloane admitted. "It’s all this business with Brendan. He still hasn’t gotten back to me. If he’s in trouble, what if he’s dead already?"

"You can’t think like that," Max told her. "He knew what he was getting into, and you tried to stop him. He’s old enough to make his own mistakes now."

"That’s not fair," Sloane said as she grabbed another fry. "He’s family, and I will always be there for him. You would do the same for your family, so please don't tell me he’s old enough to die."

"I didn't mean that," Max told her. "I only hate that you have that stress on top of everything else. You deserve a break."

Sloane sighed. "When I heard what I thought was a gunshot, I thought it was meant for me. If Brendan is targeted, what if they come after me next?"

Sloane had been feeling emotional for a long time, and the tears came. She tried not to make a big deal of it, using her napkin to wipe her mouth and then her eyes in an attempt to hide her tears, but Max knew her too well.

He got up from his side of the booth and moved over to hers, wrapping his arm around her. Sloane didn't resist. She felt weak, crying in the diner, but there was nothing she could do to control her emotions.

"I thought someone took a shot at me, and I was scared," Sloane admitted. "I feel like I’m being attacked from every direction, inside and out. I wish I could get better control of myself, Max."

"You’re doing just fine," Max told her. "With what you’ve been through and are going through, you are holding it together better than anyone else would. Tears or not, you’re still the toughest person I have met."

Sloane reached her hand to the side and took Max’s. She squeezed it.

"We’ll get through this together," Max told her. "First the case, then Brendan, and then your PTSD."

"You make it sound so simple," Sloane said.

"What’s complicated about it all?" Max asked.

Sloane laughed.

"I’m going back over to my side," Max said. "People are already watching us, and we don't want to give them a show. If I stay here with you, I might start kissing you on the forehead."

"Another time then," Sloane said.

Max froze in place for a second before he got up and moved around the booth. Sloane wiped the tears from her eyes one more time, and no more came. She took a deep breath. She knew it would not be as simple as Max described it, but she did know she would get through it all with Max by her side.

They sat in silence, finishing their lunches, and Sloane pulled herself together. Now that the emotion was out, she felt ready to get back to the case. Max raised his hand for the server to bring over their bill.

Sloane was about to get up and go to the bathroom when her phone rang: Sergeant Ramirez.

"Sarge," she answered.

"They think they have a second body," Sergeant Ramirez told her. "Get down to the industrial district now. We might have a serial killer on our hands."

CHAPTER TEN

Max turned down the street, running at right angles to the main road through the industrial area, driving between large warehouses and other old buildings. Most of the buildings in the industrial area were in use, but the small section they arrived at was mostly deserted.

The dark buildings were dotted with fogged windows that were mostly intact. Some of them had jagged triangles, the craggy shapes between the broken glass displaying a small portal into the darkness within. The sky above mirrored the darkness within the buildings. The day was not late, but dark gray clouds hung over the city, threatening to drop rain.

Sloane felt a storm brewing in her stomach, but instead of the grey of the clouds above, there was a multitude of colors swirling in her stomach, with rays of light pushing through. They were in the middle of what was a potential serial killer case; her brother had not made contact for over a week, and she was so wound up she thought a backfiring car was someone taking a shot at her in the diner, but amid all that, she had Max. Their lunch before leaving to come to the crime scene had been fraught with some tension, but it was also the happiest she had been in some time.

She could still feel the protection he gave her when the bang had rung out and the warmth of his hand when she had held it. She was grounded by his presence, and even with all the frustration and sadness, there was a ray of light by her side. Max always had her back as her partner, and he had her back outside of that, too. She glanced at him quickly as he drove them between the buildings. There was comfort in being close to him. Sloane needed comfort right now.

"There, up ahead," Max said.

The large building did not look like anything special, but the vehicles parked outside told of something sinister. The outside was plain as far as the buildings in the area went, but it had become a tomb for the dead body within.

As Max parked his car behind one of the others already there, Sloane spotted the same officer from the first crime. When they stopped, Sloane got out and walked straight for the officer. She held out her hand, and he looked surprised as he took it and shook it.

"I didn't get your name last time, Officer," Sloane said as she shook his hand.

"Officer McInnis," he replied.

"Good," Sloane said. "I’m sure you have the lay of the land around here, so how about you walk us through what you have so far."

Sloane had not asked his name at the last crime scene, but she did get a firm impression of him. He obviously wanted to be above his station and saw himself as an officer who would one day become a detective. The best way to deal with him was to treat him as the smartest person in the room. Sloane didn't think he was bad at his job, he just believed it was beneath him, and because she knew what made him tick, she knew how to get the most out of him.

"There’s a large walk-in freezer inside, but it's not operational anymore. It looks like he kitted it out as a prison cell—soundproofing, padlock, and I don't know what else. Female vic this time, probably the same deal as last time, going by the look of her. Her wrists were zip-tied behind her back just like the last one, and there didn’t look to be any other injuries. No bedpan in the room this time. I believe we have our guy this time." Officer McInnis pursed his lips and nodded once stoically.

"What do you mean?" Sloane asked.

"The guy who found the body owns the building," the officer replied. "I only spoke to him briefly, but he’s not telling us the truth. I’ve watched him talk to the other officers, and his body language is off. He’s where we need to start."

"Alright," Sloane said. "My partner and I will talk to him before we go into the crime scene. Can you take us to him?"

"Sure." There was some frustration in the officer’s tone. He had expected to be included, but it was obvious he was not.

Vehicles were positioned near the main entrance to the warehouse building, but no one stood guard on the door, and there was no police tape anywhere. There was no need to keep anyone out of the building as there were no people around to try and get in.

Just like the first location, if the two deaths were connected, there was little chance of being discovered. Yet, north bodies had been found after death.

"Officer Brent," Officer McInnis hailed.

The second officer turned around. He stood beside a man wearing a burgundy tracksuit. The man had a large potbelly, suggesting he wore the tracksuit for fashion and not exercise.

"This is Detectives Riddle and Callahan," Officer McInnis said. Sloane was impressed he had remembered their names from the first crime scene. "They’d like to talk with Mr. Wishart."

"Of course," Office Brent said. He nodded to the two detectives before he walked away.

Officer McInnis hung around for a few seconds before he skulked off, too.

"Mr. Wishart?" Sloane asked. "You found the body?"

"I did," Mr. Wishart said, not volunteering anything else.

Sloane could immediately see what Officer McInnis was talking about. Mr. Wishart, the owner of the warehouse they stood beside, didn't look at either detective as he answered the question. He ran his tongue around the inside his mouth, poking at his cheek and lips, and ran his upper teeth over his bottom lip a few times. He couldn’t quite stand still. Sloane waited, wondering if he would say more as he became more uncomfortable.

"Can you take us through that?" Sloane asked.

"There’s not much to tell," Mr. Wishart said, still not looking at Sloane. He stared down at the ground as if tracking a small animal. "I arrived about thirty-five minutes ago, entered the building, and found that someone had padlocked the freezer at the back of the building. I had a hammer with me and smashed the padlock in. I found her inside on the ground. She looked dead, so I didn't touch her."

"You had a hammer with you?" Max asked.

"I carry tools in my van," he replied. "You never know when you might need to fix something."

"You do that a lot?" Max asked. "Fix things."

Mr. Wishart shrugged and looked at the building, still not meeting their eyes. "I do a lot of things."

"You didn't want to touch the body because you thought she was dead," Sloane said. "Do you have a lot of experience with dead bodies?"

"No." Mr. Wishart replied. "I didn’t know for sure, but she looked pretty dead. Didn't want to incriminate myself, did I? I know what can happen. If I checked for a pulse, and she was dead, and then you found my prints on her, you’d try to frame me for it."

"Do you have a lot of experience with that?" Sloane asked.

"I’m just telling it like it is," Mr. Wishart replied.

"And how is it? Max asked.

"I won't answer that question because no matter what I say, you’ll only twist my words to suit your need and make it look like I’m being uncooperative or hiding something." Mr. Wishart stood a little straighter but still didn't look at them. "I didn't want to turn up here this afternoon and find a dead body on my property, but there you go."

"Why were you here this afternoon?" Sloane asked.

"It’s my building," Mr. Wishart replied.

"It is," Sloane said. "That doesn't answer the question." She scanned the area and looked toward the van that didn't fit with the police vehicles. "Is that your van?"

Mr. Wishart cast a quick glance at the van. "Mmm."

"You mentioned that you carried tools with you," Sloane said. "Maybe we could borrow them just in case. We don't really know what we’ll find in the warehouse." Sloane started toward the van.

"Hey," Mr. Wishart hissed. "Get your hands off me."

Sloane stopped and turned to see Max holding Mr. Wishart by the shoulder. Mr. Wishart shrugged from the grasp

"I could sue you for assault," he told Max.

"You moved too quickly," Max told him. "You went after my partner."

"You can’t search my van without a warrant."

"Who said anything about searching your van?" Sloane asked.

"You can't search it without a warrant and probable cause," Mr. Wishart said.

"It sounds like you have something in there to hide," Max said.

"I’m saying that you can't search someone’s vehicle without probable cause. That’s the law," Mr. Wishart said. "I’ve been more than helpful. If I had anything to hide, I wouldn’t have called the police as soon as I opened my freezer."

"You’re right," Sloane said. That is the law, and I believe you when you say you are being cooperative. Still, I’d like to have someone take a formal statement and review your whereabouts over the previous few days. If you continue to cooperate with us, we won't need to look inside your van. Does that sound reasonable?"

Mr. Wishart thought about it for a moment and finally looked at Sloane. He nodded once.

"Okay," Sloane replied. He looked over to where the officer who had been with Mr. Wishart was standing. She gestured toward him. When he approached them, she said, "Mr. Wishart wants to share his whereabouts over the past few days. I don't think we need to take him down to the station, but be sure to check his alibi so we can clear him from our investigation."

"On it," the officer said.

Sloane led the way to the entrance of the warehouse, inside of which the body itself rested.

"He’s not our guy, is he?" Max asked.

"It’s unlikely," Sloane said. "It wouldn't make sense for him to choose a deserted location he owned to keep someone captive and then call it in once the victim died. However, I do think he is up to something. An empty warehouse like this is the perfect place to store stolen goods. We don't need to look in his van, but I’m sure Officer McInnis will jump at the chance to investigate that. There is criminal activity, but not enough to warrant covering up finding a dead body in your building."

Max didn't reply to that and followed Sloane into the large building. The interior was cavernous, the walls bare concrete. Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the large expanse between the main entrance and the walk-in freezer at the back of the building. Officer McInnis was standing close to the action.

"Officer McInnis?" Sloane called. "Is the freezer working? Was it turned on while the victim was inside?"

"Doesn't look like it," the officer replied. "We haven’t checked to see if it is working or not, but there are no signs that she froze to death."

"Have you identified the body yet?" Sloane asked.

"She had her ID with her. If she was carrying a phone, it was taken, likely to stop us from tracking it."

Sloane looked at the large walk-in freezer when they got to it. On the outside, the paint on the metal was chipped, and there were dents all over. It was light inside, but that was only because of the lamp that had been brought in to illuminate the crime scene. Sloane looked to the ceiling of the interior first. There was no light there. Once the door was closed, it would have been pitch black.

She didn't notice it at first, but as soon as she stepped in, the curved peaks emanating from the wall were obvious. Someone had taken the time to attach soundproofing foam to the walls.

He chose a place where they would unlikely be discovered, but he wanted to ensure that she would not be heard. He did not want a passerby to hear her shouts.

The soundproofing on the walls was not perfect, but it was good enough. There were some gaps, and the ceiling was not soundproofed, but it would have been enough in such a desolate area and with the thickness of the freezer walls.

When Sloane approached the woman lying dead on the floor, the forensic officers examining her stopped.

"Were you at the crime scene out at the abandoned hospital?" Sloane asked.

One of the forensic officers stood. "I was there."

"Anything different with this one?" Sloane asked.

"Not that we can see yet," the woman said, "but we’ve only just gotten started. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back, but there were no other restraints. There was no need for them with the door padlocked. No visible signs of injuries yet, and it looks like she died the same way as the previous victim. There is no visible mess in the room, so we can guess she was cleaned up after and didn't receive any food or water. Again, we’ll know more once we get her to the medical examiner’s office."

"How about the room?" Sloane asked. "Did you find anything else in here apart from the body?"

"No," she replied.

Sloane nodded. She looked down at the body—something looked off. "What is that? Is there something in the ears?"

The forensic officer, still crouched by the body, replied, "We think her ears are filled with a clear wax. He’s refining his technique, moving from cotton balls to wax."

Sloane breathed out through her nose and nodded—it was another case of sensory deprivation. She turned to see Max standing at the door, letting her do her thing.

"What are we thinking?" Max asked.

"We have a serial killer," Sloane said. "We have to assume he will kill again."

Max gave a sad smile. "Then we better find him before we're presented with another dead body."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was late. Brendan Riddle paced in the small apartment, the only light coming from an old lamp that looked like it had been stolen from the seventies. It worked just fine but cast only a dull glow across the living room of the small residence. He knew the place was safe for now, but it wasn’t home, so it felt wrong.

Brendan went to the window and stood to the side so most of his body would be obscured. He used two fingers to push the curtain to the side and peer out. The apartment was on the second floor, and it looked down onto the dark, deserted street below. Brendan watched the empty street for a while—no people, no passing cars, nothing. Some cars were parked on the street, and he had monitored them over the past few days. None of them were new, but he still studied each one to look for figures within, looking back up at him. They were all empty.

He let go of the curtain, and it fell back to cover the window. He turned and placed his back against the wall. Brendan took his phone from his pocket and looked back at the messages from his sister, Sloane. To accept her help would make him less of a man. He had created his own problems, and he would be the one to fix them.

And he didn't want to involve her in his mess. She had tried to do that, and now, everything had gone to heck. He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, and he could see her back at the warehouse district, chasing down one of his team. He had been there, but she had not seen him.

You thought it was me, didn’t you? You were there to rescue me!

Part of him wanted to cry at the thought of his sister going down there to try and save him, but the other part of him was angry. He was angry at himself—she must have snooped on him and got the information about the deal going down, and because of that, everything had fallen apart. His boss knew someone had messed up and given the information to the cops, the boss just didn't know who. Brendan hadn’t betrayed anyone, but that wouldn’t matter. His boss would kill him, and Brendan didn't know what fate would befall his sister if the boss found out what had happened.

Brendan opened his eyes and looked at his phone. She had sent multiple messages, asking if he was okay. Brendan typed out a message.

Don't worry about me. Everything will be fine.

He quickly held the delete button and removed the message. He needed to keep radio silence to protect her, and he was not sure everything would be fine. He was lying low but could only do that for so long before he was found. He couldn’t hide forever.

Brendan put his phone back in his pocket and returned to pacing the apartment. He didn't know what to do other than hide and hope his problems would go away.

Then a click from the door to the apartment as someone tried the handle on the other side.

Brendan didn't have time to search for a weapon. He took long, silent strides across the apartment to get to the door before anyone came in, positioning himself so it would open toward him. He still looked around him in case there was anything close he would use as a weapon. There was nothing, only his fists.

A scraping of metal told him the lock was being picked—it wasn’t Clark, but someone else—and the handle was turned again. The door moved slowly toward Brendan, and he bided his time. He waited to see how many men he was dealing with. A hand reached around to the edge of the door and pulled it shut behind.

Only one guy.

Brendan lunged at the man, a paper bag spilling from his grip. Apples and yogurt topped to the ground. Brendan slammed the man into the wall, realizing too late that it was Clark.

Clark swung his arms, knocking Brendan’s arms away. "What the heck are you doing?"

"I thought you were… you were supposed to do the knock."

"It’s been over a week," Clark said, shaking his head. "No one is coming for you, and no one knows you are here. Take a step back."

Brendan did as instructed, and both of them looked down at the broken and spilled container of yogurt.

"I’m sorry," Brendan muttered. "I thought it was someone coming for me."

"I like you, man, but you can't stay here forever."

"I know," Brendan admitted.

Clark was a friend from way back, and they had both gotten into trouble together before. It was a safe place to stay but not a long-term solution.

"Let me get that," Brendan said. He rushed to the kitchen to grab some paper towels to wipe the spilled yogurt from the wooden floor. When he returned, Clark was placing the apples back in the bag.

"You need to figure out your crap," Clark said.

"I know," Brendan moaned. "I shouldn’t have gotten involved again. I should have listened to… I will get out of here soon. You don't have to worry about me. I feel like these walls are closing in on me anyway."

"You can stay as long as you like," Clark told him. "Just not forever."

"Yeah," Brendan replied. He scooped up some yogurt and wiped the rest. He returned to the kitchen and dumped the paper towels in the trash. "I need to clear my head. I’ll be back in a bit."

Clark only shook his head as he placed the bag on the countertop in the kitchen. Brendan grabbed his shoes and coat from the closet by the door, and he left the small apartment. Clark would let him stay as long as he wanted, but Brendan knew he had already overstayed his welcome.

When he had been released from prison and fallen in with his old crew, he had felt invincible. Now that he’s had a dose of reality, he didn't want to go back to prison. Yet, after the deal went wrong, he would gladly take prison over facing his boss again.

Even if I go back to prison, he will find me there, and he will kill me.

Brendan still couldn't admit it, but he knew it had been a big mistake to give Sloane the brush-off. He wished he could go back in time and do everything all over again. He would listen to her, and he wouldn’t be in the situation he was in. She wouldn’t be in any danger either.

If he comes after me, I won't rat her out. The only decent thing I can do now is to take the fall for it and protect her for once in my sorry excuse for a life.

Brendan had been daydreaming. He usually didn't stray far from the apartment, and he hadn’t this time, but he had not been careful. He hadn’t watched out for anyone out and about. If they were watching him, they would wait for him to leave the apartment and grab him. He looked around now but couldn’t see anyone on the streets. It was late and dark, but not the middle of the night. It was quiet, and Brendan was not sure if that was in his favor or not. With no one about, he felt in more danger. If they came for him, there was no one to help him, call the police, or be a deterrent by being there.

Brendan touched the phone in his pants pocket and thought again about texting his sister. He wanted to go to her apartment and find safety there, but his stubbornness got the better of him again, and he didn't reach out.

It’s time to go back. The longer I’m out of the apartment, the more risk I put myself in.

Brendan turned on the street and headed back for the relative safety of Clark’s place. He had only gone a little down the long street when he was sure he heard footsteps behind him. Brendan quickly spun around, but the street was deserted. He stared down the street, looking for any movement. There were shadows all around, and they seemed to flicker under the streetlights.

A movement twenty yards down the street. Perhaps? Brendan couldn’t be sure if he had seen anything at all. He stared at the shadow he thought had moved but saw nothing. Brendan turned away from it and walked quicker than before. It was only ten minutes to Clark’s apartment, but it suddenly felt like an eternity. He cast glances over his shoulder every fifty steps to check behind. There was no one out there with him; he was all alone.

Brendan stopped again. He had not heard footsteps this time; it felt like someone was calling out to him. He turned on the spot, looking up and down the street. He was still five minutes from Clarks’s house.

"Hello?" he said. He didn't shout it or whisper it. He said it as if he had run into an old friend somewhere unexpected and wanted to greet them. There was no reply to his greeting.

A chill wind was in the air; the breeze was noticeable when he stood still. Shadows covered both sides of the street, and each one he looked at looked like it belonged to someone trying to hide from him. He stood stock still, waiting for any movement to tell him what he was up against.

He waited, measuring his breaths. Then, finally, a figure fifty yards down the street. The man appeared around the corner and looked unassuming. He wore light blue jeans and a black jacket, easily visible under the streetlights. He was not a large man, nor did he appear threatening. Brendan might have discounted him if it were not for the second man who appeared from a side street on the other side of the street and walked in the same direction. The second man was as unassuming as the first, but it didn't feel right.

Brendan walked quickly. Something inside told him not to panic and break into a run. He had to conserve his energy for when it was needed. He continued casting glances behind as he walked, the two men not closing the distance, but the gap not widening.

He didn't know where he would go. He could not lead them back to Clark’s apartment. He would have to—

Brendan’s heart leaped up into his throat when the man appeared twenty yards ahead and walked for him. Brendan immediately spun on his heels and headed back the way he came toward the first man he had spotted. He reached an alleyway off the main street, turning and sprinting down it as soon as he knew he was out of view. He leaped up onto the large trash receptacle and grabbed the top of the chain link fence to hoist himself over. He dropped to the other side with a thud but didn't look back to see how close they were. All he knew was he had to get away from them.

If they caught up to him, they would kill him.

So, he ran for his life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sloane and Max approached the clinic where Sarah Patel worked. It was late, and the clinic building was framed by a black sky dotted with small pinpricks of shimmering white. The building housed a small emergency clinic that was open twenty-four hours a day, and Sarah Patel worked there full-time as a nurse.

The night was cold, and Sloane couldn't help but think of her brother. She only wanted to know he was safe and hoped he wasn’t experiencing the same chill in the air, but was somewhere warm. She didn't know what had become of him but gained hope from the small thread tugging at her heart. She could feel they were still connected somehow, which meant he was still out there somewhere.

They passed through the doors and into the warmth of the main reception area. They had gone to Sarah Patel’s house first but found nothing helpful there. She lived alone, and her neighbors could not tell them the last time she was home. Whenever and however she was taken, it was unlikely she had been taken from her home. The killer might have done so without a fight, but Sloane didn't think he would risk it with so many other houses around. He would either have to arrive at a time when no one else would be around, likely at night, and that would mean waking her and putting her on edge, or come when there might be witnesses. It was more likely he abducted her somewhere else.

They went straight to the reception desk and took out their IDs.

"We’re looking for information on Sarah Patel," Sloane said. "Who does she report to in the clinic?"

"Oh, Peggy Walker is her supervisor," the receptionist said. "Is Sarah okay? I noticed she hasn’t been around for a while?"

"Is Peggy Walker here?" Sloane asked. "We’d like to speak to her."

"Yes, of course. Just a moment," the receptionist said. She picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit extension. "Hello, Miss Walker. There are two detectives at the front desk here to speak to you about Sarah Patel….Okay, I’ll let them know." She hung up the phone. "If you take a seat, Miss Walker will be right with you. She is on her way down."

Sloane and Max did as instructed, taking a seat in the waiting area. The area was relatively large, with fifty or so seats available. It was late, and there were not many people in the building. Sloane and Max chose a spot as far away from anyone else as possible.

"So, what are we dealing with here?" Max asked. "Not here in the clinic, but in general? That whole wax in the ears thing is weird."

"It might seem weird, but it has to serve a purpose to the killer," Sloane replied. "I still don't understand what is going on, but it’s almost as if he wants something from them before they die. And he lets them die instead of killing them as if he can't bring himself to do that actual killing."

"He still kills them," Max said.

"He does," Sloane agreed. "He wants the darkness and silence for some reason. He wants them to endure that for a long time. At the abandoned hospital, he chose a room where Michael Torres wouldn’t hurt himself. He boarded up the window to keep out any light. He chose the walk-in freezer to utilize the darkness, too. The soundproofing might have been to keep the noise in, but it could also have been used to keep the noise out. Perhaps it was to protect Sarah Patel from hurting herself, too. The cotton and wax in the ears are definitely to block out noise. He doesn't want them to hear or see anything. He doesn't feed them, so there is no taste either. It’s almost impossible to remove the sense of touch. He could block their noses to remove the smell, but maybe he didn't have to if the only smells were of the abandoned rooms themselves."

"What does that tell us?" Max asked.

"It’s almost as if he’s experimenting on them," Sloane said. "As if he wants to see how far he can push them with the sensory deprivation, or maybe he wants to see how they will react to the sensory deprivation. He could keep them alive longer if he wanted, but he hasn’t. He knows they will die, but what does he want from them before they die? Trauma often shows up as it was inflicted. I know some of what that is like, but I don't display it as I felt it. I was placed in confined spaces with those who meant to hurt me, but I don't want to inflict that on other people. I am thankful for that. Yet, it makes me think whoever is doing this had the same inflicted on them. They were sensory deprived as punishment and want to inflict that on other people as a way of taking control."

"I think this is her," Max said, looking toward the door as an older woman in a nurse’s uniform passed through it.

The older woman looked toward the reception desk, and the receptionist gestured toward Sloane and Max. Peggy Walker walked over to them, checking around her to ensure they could speak privately, and then sat on one of the chairs opposite them.

"I’m Peggy," she said. I was told you wanted to talk about Sarah Patel. Please tell me she is okay."

"I’m sorry," Sloane said. "I wish I could tell you that, but she was found dead that morning."

Peggy shook her head, and while she looked perturbed, she didn't react over-emotionally. Years of working in a place where many were close to death had numbed her. Peggy didn't look like she wanted to ask for more information, and Sloane appreciated that.

"When was the last time Sarah worked?" Sloane asked.

Peggy shook her head as she thought about it. "It was eight nights ago. Sarah mostly worked the night shift, and she worked that night, leaving around three am."

"Was she not scheduled to work after that?" Sloane asked.

"She was," Peggy said, nodding. "Later that morning, I received a text from her informing me she had to take care of some personal business and needed some time off."

"Did she say what that business was?" Sloane asked.

"No, she didn't, and it was not my place to ask. We have a good community around here, and some of the other nurses picked up her shifts. She never said when she would be back."

"How about any of the other nurses? Would she have been in contact with them? Did anyone mention her absence?" Sloane asked.

"They were told she was taking time off for personal reasons, so there was not a lot of talk about it, but I’m sure there was concern for her. Some of the nurses might have reached out, but if they didn't get a reply, they wouldn’t have taken offense."

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Sarah Patel?" Sloane continued.

"No," Peggy replied immediately. "She was an efficient and respected nurse. She did her job well, and she was liked by everyone. No one here would wish her any harm."

"How about anyone she treated?" Max asked. "I know what places like this can be like, especially at night. You get all sorts in here. Did she ever have any altercations?"

"She had troublesome patients, for sure," Peggy said, "but don't we all? There were never any altercations where I worried for her safety. Sarah could take care of herself when it came to problem patients. I didn't witness anyone who might wish her harm for the way she was treated."

"That was all her text said?" Sloane asked. "That she needed some time off for personal reasons?"

"Yes, that was all," Peggy replied. "I can show you the message if you like. My phone is upstairs."

"I’d like to see it, but you don't have to go to that trouble." Sloane took a card from her pocket and handed it to the nurse. "I’d like to have someone check the message and see if we can find out where it was sent from. It would also be helpful if you could ask around and discover if anyone had any contact with Sarah Patel after she sent that message or if anyone might have a reason to harm her, inside or outside work."

"Anything I can do to help," Peggy said.

"There is one last thing," Sloane said. "Do you know what car Sarah drove?"

"I do," Peggy said. "It was a red Kia Forte."

"Thank you," Sloane said. "We won't take up any more of your time right now, but we will be in touch again."

"Anything you need," Peggy repeated.

Sloane got up, and Max and Peggy followed suit. They said goodbye and left the clinic.

"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?" Max asked. "That the killer sent that message to Peggy Walker after abducting Sarah Patel?"

"Yes," Sloane agreed. "I’m also thinking that this parking lot is a good place to abduct someone at three in the morning. It would be deserted, and you could wait out here without looking suspicious."

"Then let’s look for a black Kia Forte," Max said.

They split up and searched the parking lot, but the car was not parked there.

"It’s late," Max noted. "Let’s both try and get some sleep, and we can look more into Sarah Patel in the morning back at the office."

"Yeah, sounds good," Sloane said.

***

Sloane looked up from her desk and saw Max walking toward her with a takeout coffee in each hand. Sloane had a mug of coffee on her desk from the coffee pot in the break room. She drained the last of it, happy for some good coffee. She would have brought coffee for them both, but she had woken so early that she had been sure she would beat Max into the office and had been right about that.

"Thanks, Max," she said when he entered the small room and joined her.

"You haven’t been here for too long, have you?" he asked.

"A while, but it’s fine," she replied. "I woke thinking about CCTV footage."

Max raised an eyebrow. "CCTV footage?"

"They looked at CCTV footage when Michael Torres went missing and didn't find anything. We had someone look at footage from a few days before when Michael thought he was being followed, but resources have been diverted since then. I have someone looking at that again, along with footage from the parking lot at the clinic. Did you notice the cameras there?"

"I didn’t," Max said.

"Maybe we get lucky, and the killer took Sarah in the parking lot. He might have used her car or returned to move it before someone spotted it there. If we get a hit on someone following Michael Torres, then we might get a look at this guy. If we see his face, we’re halfway there."

"Yeah, alright," Max said. He sat down and booted up his workstation.

"We’ve had no luck with the footprints found at the first crime scene," Sloane said. "The pattern is too generic to get a match on it. Even if we get the brand, we don't really have much. The only thing I think it gives us is the killer being male. Although, we might have a chance on the soundproofing material. That’s more specialized. The killer would have had to get that from somewhere, and I can't imagine there are all that many people who are buying soundproofing material."

"The second autopsy is in," Max said.

"Do we have anything we don't already know?" Sloane asked.

"Some abrasions around the wrists where the bindings were. No signs of a struggle, although there was a lot of bruising on both shoulders, suggesting she fell multiple times in the room."

"Or she tried to get out," Sloane suggested. "If she was bruised on both shoulders, she might have tried to break her way through the freezer door. The soundproofing would have cushioned her."

"Good call," Max said. "No signs of drugs in her system, no other injuries, and it wasn’t dehydration that did it this time. It was exhaustion."

"Exhaustion?" Sloane asked.

"There’s a note here. She was severely dehydrated, and she would have succumbed to that soon if her body hadn’t given out before then. That fits with her trying to shoulder-barge her way out. She tired herself out trying to escape her cell. It’s likely she was held for up to six days and died around twenty-four hours before she was found."

"Wait," Sloane said eagerly.

"What does that tell us?" Max asked.

"No, not that. This." She pointed at her screen. "I’ve been running searches on Sarah Patel. She worked full-time at the clinic but volunteered at multiple places, offering her medical expertise. One of those places was Thornwood Prison. She volunteered as part of the rehabilitation program there, monitoring the health of patients as they came close to being released. It was only once a month, but that doesn't matter. It gives us our first strong link between the two victims."

"The killer is connected to the prison," Max said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Good morning. My name is Detective Riddle," Sloane said on the phone. "I'm investigating the deaths of two people who were connected to the prison."

"Okay," Roger Costanza, the Deputy Warden, said slowly. "I’m not aware of any deaths of anyone who works here."

"Michael Torres did work at your prison but left a few years ago. We are also looking into a woman named Sarah Patel, a nurse. She volunteered with your rehabilitation program. The first thing I want to know is if their paths ever crossed. Sarah was only there once a month for the volunteer program, but was Michael Torres ever involved in that program? Perhaps he escorted the prisoners there and back. I would assume that the prisoners who were in the program would have been overseen by Michael Torres at some point."

"Okay, hold on a second while I write all of this down," Roger Costanza said. "I’ll have to get back to you on this as I don't know offhand exactly what goes on in that program; I’m not responsible for that side of things, but I will talk to someone who is. I can also speak to our HR department and find out if their paths have ever crossed."

"That would be helpful," Sloane said. "I’d also like you to look into sensory deprivation at the prison. I know solitary confinement is used as punishment, but does it ever go further than that?"

"I want to assure you that—" Roger started.

"I’m not making accusations," Sloane interrupted. "I’m sure if any programme happened at the prison, it is long shut down now. The information I’m looking for is years old, from the time Michael Torres worked there. I’m not investigating the prison; I only want to find a connection, Deputy Warden."

"Alright," Roger said, more assured. "Nothing like that goes in under my watch, but if anything like that happened previously, I will find out. Whatever you need to further your investigation."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," Sloane said. It was hard to gauge the Deputy Warden without talking with him in person, but the tone of his voice told her he would get her any information he could get his hands on as long as it didn't damage his reputation.

"Is that everything?" the Deputy Warden asked.

"For now," Sloane replied. "I will likely have more questions as the investigation progresses, but anything you can give us will help drive that forward and lead to an arrest."

"You arrest them and we’ll take care of them in here," the Deputy Warden said.

Sloane said goodbye to the warden and hung up the phone. She wondered about that. If the prison was the connection, was it an ex-inmate with a grudge to bear? They had already gone down that road, and it had led to a dead end, but they had only touched the tip of the iceberg. There must be hundreds of ex-inmates bearing grudges, and it would only take one of them to act upon it.

It was sad that an ex-prisoner would eventually become an inmate and be sent back to the place that had given them their grudge. Sloane did not like to get ahead of herself, but she knew she and Max were the best at what they did. If anyone was to catch the killer, it was them.

"No much on Mr. Wishart," Max said from across the desk. "Officer McInnis sent an email with his statement attached. Wishart, being the one to discover the body, has opened a whole can of worms, and an investigation has been opened into the fencing of stolen electronics. That doesn't concern us, but what does concern us is the amount of time Mr. Wishart spends out of the city. It doesn't prove anything conclusively, but he’s out of town enough that it doesn't make sense for him to be the killer. Add to the fact that he did discover the body, and we can rule him out of the investigation."

Sloane took a drink of her coffee before saying, "Alright."

"Michael Torres was abducted somewhere and held for days, and shortly after that, Sarah Patel was abducted and might have been held for up to a week," Max said. "If your hunch is right and he will kill again, then we have time to find him before we find another body, but he might have taken his next victim already. I’m going to look into any missing person reports over the last week and see if I can link any to the prison system in some way."

"That’s a good idea," Sloane said. "If we can get ahead of this, we have a chance to find him before the next one dies. I’ll take the sensory deprivation angle. I want to know what he’s thinking when he does it. Hopefully, the Deputy Warden will get back to me with something about that. If there was more going on at the prison, enough to make someone mad enough to kill, then I want to know everything there is to know. It feels like the investigation is finally coming together, Max."

"It always does," he said.

Sloane got to work researching sensory deprivation while Max looked for missing persons, especially ones connected to the prison. There was not yet time to review any scientific papers, and Sloane was not sure how important sensory deprivation was to the case. She did a basic search for the information, hoping to gain some basic insight into what the killer might be doing.

She found three common factors that continued to crop up on various medical web pages. Brain function could be altered, with sensory processing becoming more active when stimuli were absent. Hallucinations were also common in those who underwent sensory deprivation. The third factor was cognitive and perceptual changes; many people lost all sense of time, self-awareness, and space. In essence, someone undergoing sensory deprivation could lose sense of themselves and the world around them.

Is that the torture he is inflicting?

"If he is torturing them, sensory deprivation is an effective tool," Sloane told Max. "Sensory deprivation causes anxiety and stress, panic, a sense of dread, disorientation. The killer doesn't have to kill them or torture them himself. All he has to do is seal them away in a room and let the lack of sight and sound do the rest."

"Maybe he feels he can punish people while detaching himself from the process," Max suggested. "If we catch him, will he claim that he didn't do anything to them?"

"Perhaps," Sloane replied. "Some of the stuff I’ve been reading about might help them as they go through this. The victims could lose all sense of time and space. They might not know who they are anymore or where they are. Maybe time speeds up for them, and the abuse is shortened and lessened. It can cause mood disorders, mood swings, depression, sensory overload, fatigue, and a number of other negative consequences, but sensory deprivation is also used in meditation and some medical treatments. What if he thinks he’s treating them?"

"We didn't find anything to suggest that the victims had health issues," Max said.

"No, but the more I read about sensory deprivation, the more grey it becomes," Sloane told him. "It’s not solely a bad thing if done right. Now, I’m not saying the killer is doing it right in any way, but what if he thinks he is? If he is cleaning up after them, there’s some compassion there He might not feed them, but he doesn't let his victims wallow in their own filth."

"That doesn't make him a saint, and by doing that, he takes away any external stimuli, right?" Max asked. "That’s part of the torture, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, it is," Sloane admitted. "Still, there are studies that show short-term sensory deprivation can lead to enhanced focus and creativity while long-term deprivation leads to psychological instability."

"So, which is he doing?" Max asked. "Short or long?"

"Short is one to three days from what I’ve read so far," Sloane said. "Long-term is longer than that. If we take both victims into account, we have to believe that he is leaning more toward long term than short-term. Maybe you are right, and he is keeping them alive for as long as possible without feeding them and stimulating their sense of taste. Still, he could give them water."

"You could say there is no taste to water, but I’d argue there is," Max said. "Maybe he didn't want to risk ruining what he had created."

"Yeah, maybe," Sloane said. "Anything on your end?"

"Nothing yet," Max admitted.

Sloane went back to the medical web pages. She knew the sensory deprivation was torturous whether the killer meant it to be or not, but this wasn’t exactly torture. If the killer knew about sensory deprivation enough to create the spaces and care in some way for the victims, then he must also know there could be positive effects, or the victims would become so disorientated and lacking self-awareness that the whole thing could fail. There were far better ways to torture someone. It was almost as if he were running experiments of some sort.

The more she looked into it, the more she found there were positive uses of sensory deprivation. It could be used to relax individuals and treat anxiety and chronic pain. It was used in deep relaxation, meditation, and mindfulness. It could even be used to treat—

"PTSD," Sloane murmured.

"What?" Max asked.

"No, nothing," Sloane said, not paying attention to the external influences surrounding her. She continued to read about the treatment of PTSD and how the deep relaxation could remove the anxiety associated with it, and—

She was woken from her musings by her phone ringing. She answered when she saw it was the Deputy Warden calling her back.

"Detective Riddle," Sloane answered.

"Detective, I have some information for you," the Deputy Warden said.

"That’s good news," Sloane said. "What do you have?"

"There is no direct connection between Michael Torres and Sarah Patel. He wasn’t involved at all in escorting prisoners back and forth for that program, but you are right; they likely interacted with the same inmates. I can send you the names of the inmates who were released after attending the rehabilitation program and were also incarcerated when Michael Torres worked for us."

"That would really help," Sloane said.

"Anything to catch a killer," the Deputy Warden said. "I also have something that might interest you. You mentioned you wanted to know about sensory deprivation programs in the prison. I also want to look into it more because a name continues to pop up, but there is no mention of him in the prison system. I don't know who oversaw the program."

Sloane knew that if it wasn’t the Deputy Warden, then it must have been the Warden, but the Deputy would not admit that.

"What was the program, and who was responsible?" Sloane asked.

"Again, I’m only going by anecdotal information," the Deputy Warden said. His name is Dr. Thomas Kent, and I don't know where he is now. He was never part of our system, but I understand he no longer works at the prison. He did use sensory deprivation as a substitute for solitary confinement."

"A substitute?" Sloane asked. "Do you know what that involved?"

"I don't know any more than that," the Deputy Warden said. "I wish I could tell you more."

"No, that’s enough for us to go on. Thank you, Deputy," Sloane said. "If you find out anything else, please call me."

"I will," the Deputy Warden said.

Sloane hung up and looked over at Max. "Dr. Thomas Kent," she said. "Sensory Deprivation and the prison. The connections are all there, making him a suspect. We need to find him fast. If he is the killer, he will strike again."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"So, where is he?" Max asked.

"Hopefully, we have a record of him somewhere on the system," Sloane said. "It doesn't sound like he was a part of any official prison programs, which only strengthens the connection. If he did something that could drive someone to get revenge, then he would have kept it secret."

As Sloane spoke, she typed on her keyboard, trying to find the doctor. "I’ll start with local clinics and health facilities, and you can check DMV and home address."

"So, he tortured inmates at the prison, and he wants to continue that outside of any official or unofficial program?" Max asked. He tapped at his keyboard as he went to work, searching for the doctor.

"That would make sense," Sloane replied. "There’s something more than only torture here. No physical marks before death mean the interaction between captor and captive was minimal. He could have left them where they were and observed. The compassion suggests someone who wants to see what will happen with the sensory deprivation before the captors die. If someone ran a program within the prison that was not official or tracked, they would have free reign to do as they pleased with fewer consequences than they would have on the outside. What if they pushed the sensory deprivation and obtained results from it in some way?"

"You’re talking about a positive effect of some sort?" Max asked.

"Perhaps," Sloane admitted. "What if the doctor wants to continue his research outside his previous experiments? He might have been able to treat inmates poorly without the consequences in the real world, but that would be signed off as part of an official program. So, he takes matters into his own hands and takes people on the outside."

"People connected to the prison?" Max asked.

"I don't know how that fits yet," Sloane said. "If he was unhappy about the experiments being shut down, he might be angry at the prison. I was told that Michael Torres was not involved in the program, so maybe he was against it. Sarah Patel was a nurse, so it’s likely she would be against it, too."

"It could be an inmate taking revenge against the prison system because of the pain inflicted by the doctor," Max suggested.

"I had thought of that," Sloane said. "Either way, we need to speak to him. Sensory deprivation has been a major theme in this case, and it’s no coincidence we have a doctor who might have used prisoners to test sensory deprivation. He’s the key to our case now."

"Then let’s hope he’s still living in the area," Max said.

"I’ll check other prisons in the area and work my way outward," Sloane said. "He might have been shut down at Thornwood Prison, but that doesn't mean he didn't pick the work back up at another prison."

Max and Sloane both fell silent as they went to work, trying to find Dr. Kent. Shortly after, Max picked up the phone and called someone. Sloane continued her work but listened. She hoped he had found a lead on Dr. Kent, but if he had, he would have mentioned that to her.

"Hello, my name is Detective Callahan, and I’m following up on a missing person case you filed for David Channing…Mmm-hmm…and that was three days ago? Is there anything you can tell me that is not included in the file I have before me?… Yes, that's what I have here…And is there anyone who might want to cause David any harm?… No, I don't believe so…Do you know if David was involved in any work with sensory deprivation?… I know that is an unusual question, but it's a line of inquiry we are following at the moment with any missing persons….Mmm-hmm…A social worker? Yes, that might be helpful…Thank you." Max wrote something down on his notepad before saying goodbye and hanging up the phone.

"What do you have?" Sloane asked.

"His name is David Channing," Max replied. "His wife reported him missing thirty-six hours ago. From what she told me, he has gone missing like this before, but never for as long. There are two occasions previously where he has gone on a drinking binge and not returned home the same night, but he has always returned. He works as a social worker and functions at his workplace, but he does like to drink. I didn't have time to get into whether he was getting help with that or not, but from his wife’s tone, she was fed up with it."

"He works as a social worker," Sloane said.

"Yeah," Max replied. "I got the number for his workplace. If he’s involved in social work, then maybe he’s involved in the prison system, too."

"If Dr. Kent is our killer and has David Channing, then we attack this from both sides. Find one, and we find both of them."

Max picked up the phone and dialed the number, pressing the button to put it on speakerphone this time.

"Good morning, New Horizons," the female voice answered.

"Good morning, this is Detective Callahan, and I have Detective Riddle with me," Max said. "I’d like to talk to someone about David Channing. Can you please transfer me to someone who can tell me a little more about the work he does there?"

"Yes, I will do that right now," the woman said. The concern in her voice was obvious. "Please hold."

When Max was put on hold, light jazz music played, and while that happened, a result popped up on Sloane’s computer. Thirty seconds later, the music halted, and another female answered.

"Hello?" she said. "This is Margaret Fink; I’m David’s supervisor. Is there anything you can tell us about David’s disappearance?"

"I’m afraid we don't have any new information for you, but we hoped you might help us with our investigations," Max said.

"Yes, yes, of course. Anything that will help."

"David worked as a social worker," Max noted. "Did he have any contact with the prison system and Thornwood Prison in particular?"

"Yes, he did," Margaret said eagerly. "He spoke to many former inmates from Thornwood."

"He did?" Max asked, his expression mirroring the hope that Sloane felt inside. "What was that for?"

"David was advocating for the end of solitary confinement in the prison system," Margaret said. "He interviewed inmates from Thornwood Prison because it was the closest prison to our offices, and he hoped to prove through his research data that solitary confinement didn't help as a punishment during incarceration and that it was extremely damaging to the prisoners. He did know where the data was taking him, but he did suggest to me informally there was a link between those who had spent more time in solitary confinement and an increased chance of reoffending."

"So, he wanted to put an end to solitary confinement?" Max asked.

"Yes, that was his intention," Margaret said.

"Does he have any research data in the office that you could send us?" Max asked.

"I can check," Margaret said. "It will be on his personal laptop, and that might be in his home, but he would likely have kept a copy on his work laptop, too. It might be password protected."

"That’s fine," Max said. "As soon as we are done with the call, find out if you can get into the laptop, and if not, we will send someone over. I will give you the name of an officer you can liaise with here."

"Anything that can help you to find David," Margaret said.

"Good," Max said. "Go and do that now, and we will talk again soon." Max said his goodbyes and ended the call.

"Maybe we are looking at this all wrong," Sloane said. "If the killer has taken David Channing, then perhaps it is because he is against solitary confinement and sensory deprivation. This means we are looking for someone who wants to establish solitary confinement and other measures in the prison system."

"Dr. Kent?" Max asked.

"I have an address for him," Sloane said, looking back at her screen. "He’s not far from here."

"Then what are we eating for?" Max asked.

***

David Channing felt like he was flying. He looked up at the night sky, small dots of white blinking and twinkling overhead. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had never felt more love in his life. The more he stared at the stars above, the more alive he became, and the higher his body floated up, up, up toward the stars until he could see them exploding overhead.

They were monochromatic fireworks, popping silently above him, and if he could reach them, he could become a part of a greater existence and merge with the stars. He had wanted many things in his life, but none of them compared to the need to become one with a star.

As David thought about it, he could not remember anything else he had wanted in life. He knew he had wanted things, and there had been dreams and accomplishments, but they all floated away as he floated away. He was glad he could not remember. To know any of his previous life would be a distraction. All he wanted in his situation was a clear mind to take in what he saw.

No, not only that. He had forgotten anything previous but needed to remember what he experienced in the moment. He would merge with the stars, but that could not be the end of his life. David had to remember it all so he would tell others how to do it. It would be a catastrophic failure and a great act of selfishness if he did not share this experience with the entire world. He was reaching for the stars, and everyone should reach with him. It was the only way to end the pain and suffering in the world.

David tried to reach up his hand to touch what was way above him but was unable to. His hands were clasped together on his lap as he floated horizontally in the dark sky. He tried again but did not have the energy to reach out.

I have become impatient. This is being shown to me for a reason, and I should not question that reason. I should not reach out to touch it faster. I must bide my time until the stars are ready for me.

David wanted to weep for the beauty he saw, but he did not know if the tears would come. A numbness enveloped him. Any pain and suffering he might have had melted away as he floated toward the sky to commune with the heavens. All he could do was breathe. Each breath was a pleasure as if a burst of light erupted in his chest with each one he took.

His body rocked gently, cradled by a higher power as he moved slowly upward, the lights becoming brighter with each passing moment. He felt as if the brightness must have an end, but he was so far from the stars to know that the final brightness would be unimaginable to him. It was as if he had placed his face close to a bulb and slowly turned up the dimmer switch until it was at full brightness. That brightness was only a drop in the ocean compared to what he would eventually see.

Then, a booming noise like thunder rang out in the sky. For a moment, he dismissed the possibility, as there were no clouds in the sky above him. The thought made him laugh. He was approaching the stars. The world and the clouds were far below him. The thunder had not come from above but from below. There was another rumble of thunder, louder this time.

The noise rumbled through David, fluttering in his stomach like the excitement a small child might experience on Christmas morning. The wings of the butterflies in his belly buoyed him more, and he felt lighter than air. David burst into laughter, swallowing so that he might taste the joy he felt. He wanted to put his fingers to his lips, but he did not have the energy. The journey he was now on had sapped it from him.

One more rumble of thunder, and he almost fell from the sky. His body shook and rocked from side to side, and he almost lost his balance. The feeling frightened David for a moment. What would it mean to lose your balance in the sky? He didn't understand how he could lose his balance when there was nothing to lose his balance from.

The feeling passed, and the joy returned with a dose of relief. David did not laugh this time—that was what had caused the loss of balance. He was reveling too much in his own joy and not taking seriously the enormity of what was happening to him. He stilled his body, floating in the night sky, and focused on where he was going.

He knew it was the right thing to have done when he heard the voice—a disembodied voice in the darkness, a power much higher than he had ever known.

"Are you ready to transcend?" the voice asked him.

"Yes," David pleaded.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sloane and Max stood outside the mail sorting office and looked at each other.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Max asked.

"I hope so," Sloane said. "He doesn’t have a residential address under his name or a vehicle. This is all I could find. It could be another Thomas Kent, but the date of birth matched."

"Alright, let’s talk with him," Max said.

They entered the mail-sorting office and went to the front desk. The building was large, but none of its interior was visible from the inside except the reception desk and three doors leading from it. Behind the doors and the wall separating the entranceway from the sorting area came the low hum of machinery.

"Detective Riddle," Sloane said, showing her ID.

Max joined her at the desk and showed his.

"We’d like to speak with Doc—Thomas Kent." Sloane wondered about his story. If he was working in a mail sorting office, did that mean he was not a doctor anymore? He might still be a doctor, but he wouldn’t use that title here. Was it a fall from grace, or did they have the wrong person?

"Yes, he’s working today," the receptionist said. "He’s on the sorting floor, I think. I can call his supervisor, but they don't usually like to interrupt the sorting line. He’ll be due a break sometime soon."

"How about you point us in the direction of the sorting floor, and we can take care of the rest?" Max suggested. "We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a matter of importance."

And it gave them the element of surprise if Thomas knew they were coming and decided to run.

"I don't know if—" the receptionist started.

"Don't worry about it," Max said with his trademark mile as he headed for one of the doors.

Sloane followed him, and the receptionist consoled herself by nodding gently as if she agreed with the idea. Max opened the door, and they found a second area that acted as a buffer between the entrance and the factory floor. The noise of the sorting machines grew louder. They walked through the second area and opened the far door. The noise became so loud they had to raise their voices to talk.

The employees in the sorting area all wore ear protection. Max approached the man nearest the door, who stood with a clipboard and showed his ID.

"Thomas Kent?" Max asked. The man removed ear protection from one ear, and Max leaned in to say the name a second time.

The man with the clipboard pointed toward the western side of the sorting building. Max and Sloane headed over there and tried again, talking to someone else who looked like they were in charge.

"Thomas?" the man asked. "Down that way." He pointed to a conveyor belt made of metal cylinders—boxes slid along it easily. The man he pointed to was tall and jittery with a full beard. He wore ear protection and a ball cap.

Sloane and Max headed his way, and he stopped working when they got close, regarding them both warily. Sloane thought he might run, but he held his ground and stood by the conveyor with a slight frown.

"Dr. Kent?" Sloane asked.

Thomas Kent still wore the ear protection but nodded at his name. Something in his eyes changed, and he became warier of them to be called doctor. Sloane showed him her badge. He eyed that with hesitation, too.

"We need to talk with you," Max said loudly.

Thomas Kent suddenly walked off, and Max almost grabbed him before he saw he was going to speak to one of the supervisors. After a brief conversation, Thomas nodded toward Sloane, and she and Max followed him through a side door and out of the building.

When they left the sorting office, Thomas removed his ear protection and let it hang around his neck. He then took a small tin from his pocket and lit a hand-rolled cigarette.

"No one calls me Dr. Kent here," he told Sloane.

"But you are still a doctor, aren’t you?" she asked.

"In name only," he replied. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know about the operation you ran in Thornwood Prison," Sloane said.

Thomas took a long drag on the cigarette, the end flaring, before nodding slowly as if he had expected someone to eventually come to the sorting office to ask him that very question: "Have they reopened the investigation?" Thomas tried to sound as if this was a casual conversation, but there was concern flickering in his eyes.

"What investigation?" Sloane replied.

Thomas also tried to hide the relief that flashed in his eyes at hearing that answer. "I don't have to speak about that," he told them. "There were never any charges brought. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing."

"What wrongdoing?" John pressed.

"I don't have to talk about that," Thomas said firmly.

The hum of the machines continued on the other side of the wall, and it was almost hypnotic.

"Still, it would really help us out if we could hear what went on there," Sloane said.

She studied the doctor. He looked like he was dressed down, as if the ball cap and light shaggy beard were a disguise, so no one would ever expect he was a doctor. His eyes gave away a lot. She had watched the emotions flicker in them as he asked and answered questions, but there was an intelligence in them that went far beyond working at a sorting office.

"I don't have to answer anything about that without my lawyer present," Thomas said.

Sloane could see and feel the emotion coming from Max. When a suspect didn't want to answer questions, it meant they had something to hide. Sloane would gladly take him down to the station, and there was every chance they would do that anyway, but she would rather get the information now and in a place where he might feel safe. The sorting office was his workplace, and he had chosen to work there when he could have chosen other places. Perhaps he was blacklisted after working at the prison, but if no charges had been brought, he could have found other, more suitable work. The sorting office was a choice.

But did he feel safe here? He might have had to find other employment after losing his job at the prison, but there were other places he could have worked. So why choose the sorting office?

"Is it the noise?" Sloane asked.

"The noise?" Thomas replied.

"Is that why you like it here?"

Thomas curled his upper lip a little. "Who says I like it here?"

"I think you do," Sloane told him. "Is it for your own benefit or do you want to see what will happen to you? Watch the other employees?"

Thomas smiled, looking like a small animal trying to bare its teeth without looking menacing. "I already told you. I’m not a doctor anymore."

"No, you told me you didn't use your title anymore, but I don't believe you’re not a doctor anymore—there are some things we just don't lose. If I ever leave my job, I won't ever be able to see the world without looking at it through detective glasses. You’re still a doctor even if you aren’t working as one."

"Then it seems like you know the world better than me," Thomas said.

A slight breeze picked up some leaves from the paved area they stood on and tossed them onto the grass as if Mother Nature were cleaning up.

"I’d rather not have to take you down to the station," Sloane said.

"And I’d rather not go down there," Thomas replied.

"Did you know Michael Torres?" Max asked, hoping to change the direction of the conversation and get Thomas talking.

"Did something happen to him?" Thomas asked.

"Why would anything happen to him?" Max asked.

"You phrased it in the past tense," Thomas told them before taking another drag of his cigarette. "You might have been referring to the fact we both worked together in the past, but if you are phrasing things in the past tense, and you are here to speak with someone else who worked at the prison, then I can only assume he is dead."

"Why can you only assume that?" Max asked.

"Am I wrong?" Thomas asked.

"How about Sarah Patel?" Sloane continued.

"Multiple homicides?" Thomas asked. "Yes, I knew her, too."

Sloane didn't like how perceptive he was. Standing outside the sorting office with his cigarette, he looked unassuming but had intelligence and understood people. There was no point in denying anything. Thomas knew exactly what was going on.

"She didn't agree with what you were doing, did she?" Sloane was guessing based on what she knew so far but hoped to catch Thomas off-guard.

"I told you I would not talk about that," Thomas replied. "I am sure you can have access to the court notes if you want them, but there is no point in discussing it further."

Sloane wasn’t sure what to do with Thomas Kent other than take him to the station and interview him there in the presence of a lawyer. She could make a case that sensory deprivation was connected to the current murders, but she still couldn't determine whether he was the killer. He was not entirely comfortable in their presence, but he had the intelligence to pass himself off as no one when he was the mastermind behind it all.

"You might find comfort here, but this is not really want to do, is it, Dr. Kent?" Sloane asked.

"It’s interesting you use my title, Detective," Thomas replied. "What are you hoping to get out of me?"

"I only want the truth," Sloane said.

"I won't talk about the past," Thomas told her.

"Then how about the present?" she tried.

"What would you like to know?" he asked.

"You were shut down in the prison, but that doesn't mean you stopped your experiments. I would—"

"I already told you," Thomas interrupted, becoming frustrated. "I’m not talking about—"

"I know," Sloane interrupted back. "You won't talk about what you did back then, but I want to know if you continue experimenting today. I believe working in this building is an experiment of yours, known only to yourself, but what about in your free time, Dr. Kent? What are you working on right now?"

Thomas stared at her, looking directly into her soul. Behind his gaze, she could see the gears and cogs turning as he slowly worked it out.

"The murders," he stated. "Michael and Sarah. This is more than just a homicide, isn’t it? You wouldn’t come down here and talk to me casually like this if they had been killed in what you might deem a normal way, and I also see the way your partner looks at me. You class me as a suspect, don't you?" He didn't give Sloane time to answer, not that she would have. "These questions about sensory deprivation; are they connected to your case? No, they must be if you are so intent on discovering what I did back then. What is it? Tell me, Detective. There’s slightly more, isn’t there? You don't only think it was me. You believe there are options. Is it because of the work I did? Is someone killing because of it? Are they recreating the conditions? What have you found, Detective?"

It was as if a light went on behind his eyes. He licked his lips, eagerly awaiting the information.

"It might be best to take you down to the station and get a lawyer before you speak to us again," Sloane said. "I am sure there is no connection between the sensory deprivation now and then."

"Tell me." Thomas asked for the information, but it verged on begging.

You can figure out what people are saying, but not always. You are like a fish on the end of my hook.

You used sensory deprivation as a punishment in place of solitary confinement," Sloane said. "The killer might be mimicking that."

"It wasn’t in place of solitary confinement," Thomas said. "You can't have sensory deprivation without removing all the stimuli. It was alongside solitary confinement, but it worked on a much shorter timeline. Place someone in an empty cell, and they are slowly driven mad, but take out all light, sound, taste, and smell, and they can experience the same within hours. It would blow your mind to hear of some of the results we got."

"What did you do to them?" Max asked.

Thomas quickly looked around as if someone might be listening. He realized now he had spoken too eagerly. "What have you seen from the victims? Tell me what the killer did to them, and I will let you know if he is replicating what was done to him."

Max looked at Sloane. She thought about it for a few seconds before agreeing to the information exchange. Thomas Kent looked so eager for information that it was hard to imagine he was the killer and knew the information already. It was worth the risk to find out what went on in the prison.

"He puts them in a dark room," Sloane said. "Blocks out all light and fills their ears so they can't hear. He doesn't feed or give them water, and he cleans up after them."

"He wants to prolong it," Thomas said.

"Is that what you did in the prison?" Sloane asked.

"No," Thomas said. "How long is he holding them."

Max looked at Sloane again, letting her take the lead. She felt he could be in their case.

"Three, four, five days," she replied.

"A much grander scale than we could imagine. No, not imagine, but carry out. I imagined a much longer trial, but we couldn't have everything we wanted back then. We used hours instead of days, which meant we didn't have to clean up after anyone. Blindfolds were used to block out the light, and headphones played white noise to block out everything else. They were not fed or given water during that time, but they ate outside of it. I wonder if the hunger and thirst would affect the results."

"What were your results?" Sloane asked.

Now that Thomas was talking, he continued to do so. "It was extremely effective as far as punishment went. The prisoners were driven insane, only on a temporary scale. For the first hour, in many of the instances, the process was a good one, but it soon crossed over to negative. When they came out of the rooms, they looked shell-shocked. They looked at me with fear in their eyes. I was like the pet owner who pressed the button to shock the collar the animal wears. It is the collar that doles out the pain, but I was the one who pushed the button. We were moving into the next phase when we were shut down. The flotation tanks were amplifying the results."

"Flotation tanks?" Sloane asked.

"The prisoner would float in saltwater in the darkness, removing some feeling of touch and giving a sense they were floating. I wish I could have done more. I feel it would be a very effective punishment, and sentences could be greatly reduced. A few weeks with sensory deprivation would be as effective as years in the regular prison system."

It all sounded so macabre to Sloane, like something out of science fiction. She didn't like the sound of it. Prison was a punishment that took time and some of your life from you in payment for the crime committed. Sensory deprivation would leave the person changed forever. It was right to shut the program down.

"Do you think someone is recreating your work?" Sloane asked.

"I don't know," Thomas admitted. "I am not the first person to use sensory deprivation."

"I would like to take you down to the station, Mr. Kent," Sloane said. "We have more questions to ask you, and I would like to know your whereabouts over the past weeks to rule you out of our investigation." After talking to him, Sloane didn't think he was their killer, but she still had to be sure. "If someone is punishing people connected to the prison or is continuing the work you started for some reason, then they will come for you eventually."

He would be safe at the station for now, but Sloane wondered if they could use Thomas Kent as bait to bring the killer to them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The man approached the house and bent down to forage under the mat for the key. He took the small brass key and unlocked the door leading to the basement. He closed the door behind him, placed the key in his pocket, and locked the door from the inside by turning the lock. Eight carpeted steps led down into the fully furnished basement.

The main area was open and filled half of the lower level. A large TV hung on the focal wall, and a four-seater couch and armchairs pointed toward it. The man walked past them and through the door leading to the second half of the basement. A makeshift gym had been built to fill much of the room, and padding lay beneath the equipment and the concrete floor.

At the rear of the room was a floatation tank. It was nine feet long, four feet wide, and three and a half feet tall. The tank was filled halfway with oversalted water to ensure that anyone who got in would float. To add comfort to the experience, an inflatable cushion was worn around the neck.

The tank was not lockable from the outside, so he had added hooks used to hang heavy paintings on the walls without drilling into the plasterboard. Temporary glue on the back of the hooks adhered to the plastic surface, and when the small tabs on the bottom of the hooks were pulled, the glue came off. When the hooks were pulled on, they didn’t budge. Three sets of hooks held coils of rope to secure the lid closed.

The man slowly and diligently unwound the rope from the hooks, pacing the ropes in coils on the ground so they could be easily replaced. He took a breath and knocked on the side of the flotation tank. There was no answer from inside. He knocked again, but there still came no answer.

The man let out a breath, and his shoulders slumped. He heard only silence from inside. Still, he took the short club from his belt, just in case, before lifting the lid of the tank.

David Channing stared with glassy eyes up toward the ceiling. He did not move in the water. The man looked at the pale face and felt sorrow. He had genuine hopes for the enlightenment of David, but it was not to—

The man gasped when he saw the chest rising and falling. He almost laughed at his mistake. He had been so focused on the pale, catatonic face that he had failed to check for any vital signs. He rechecked David’s chest to make sure and saw the slow rise and fall.

"David?" he whispered. "David, are you there?"

His skin would have absorbed some moisture, but days of no food and water, only floating in the darkness, had taken a toll.

You only need to break through this stage. You are almost there, David.

The man knew he would not be able to remove David from the tank for fear of stalling the work, so he had rigged a catheter and adult diaper and bound David’s wrists on his lap. Perhaps there had been a time early in the process when he had tried to escape his prison, but not anymore. David was weak that much was clear, and he was nearing the end, but the man still had hope for him. It was this sedated state he sought to achieve in his subjects, and it would not take much longer for David to break from his shell.

"You never believed in this," the man said. "Know that I don't do this to punish you. I admire your strength and conviction. I bear no grudge against you; I only know you will come out of this stronger, just as I did. It is always those who are in the darkest dark that emerge into the brightest light. Enlightenment is coming, David. Enlightenment is coming."

He hoped David could survive the process. The man could not remember if it had been four or five days since he had put him in the flotation tank, but that didn't matter. The results were interesting, and even if David died from it, he would gain insight for the next trial.

"Hang in there, David," the man whispered, leaning down.

He was about to stand back up when he heard something. The man thought initially it had come from the room, but it was from David’s lips. David continued to look at the ceiling, unblinking, but a cracking sound came from his throat. He leaned down further, gripping the baton in one hand in case it was some trick, and placed his ear close to David.

Another dry sound emanated, but it was unintelligible. No words could be formed from the sounds, which disappointed him because he should have been able to hear what David said. He didn't know if David was trying to communicate with him or if he was delusional. It was frustrating to be on the brink of something special and not understand what was being said.

Another sound.

The man sprung up. This sound had not come from David or from within the room but from the house. He stood and listened for a second: a door opening, voices, soft thuds.

No, no, no!

He had chosen the house, especially after diligent research. He knew they had bought a flotation tank a couple of years ago, and they were supposed to be in Cancun for another week. He didn't know how it had happened or why they had returned so early, but he couldn't help but blame himself for the ineptitude.

The man took one final look at David and closed the lid, plunging him back into darkness. He picked up the ropes and stuffed them in his pockets. Then, he pulled the small tabs on the hooks, stuffing them in his pockets with the rope. He moved to the doorway between the gym and the home entertainment room and listened.

He could hear the family upstairs. They had returned from their trip and would unpack or eat first. The basement would not be their first destination. The man took a moment, and they strode across the carpeted room and ascended the stars. He passed through the door and gained some frustration from having to search his pocket for the key, having stuffed the rope and hooks in there. He finally found it and locked the door before replacing the key under the mat.

He made his way to the side of the house, keeping to the wall, invisible from any windows above. He rounded the building and ran for the treeline. He didn't look back until he had safely passed into the safety of the leaves. There was one window on the side of the house, but no one was in it.

He had come close with David Channing; he was sure of it. David would be found at some point, but it was getting late in the day, and the family would likely want to rest. By the time they found David, he would already be dead. The thought saddened the man a little. He wanted to spend more time with David.

"Goodbye, David," he said in the direction of the house. "I shall find another to replace you."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Riddle!" Sergeant Ramirez called from his office.

Sloane stopped in the middle of the precinct and diverted her course, heading his way. She entered the Sergeant’s office when he gestured for her to enter and closed the door when he gestured for her to do so.

"Riddle, how is the investigation going?" Sergeant Ramirez asked.

He was older than Max and Sloane by twenty years and had seniority in the building, not only because of his position but because he had put in his dues over the years to rise through the ranks with hard work and intelligence. He was not only a boss, but a man people went to when they needed guidance or help.

Sergeant Ramirez had greying hair and wore glasses, and behind the glasses, he had a piercing look that was intimidating when he wanted it to be. He was the kind of Sergeant who liked things done by the book but could turn a blind eye if it meant putting the right people behind bars.

"We’re progressing forward," Sloane said. "We just brought in Dr. Thomas Kent. He was involved in a sensory deprivation program at Thornwood Prison. We believe that is the key to cracking the case."

"And he’s a suspect?" the Sergeant asked.

"He is, but I don't believe he is our guy," Sloane said. "He might be helpful in the case."

"If he is a suspect in the case, then why are you sharing information about the case with him?" the Sergeant asked.

"I needed him to talk," Sloane said.

"You needed him to talk?" The Sergeant took off his glasses and put them on the desk. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and hit her with one of his piercing looks. "We need all our suspects to talk, and we don't share information with them to make it happen."

"Sir, with all due respect, it was the only way to get him to trust us and open up to us."

"I know how you work, Riddle, and I know you can get the information you need without sharing case information." The Sergeant's look turned more compassionate. "You are often the smartest person in the room, but that doesn't mean you always are. From what Callahan told me about this guy, he’s smart. If he is the killer, he’ll use that information to distract you. Don't let that happen, Riddle."

"I can take care of myself, Sarge," Sloane assured him.

"You can until you can’t," the Sergeant warned. "I want results with this case, but there are other ways to do that. Now, go and find out if he is our killer or not."

"Yes, Sarge," Sloane said. She left the office quickly. Sloane had the best record in the department, which made it all that much harder when she was chastised for doing something wrong. She knew she shouldn’t have given out information so freely, but she did believe it was the best way to get what she wanted from Dr. Kent.

She paced back through the office, stopping in the employee break room to pour a cup of coffee. Wrapping her hands around the warm mug, she drank a large drink. Then, she poured the rest down the sink and went on her way.

Max approached from the other direction, coming from the interview room they would use to interview Thomas Kent.

"Are you ready to go in?" Sloane asked.

"I am, but that’s going to have to wait," Max said.

"Why?" Sloane asked.

"The sensory deprivation program at the prison was shut down, and there was a court case to explore that and the solitary confinement protocols. I don't know what’s going on with Thomas Kent, but after talking with his lawyer, the lawyer produced some court documents from the private trial. Michael Torres and Sarah Patel are both mentioned in there. Both of them were against solitary confinement used in Thornwood and prisons in general. Thomas Kent is mentioned, but he has a neutral opinion of the matter other than wanting to continue his research in some way. There is a guard from the prison mentioned, a former employee, who testified in favor of harsher punishments and the more frequent use of solitary confinement. Apparently, he was quite opinionated during the trial and clashed with Michael Torres. I know it could be some form of manipulation to distract from him, but Thomas Kent suggests we talk with Raymond Foster, the former prison guard."

"I don't like it, but that’s what we’ll do," Sloane said. "If it’s a wild goose chase, Thomas Kent will still be here when we return."

"Let’s go," Max said.

***

"He was fired for drinking on the job," Sloane said.

Max was driving again while Sloane tried to find out as much as possible about Raymond Foster.

"That makes it ironic that we’ve tracked him down to a bar," Max said. "And even more ironic that he works there. I wonder if they know he was fired from his previous job for drinking at work. Lots more temptation here."

"He was fired six months ago and has been working at the bar for the last four months. David’s wife mentioned that he liked to go out drinking. It’s unlikely there’s a connection there, but I’ll take any connection we can get with this case."

"Have you gone through everything from the trial?" Max asked.

"As much as I can for now," Sloane admitted. "A lot of it is fluff, leading the witness down a certain path until they can get the right answer to the question they finally ask, or trying to catch the witness in a lie, but Raymond did have some pretty strong opinions about Solitary confinement and the justice system in general."

"How about since he was fired?" Max asked. "He had strong opinions while he worked for the prison, but did he continue that once he was fired."

"I don’t know," Sloane admitted. "There’s nothing on his record to suggest he got into any trouble. Maybe he still advocates for it, but there’s nothing here to show that."

"If he were still advocating for it, that would put him at odds with David Channing. He was actively advocating for ending solitary confinement and corporal punishment."

"Let’s not make too many assumptions until we can talk to him," Sloane said. "I already feel like we are playing games set by Thomas Kent. If he is messing with us, he wants us to run through every possible scenario without looking at him. We deal only with the fact until we get back to Thomas."

"This is the place," Max said, pulling into the parking lot of the small strip mall. There was a liquor store, a dance studio, a Filipino restaurant, a beauty salon, and in the middle of it all, Swig’s, the pub where Raymond Foster now worked.

They pulled up one spot from the door and exited the vehicle. Max went to the door and entered first, followed by Sloane. The place was dark and quiet. The walls were wood veneer, the furniture dark brown. A small bar was positioned in the back corner, the toilets next to the bar, and a line of VLTs beside the bathroom doors. Three people were drinking in the bar: an older couple by the window and a middle-aged man slightly slumped on the bar. A young woman stood behind the bar, looking up at the screen on the opposite wall.

 "Detective Riddle," Sloane said. "And my partner, Detective Callahan. We’re looking for Raymond Foster."

"You’ve found him," the woman said.

Sloane frowned in confusion until the young woman gestured toward the man sitting on the other side of the bar.

"He’s supposed to be working, not that I need the help, but you know," the barmaid said.

"Raymond Foster?" Sloane asked.

The man sitting at the bar grunted at her.

"He’s not supposed to be drinking while working," the young woman said.

"Yeah, I gathered that," Sloane replied.

"Come on, let’s get some fresh air," Max said. He took Raymond by the arm and lifted him from his stool. The man complied initially, allowing himself to be led from the bar and toward the door, but halfway there, he flailed his arms to escape Max’s grasp. He turned to Max, and for a moment, it looked like he would throw a punch.

"Outside! Now!" Max ordered.

Raymond waved his hand in the air to dismiss Max, turned around, and stumbled toward the door. Sloane followed them out. When Raymond exited, he almost tripped on his own feet and would have fallen if Max had not caught him. When he did, Raymond flailed his arms again, spinning around as if he were being attacked from all sides.

Raymond was shorter than Max and a little squatter. The fading bruise around his right eye suggested he had been in a fight not long ago.

"Stop!" Max ordered. "One more move like that, and I’m cuffing you."

"I shouldn’t have drunk so much," Raymond admitted. "I was doing well. I was going to meetings, but I can't go on like this. I can't do this anymore."

"We need to speak to you, Raymond," Sloane said. "About your time in the prison."

"I’m never going back there." Raymond spat on the ground. "They didn't have to do that to me. If I ever see them again…"

"What?" Max asked. "What will you do if you ever see them again?"

"Screw you!" Raymond stated. "Who do you think you are?"

Max showed his badge again, for what little use it did. "Detective Callahan. I will arrest you, Raymond. Take a breath, Raymond. Why are you drinking? What’s going on right now?"

"Oh, why don't you piss off!" Raymond shouted.

"I can't do that," Max admitted. "You’re not making this easy for us. Why are you drinking on the job again? Is it anything to do with David Channing?"

"Channing?" Raymond suddenly straightened, and his eyes widened. Then, he lunged for Max, Grabbing him by the collar and pushing him back with unrealized strength until Max’s back hit the bar door. "What do you know about that? I’ll kill him. Just give me the chance, and I’ll kill him!"

Max quickly dodged to the left as Raymond threw a punch at him, which hit the door behind him. Raymond spun, and Max raised an arm to block the next punch before throwing one of his own. Raymond crumpled like an origami animal that had been unfolded, and the creased paper stood on end.

Max turned Raymond over on the ground as he groaned and slipped in and out of consciousness. Sloane slapped cuffs on him.

"Let’s get him back to the station and see what he has to say for himself once he’s sobered up a little," Sloane said. "Get him in the car. I want to talk to the barmaid before we take him from here."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sloane went back into the bar and headed for the bar again.

"Do you need a drink after that?" the barmaid asked.

"You heard all that?" Sloane asked.

"We watched it," the barmaid said. "The windows are one-way glass. Reflective from the outside, but see-through on the inside."

Sloane turned to look and could see Max in the parking lot, holding Raymond’s head as he forced him into the back of his car.

"Will you be okay here on your own?" Sloane asked.

"I’ll be better than okay," the barmaid said. "I’m used to working with him, and all he does recently is sit on the other side of the bar and help himself to drinks."

"So, this is not the first time he’s been like this?" Sloane asked.

"No, not by a long shot. He was fine for the first couple of months," the barmaid said. "He had a good way with the customers, and he wasn’t afraid to throw anyone out if they caused trouble, but about two months ago, or maybe six weeks ago, it was like a switch flipped in him. He started having a drink or two while he worked, and then it became more and more."

"No one stopped him?" Sloane asked.

"I mean, we tried," the barmaid said. "I asked him not to drink, and he listened a couple of times. But after that, he became surly and wouldn’t stop. I tried to take his hand at one point to stop him from pouring a drink, and the way he looked at me told me never to do that again. It’s me and two other girls who work here, and we just try and stay out of his way."

"How about the owner?" Sloane asked. "He must know about it."

"We’ve told him about it, but Raymond’s friends with the owner. Rob spoke to him about it a couple of times, but Raymond managed to talk his way out of it, and the two of them drink together as well."

"I’m sorry you have to deal with that," Sloane said.

"I work in a dive bar; I’m used to it," the woman said.

"How about outside of work?" Sloane asked. "Do you know what he’s like?"

"Pretty much the same as you saw him," the barmaid said. "He’ll often come in here on his day off to drink. Rob lets him have half-price drinks whenever he comes in. Not just him; that goes for all of us, but us three ladies barely ever take him up in that."

"Do you know if he does anything outside of work?" Sloane asked.

"I know he feels sorry for himself," the barmaid said. "He used to work at the prison, but they were downsizing and had to let him go. He’s biding his time until they hire him back."

"That’s what he told you?" Sloane asked.

"Yeah. Why? Is that not the truth?"

"I don't know," Sloan lied.

He’s too proud to tell them why he was really let go from the prison, and it looks like he’s fallen back into his old ways.

"If you want any help speaking with the owner, I can come back and talk to him for you," Sloane said. "I can inform him that we arrested Raymond for being drunk and disorderly at work."

The barmaid had a twinkle in her eye. "Yeah." She smiled. "I want to be here for that."

"I hope your day gets better," Sloane said.

"Thank you," the barmaid said.

Sloane left the bar and got into the vehicle with Max. Raymond was snoring in the backseat.

"What did you find out in there?" Max asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"That I don't think he’s our guy," Sloane said.

"He was pretty opinionated about Michel Torres," Max said.

"Yeah, he was," Sloane agreed. "It seems to me that he’s the type of guy who’s opinionated about a lot of people and things. He was fired from his job at the prison for drinking while at work, and he’s been drinking in and out of work for the last two months if the barmaid is to be believed, which I think she is. He has the anger and maybe the motivation to do something stupid. Still, I don't believe he has the ability to build sensory deprivation rooms and visit multiple victims multiple times. He could barely stand up in there. Do you think he could build those rooms and drive out the city to study the first victim or be aware enough to clean up after them?"

"If he’s like that all of the time, then I doubt it," Max said.

The tone of the cars changed as they passed in the opposite direction.

"Was this a wild goose chase, or did Thomas Kent really think Raymond was the killer?" Sloane wondered.

"It makes it more likely that he’s the killer," Max said.

"Yeah, it does," Sloane agreed. "We still have him under our supervision. The only thing we’ve lost out on is time."

"There’s still enough time to get a confession out of him."

"Then let’s not waste any more time," Sloane suggested.

They drove Raymond Foster back to the precinct and led him through the building. Sloane and Max had to hold him up, one of them on each side. He barely opened his eyes as they lay him down on the bench in the cell and locked the door behind them. They would let him sleep it off, and that would give them time to question Thomas Kent.

"Detective Riddle!" Officer Cattrall called as Sloane walked through the main office area. "The tech guys got back with some footage for you. They put it on your desk."

"Alright, thank you," Sloane said, turning to Max. Do you want to bring Thomas Kent back to the interview room? I’ll look at the footage before I join you."

"Sound good," Max said.

Sloane saw Sergeant Ramirez out of the corner of her eye. He stood in the doorway to his office, watching her and Max go about their business. Sloane quickly made her way to her office to find a labeled USB stick on her desk. The case number was written on the side of it.

Sloane put the USB in the USB port on the side of her workstation and opened the folder when it appeared. Two videos were to be watched.

Sloane didn't understand what the first video was for a moment until she spotted Michael Torres on the screen. She checked the time stamp at the bottom. It was not footage of him going missing but of a few days before that. Sloane watched as Michael walked toward the camera and passed under it. The area looked industrial and must have been close to his work. Then, she spotted a second figure among the four on the screen. Everyone was walking, but something about how the man walked gave him more purpose. He walked as if walking in Michael’s footsteps.

Are you following him?

Sloane stopped the footage, rewound it, and watched it again. On the second run-through, she didn’t watch Michael but the figure behind. It looked as if the man in black was watching Michael, but it was hard to tell. It was not proof of anything, but Sloane did feel the man was following Michael. She ran it a third time and paused when the man in black was close to the camera.

She estimated that he stood around six feet tall. He was bulky, likely muscular under his clothing. The man wore grey shoes, black pants, a black sweater, and a black woolen hat pulled over his hair.

Are you the one who left the footprints?

The footage only showed a possible man following Michael Torres, but it didn't prove Michael was being followed or that it was the man who abducted Michael. Still, the tech guys had left it for her, and she was sure to connect with the second video. She brought that one up on the screen and played it.

Sloane knew immediately what the footage was. The clinic stood in the background.

"No," Sloane muttered. "Does it really show him?"

When the clinic doors opened and Sarah Patel emerged from the building, Sloane’s heart beat quicker. Sarah walked straight for the camera. Sloane checked the time stamp to make sure. It was from the evening she went missing. She leaned in close to the screen so she wouldn’t miss anything.

Sarah got closer and closer before she stopped and looked around. Sloane leaned in even closer, looking for what Sarah was looking at. Sarah reached into her bag. A weapon? Sarah pulled out her keys and walked faster. She was almost out of view beneath the camera when someone emerged from off to the side. Sarah froze when she saw him. She had no idea who he was, but he was wearing all black, including a woolen cap pulled over his hair.

She paused the footage.

We have you! We only need to identify you, but I have a hunch that won't be easy.

She started the footage again and watched as the man approached from behind. Sloane almost screamed out at the screen, but there was no saving Sarah Patel now; she could only catch her killer.

The lighting changed, catching the man for a moment before he disappeared under the camera. Sloane could guess what happened next.

You must have taken her car from the parking lot.

Sloane brought the footage back and watched it again. It would not hold up in court, but she was certain the man in the footage was the same as in the footage with Michael Torres. It didn't tell them who killed the two victims, but it brought them a step closer.

Sloane brought it back another time and watched it through, imagining it being Thomas Kent or Raymond Foster. Neither of them seemed to fit, but she couldn’t rule them out either.

Sloane played it one more time and stopped it when the man was in direct light. A flash caught her attention. He was holding something in his hand, small and metal. She couldn’t make out what it was.

"Hey, I just received a call," Max said from the doorway. "They might have tracked down where he bought the soundproofing material. Someone ordered a lot of it three months ago, more than was needed for the walk-in freezer, which means it’s either not our guy or he’s planning on doing the same again. He requested curbside pickup, so he didn't enter the store, but one of the young guys who worked there got a look at him."

"Okay, we need to get a sketch artist over there to get a sketch of him," Sloane said. "And have them take photos of our two detained suspects and see if either of them match."

"I have Thomas Kent ready in the interview room," Max said.

"Good. We can go and—" Sloane looked at the screen idly, trying to figure out what he held in his hand as he readied himself to attack Sarah Patel, but something else caught her attention. She pointed to the screen, inviting Max in closer. "Does that look like a tattoo to you?"

Max leaned in and looked to where she was pointing: his neck.

"Yeah, I think it is," he agreed. "It’s hard to see in this light, but it definitely looks like a tattoo."

"Okay, let’s check our two suspects for a tattoo, and when they talk to the person who sold the soundproofing material, they might be able to shed some more light on that, so to speak."

"I’ll talk with Thomas Kent," Sergeant Ramirez said from the doorway.

"Sarge, we have this," Sloane said. "You don’t have to take this from me because—"

"It's nothing to do with that," Sergeant Ramirez said. "You’re needed elsewhere. They found what they think is another victim."

Sloane sighed. It was always expected, but that didn't make it any easier.

"This one was still alive," the Sergeant said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sloane was on the phone with Officer Cattrall as they drove to the house where David Channing had been held. David was on his way to the hospital, and they wouldn’t be able to talk with him until he had been checked out and stabilized. Sloane and Max were not sure of his condition, but it sounded bad.

"Officer Cattrall, before we left, the Deputy Warden from Thornwood Prison sent through a list of ex-prisoners who might have interacted with both of our victims in the case. I want you to go through all the names and get me mugshots for all of them. Then, I want you to go through all the mugshots and find me any ex-inmates who have tattoos on their necks."

"I’m on it," the officer said.

"Thank you," Sloane said. She hung up and looked out the window as the buildings flashed by.

"This is what we all hope for in a case like this," Sloane said. "A victim who might be able to positively identify the killer. The killer was disturbed during his process. He chose a home he didn't live in to conduct his experiment. We have to assume he does his research, but he’s risky, too. What was the endgame? To have his captive die and leave them in the home for the family to discover?"

"It’s sick no matter how you look at it," Max said. "It’s one thing to kill someone and dump their body, but it’s another to torture someone until they die and leave them for some poor family to find in their own home. I can't even imagine."

"I don't know if this means something new about our killer," Sloane admitted. "The previous two deprivation rooms have been in abandoned buildings, and he’s outfitted them. This feels more opportunistic. Did he know about the flotation tank because he was involved in the sale, or did he research it in some way? The family must have been out of town for some time for him to use it."

"We’ll find out now," Max said.

They pulled up at the family home in the suburbs of Phoenix. Yellow tape surrounded most of the front of the large residence. A large white van denoted the forensic team being there. A patrol car sat out front, too, drawing the gazes of the neighbors from the opposite side of the street. One of the officers was talking to a middle-aged woman who was fraught with sadness and worry. Behind her were two younger children around eight or nine: a boy and a girl, twins. A man paced the front lawn, smoking angrily.

Sloane and Max got out of the vehicle and approached the large residence. The front was completely white and looked like it had been painted recently. The house was two stories tall, and a well-trimmed green hedge surrounded the yard.

Sloane headed straight for the man, who was pacing by himself. She took out her badge and showed it to him.

"I presume you are the homeowner," Sloane said. "I don't want to bother your wife any more than needed. Can you answer a few questions for us?"

He hadn’t looked like he wanted to answer any questions when they arrived at the house, but he took on a different demeanor at the mention of his wife.

"What do you need to know, Detective?" the man asked.

"Let’s start with your name," Sloane said.

"Stanley Virgo," the man said.

"We were told the victim was found in a flotation tank in your basement," Sloane said.

"Yes, that’s correct," Stanley replied. "As soon as you are done here, we’re getting rid of that thing. I can't believe that… I just can’t… I don't understand how someone could do that."

"Where did you buy the tank, sir?" Sloane asked.

"My wife ordered it online, and it was delivered here a couple of years ago," Stanley said. ‘She got it from some health website."

"Is that what the tank was used for?" Sloane asked.

"My wife used it," Stanley replied. "She said it helped her to meditate. She would only go in there for fifteen minutes at a time, not whatever that was that was down there."

"Were you out of town?" Sloane asked.

"We were in Cancun," Stanley replied. "We were supposed to be there for three weeks, but we had to cut it short by a week."

"Mmm-hmm." Sloane looked at Max. The killer hadn’t planned for the body to be found just yet and had certainly not planned for the victim to be found alive. Sloane wondered if he knew the family was back and would not return or if he might come back if they cleared all the police vehicles away.

"Do you know how he got into your house?" Sloane asked.

"We left a key under the mat at the back of the house in case of emergencies. They must have used that. Let me ask you something, Detective. My wife is a mess, and she worries that someone will return to our home. Do we need to be somewhere else right now?"

"No, I don't believe so," Sloane said. "It might put her mind at rest for you to stay in a hotel for a few days, but he won't return here. Once he finds out we’ve been here, he will stay well clear. It’s not you or the home he was after, but the use of the flotation tank."

"Why?" Stanley asked.

"That’s what we are still trying to figure out," Sloane said. "Do you mind if we go in and have a look?"

"Be my guest." Stanley took another cigarette from the case in his pocket, lit it, and returned to smoking angrily.

Sloane and Max entered the house and followed the slight hum of noise downstairs into the basement. They passed through the entertainment room and into the small gym where the flotation tank was. The forensic team was dusting the tank for prints.

"What do we have?" Sloane asked.

"No prints," one of the forensic scientists said. "There was a mask floating in the water, which we assume the victim wore at some point, but he wasn’t wearing it when we arrived. He was hooked up to a catheter and wore a diaper, so we have to assume he was not taken out of the tank once he was put in there. He was in a catatonic state when taken from the residence."

"There are these," another of the forensic team said. She pointed to a patch on the lid of the tank. "Something was here at some point. Three on the lid and three on the base. They all line up, but we don't know if that is connected or not."

Sloane walked over to study the patches, small squares of the exact same size.

"There’s no latch or lock on the tank," Sloane said. "That makes sense. You don't want to become trapped in there once you are inside. Our killer would have wanted to trap David Channing inside but still be able to open the lid. He stuck something here so he could latch the lid closed. You didn't find anything on the floor?"

"No," came the reply.

Sloane turned to Max. "I think he was here." Before Max could say anything, Sloane added, "When the family returned. He must have been, or he would have risked David getting out. He was here when the family returned, and he removed the bindings before he was found. Maybe he thought they would help us find him, or he didn't want to draw attention to the tank before David died. I think he was here when the family returned home early and slipped out the back. Come on; we need to get to the hospital and speak to David as soon as we can. He’s the only person who can ID our killer."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sloane and Max rushed into St. Cuthbert’s hospital, heading straight for the reception desk.

Sloane flashed her badge at the receptionist. "We need to talk to a patient who has just been brought in. His name is David Channing. Can you tell us where he is?"

The receptionist was a bit flustered as Sloane spoke quickly, but she regained her senses a moment later and tapped on the keyboard. She then manipulated the mouse and looked up at the two detectives.

"Ward twenty-nine," she said.

"Thank you," Sloane shot at her as she and Max turned around. They didn't ask her which way to go, relying on the signs on the walls to direct them. They ran through the main reception area of the hospital, following a sign that pointed to the wards in the high twenties. The two in twenty denoted the second floor, and Sloane and Max took the stars up and followed the signs again. They reached a ward with security doors.

Max opened the door for Sloane to go through first, and they entered to find a small nurses’ station. One of the three nurses looked up and smiled.

Sloane slowed herself and caught her breath. "We’re here to see David Channing. You just brought him in." Sloane showed her badge.

"Just a moment," the nurse said.

Sloane turned to one of the other nurses at the station. "He’s alive?"

"Yes," the nurse said.

"How’s he doing?" Max asked.

"He wasn’t in good shape when they brought him in," the nurse replied.

Sloane looked further down the corridor to see the first nurse returning with a doctor. He had a pleasant smile on his face, but it was a practiced smile, and Sloane knew exactly what it meant. David was his patient, and the doctor would do everything he could to help David recover, which meant giving him rest and space. Sloane understood the need for that and why the doctor might not want to talk to David, but he had to see it from her point of view. Talking to David could save lives.

"Hello, I’m Dr. Anderson," the doctor said, holding out his hand.

Sloane shook the doctor's and, playing as nice was possible. That was the best way to start out, and she could change tack when needed.

"How is he doing, Doctor?" Sloane asked.

Dr. Anderson sighed. "He’s not in good shape," the doctor told them. "A couple more hours more, and he wouldn’t be lying in a bed here. There’s still a chance we might lose him, but we have him stabilized now, and we are getting some fluids into him."

"We need to talk with the patient, Doctor," Sloane said.

"No, not possible," the doctor replied.

"Not possible or not advisable?" Max asked.

"Both," the doctor told them. "Mr. Channing has suffered severe dehydration over the past few days, and it will take some time for us to get fluids back into him without flooding his system. He is malnourished and gaunt. Even if he could speak to you, he would not make any sense. He has woken occasionally but is weak, confused, and disorientated. He won't yet know what is real and what is not. It is likely he believes he is still in there or is hallucinating other things."

"I don't know if you realize how serious this is," Max said. "We have a serial killer out there, and David Channing is the only one who has seen his face and can identify him. We don't care if he makes no sense, we just want to speak to him."

"It’s not only about him not making sense," the Doctor said. "It’s about protecting my patient. All signs point to him being in that enclosed tank for three or four days. The saltwater has caused multiple infections on his skin, and his senses can't be overstimulated. He is in a completely dark room, and any sound or light, even touch, could set him back. If he is stressed in any way, it could exacerbate his symptoms, and that would lead to organ failure."

"Are you telling us that he will die if we talk with him?" Max asked.

"That’s a brash statement and an oversimplification, Detective," Dr. Anderson said. "It is extremely unlikely he will die if someone goes in there and talks with him, but it could set him back."

"We have the chance to stop a killer," Max told him.

"I understand that, and I can see it from your point of view, but I took an oath to help anyone who comes into this hospital, and the best thing for Mr. Channing right now is to be left alone. I have described his physical ailments and have not yet started in the psychological damage the past days have done to him. We don't yet know the state he will be in when he wakes, and the more stress he is put under right now, the longer his recovery will take."

"And what would he say?" Max asked. "Don't you think he would be willing to risk a few more days of recovery to catch the man who did that to him?"

"It might not be only a few days," the Doctor replied.

"You know what I mean," Max said. "We only need two minutes in there with him. If David Channing is unintelligible, we leave him be."

"Detective, I’m sorry," Dr. Anderson said. "I really want to help you, but I can't let you go in there. We are still monitoring for infections, hypothermia, and kidney and bladder issues. As soon as he is awake and we are happy with his progress, I am more than happy for you to talk to him for as long as you wish, but it won't be tonight."

Max held his hand up. Sloane knew there was understanding there—she had it, too—but there was something else in Max’s eyes, and Sloane shuffled back a little to be ready for what she suspected was coming.

"Do you know what?" Max asked loudly. "It’s people like you that make this job really hard for people like us." He stepped toward the doctor, and a look of fright passed over the Doctor’s face. "We only want two minutes with him, and you can't even give us that!"

"Detective, I have to ask you to…"

Sloane didn't hear the rest of the doctor's words. She slipped away from the nurses’ station and quickly searched for David Channing’s room. It was not hard to find; it was the only room in that ward with no lights on inside.

Sloane knew the risk, but from hearing the doctor talk of worse-case scenarios, she knew talking with Davi would not kill him. It might set him back, but Max had been right. He would surely want his abuser caught. If the family had not returned when they did, David would be dead. He was alive, and with his help, they could save more people.

She slipped into the room, closing the door silently behind. David lay on the bed, sallow and pale. It was hard to see anything more of him other than his basic shape and greyness. The only light in the room came from the small heart monitor attached to his arm. The blankets were pulled up to his neck, and Sloane was glad not to see what was beneath. Three days in saltwater would have wreaked havoc with his skin, and she imagined blisters and rashes all over. And it was not just saltwater, but heavily salted water.

The machine by the bed beeped rhythmically as David Channing slept. Sloane crept over to his bedside, being mindful not to make any noise was she walked, but also aware she didn't have much time. She bent down to whisper to David.

"Who did this to you?" she asked.

There was no response from David.

"David," Sloane tried again. "Give me something. Anything you have. What did he look like? A name?"

Only silence.

Sloane couldn't stay in there any longer. She got up from the bed but was stopped by a croaking from the bed. It sounded like the bed creaking, but it came from David. Sloane held her breath and leaned back down.

"What?" she whispered. "What is it?" She brought her ear as close as possible to his mouth.

"The lisser," David managed.

"I don't understand," Sloane said. She saw shadows on the other side of the curtain that covered the window and knew she was out of time.

"The listener," David croaked before groaning faintly.

Sloane quickly stood up and rushed to the door, opening it before those on the outside could open it. She slipped out and came face to face with Dr. Anderson.

"That’s not the bathroom," Sloane said.

Dr. Anderson folded his arms.

"We’re leaving," Sloane told him.

The Doctor almost looked hurt that they had not treated him with the respect he deserved. Sloane felt sorry for her actions but would do them again in a heartbeat.

Max shook his head as they left the ward, and Sloane could see he was trying not to smile.

"Was it worth it?" he asked as they exited through the ward doors.

"I got something, but I’m not sure what it means," Sloane said. "He whispered something to me. The Listener."

"The Listener?" Max repeated. "It doesn't make any sense. Maybe the doctor was right. Or maybe he was trying to say, The Prisoner?"

"I think it does make sense," Sloane said. "The connection is the prison and also the sensory deprivation. What if that’s what he calls himself? If he’s obsessed with sensory deprivation, he maybe gave himself that nickname."

"So, he puts them in the rooms and listens to them?" Max asked.

"I don't know, but maybe someone does," Sloane said. "Come on, we have someone else to visit in here if he’s still here."

Max followed Sloane. "Marcus Chen?" Max asked.

"We still can't rule out Thomas Kent and Anthony Foster until we get alibis for them, but we can't rule out an ex-inmate, too. Maybe he heard that name when he was still locked up. Perhaps the killer used it before being released."

"I don't remember our two suspects having tattoos on their necks," Max said as they made their way through the hospital. That makes it more likely it is an ex-prisoner."

"Perhaps or perhaps not," Sloane said. "Either of the men we have in our holding cells could have applied fake tattoos if they knew they would be caught on camera. It would be an effective way to throw us off the scent."

Sloane and Max reached the room Marcus Chen had been in on their last visit and found him in bed.

"Aw, that’s nice," Marcus said from the bed. "I didn’t know you cared so much."

"We didn't bring you flowers," Max said with a wry smile.

"I’m guessing this is not a personal visit," Marcus said.

"It’s not," Max said. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"When you were in Thornwood, did you participate in the rehabilitation program before you were released?" Sloane asked.

"Yeah, there were some classes and stuff," Marcus said. "Writing CVs, employability skills, that sort of stuff. Some assessments and other things. I don't think it really helps."

"How about solitary confinement when you were in prison?" Sloane asked. "Ever sent to the hole?"

"I was a good boy," Marcus said with a smile. "I’m always on my best behavior."

"Sensory deprivation?" Sloane asked. "We hear there was a program run in the prison where inmates were punished by being locked up with no light or sound for a few hours to see how they would react. Were you ever a part of anything like that?"

"No, never," Marcus said. "Is that what they did there? Experiment on us?"

"Does the name, The Listener, mean anything to you?" Sloane asked.

"The Listener?" Marcus replied. "Never heard of that? What does it mean?"

"We don't know yet," Sloane admitted. "We believe someone affected by the experiments in the prison might be recreating the experiments on the outside or punishing people connected to the prison. We don’t know the connection yet."

"A lot of people had nicknames in prison," Marcis said. "The usual stuff to intimidate people, but it was always the most crazy inmates who had the weirdest nicknames. If someone was going around with the name The Listener, I'd guess they were a snitch or something. I don't think he would have faired well in the joint and would have been subject to some nasty action. He'd have been first in line to see Dr. Nash if he wanted any help with that."

"Dr. Nash, who’s that?" Sloane asked.

"The prison shrink," Marcus said. "Psychiatrist, psychologist, counselor, therapist, and hottie all rolled into one. If you’re looking for someone crazy from the prison, she would know."

"Thanks, Marcus," Sloane said as she raced from the room.

Max was hot on her heels. "We need to find her next, don't we?"

"If we find an inmate who called himself The Listener, we find our killer," Sloane said.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

"The address is Thirty-Nine Cedar brook Road," Sergeant Ramirez said over the phone.

Sloane relayed the message to Max, who was driving from the hospital. He broke hard and took the next side street to pull a U-turn and head in the opposite direction.

"Thank you, Sarge," Sloane said. "How is everything going over there?"

"We’re working our way through everything," Sergeant Ramirez replied. "We have the sketch from the business that sold the soundproofing material. It doesn’t give us a lot to go on other than him being an average Caucasian male. He had a hood pulled over his head, and the guy who helped him load his van didn't look at him all that much. We’ve been going through the information sent over from the prison, and there are about six or seven guys who used to be in there who might match the description and also have neck tattoos. Some of the mug shots don’t show the person clearly, so there might be more. We also have a list of names from the work David Channing was doing, and that might help us to narrow down the list of suspects."

"Okay," Sloane said. "Send us over anything you have when you have it, especially photos of potential suspects. Be on the lookout for anyone with the nickname The Listener or anything about hearing. We don't know what it means yet, but the killer might have referred to himself by that name. How about the two suspects we have over there? Have you had a chance to talk with them, Sarge?"

"Yes and No," Sergeant Ramirez said. "Raymond Foster woke up doing enough for us to get him into an interview room and find out that he blames David Channing for him being fired. Apparently, Channing was at the prison to interview some prisoners, and he pointed out Raymond Foster being drunk on duty. That was the beginning of any disciplinary process. That was about all we got out of him."

"Thomas Kent?" Sloane asked.

"He’s a different kettle of fish entirely," the Sergeant said.

"Yes, he is," Sloane agreed.

"He won't talk much, and all contact is through his lawyer," the Sergeant told her. "The information he has given us so far looks very thorough and details his work schedule, and anywhere he went outside of that. We’re working through it to confirm that everything we are told is the truth. Riddle, I can't help but have the feeling that Thomas Kent is cooperating with us completely while not cooperating. Does that make sense?"

"It does," Sloane agreed. "He’s intelligent and cunning from what little I got so far. He’s interested in the case, and I’m sure it’s because it connects to his work, but we can't fully rule him out until we have a concrete alibi for him."

"I hope this doctor you are on your way to see can give you the final piece of this puzzle," Sergeant Ramirez said. "I don't like how slow this killer moves. It feels like he enjoys the torture."

"He gets some enjoyment from it; I’m sure of that. Still, after seeing what this form of torture can do to a person, I’m glad it was shut down in the prison system. No one should have to go through what David Channing and the others went through."

"Find him, Riddle," the Sergeant said.

"We will," Sloane replied before hanging up.

Max gripped the wheel tightly as he drove toward Dr. Julia Nash’s house. The killer worked slowly, but only after he had abducted his victims. They suspected the killer had taken David Channing, but they had been able to do nothing about it and had gotten lucky to find him still alive. They needed to find the killer before he took his next victim.

When the information came through from the Sergeant, Sloane went through the mugshots of the potential suspects. In total, they had ten names of possible killers. Most had tattoos on their necks, while a few were covered up with clothing. They all fit the description given by the soundproofing company, and most of them were interviewed at one point by David Channing. They had all been in prison when Michael Torres and Sarah Patel had worked there. The Sergeant had spoken to Thomas Kent to see if he would confirm which of the men had participated in his experiments, but he wouldn’t talk about it. They had to hope Dr. Nash could give them more information.

"No!" Max called out.

Sloane looked up from her phone and didn't need to ask Max what the problem was. They were in a residential area, with a row of houses on each side of the street, spaced forty yards apart. The door to the house, presumably owned by Julia Nash, was hanging slightly open.

Max stopped the car out front, and he and Sloane jumped out, both of them drawing their guns. They pointed them at the ground as they ran to the open front door of the house. Sloane pointed her gun into the semi-darkness through the opening. Max rushed to the other side of the door and pushed it open with his foot, pointing his gun in the opposite direction to cover as much of the entryway as possible.

"Dr. Nash?" Max called into the house.

He entered first, quickly followed by Sloane. They moved like water into the house, staying close to each other and pointing their guns in opposite directions.

"Dr. Julia Nash!" Max shouted.

There was no sign of a struggle except for the open door. There were no sounds from within.

Max and Sloane didn't speak to each other. They had entered a house like this a dozen times, and they moved through it, covering each other and entering the rooms one by one. The house was lived in but clean. The kitchen was spotless, but the open box of cereal in the corner told them someone lived there. It was hard to say how long Dr. Nash had been missing, but it didn't feel long.

They checked the living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, study, bathroom, storage room, and separate basement. No one was in the house. The drops of water on the bathroom sink told Sloane that the water had been run recently, and the sink had not had time to dry thoroughly. She imagined Dr. Nash brushing her teeth or washing her hands.

"It has to be less than a day," she told Max. "We have time to find her."

"If it was the killer who took her," Max said.

"It has to be," Sloane replied. "We need to go through her study. There has to be information there we can use."

Sloane went straight to the study while Max called the precinct to have them send a team to the house. He joined her soon after. Sloane picked the lock on the filing cabinet, sure there would be helpful files within. Max tackled the laptop.

Sloane pulled out her phone and read off the list of names the Sergeant had sent through. "Those are the names we need to look for," Sloane told Max.

The forensic team was arriving when Sloane found something.

"Listen to this," she said to Max. "It’s Dr. Nash’s notes from five years ago. The sensory deprivation program should have been shut down before it began. Many inmates are experiencing delusional and psychotic symptoms after being tortured in that place, making them more dangerous than when they arrived at Thornwood Prison. The latest example is Aaron Mitchell.

"He is on our list of possible suspects. Okay, hold on. There’s more here. Aaron Mitchell, sentenced to ten years in prison for sexual assault on his girlfriend at the time. Signs of aggression when he first arrived in the prison and instigated multiple fights with other inmates. Since undergoing the experiments run by Dr. Kent, he has shown no sign of aggression but unhealthy obsessions and grand delusions. The patient is hallucinating and is mentally unstable.

"Aaron Mitchell told me today he wanted to spend the rest of his time in solitary confinement with no light or sound. He begged me to lock him in a room for multiple days as the treatment from Dr. Kent was not enough. The patient claims to have heightened senses after undergoing the treatment (the patient uses the word treatment) and has better eyesight than ever before. Claims of being able to hear through walls, feel vibrations in the air, and smell disease and illnesses within other inmates. The patient has used the term superhuman to describe themselves on multiple occasions. He is clearly delusional, and I am unable to recommend suitable treatment to cure him."

"The Listener?" Max asked.

"He has to be our guy," Sloane said. "He came for Julia Nash, and he plans to torture her like he did with the others."

***

Aaron Mitchell stopped the van at the abandoned warehouse and took a deep breath. He looked out through the windscreen, the side windows, and finally, into the side mirrors. There was no one around. He knew that already from the location they were in and the lack of noise around them, but even the best at what they do could fail because they became overconfident.

When he was satisfied they were all alone, he got out of the van and went to the rear. He unlocked the back doors and opened them. Dr. Nash scurried backward, kicking with her feet to push herself against the wall separating the front cab from the cargo area. Aaron had outfitted the van with window covers to block out all light, and the metal splitting the van in two was solid. It was an appetizer for the main course to come.

Julia whimpered in the back of the van. Her hands had been bound behind her with zip ties, her mouth gagged, her eyes covered with a blindfold, and her ears covered with ear muffs. They didn't block out all of the noise, but they would do for now.

With the van stopped and a quiet fallen over the vicinity, Aaron felt the calmness settle in his heart once more.

When he stepped into the van, it lowered slightly, and Julia whimpered some more, unable to make a lot of noise through the gag. Aaron approached her and laid his hand gently on her arm. She jerked at the touch. He took her arm, lifted her to her feet while placing a hand on her head to stop her from hitting it on the metal ceiling, and led her from the van. He took off the earmuffs and tossed them into the van but left on the blindfold and gag.

"Dr. Nash, you don't need to worry about what will happen next," Aaron said.

Muffled nonsense came from behind the gag.

Aaron waited until he took her into the warehouse before removing the fabric from her mouth. They were far from any help, so he didn't worry about her shouts being heard. He wanted to hear what she had to say, and he was very interested in his subjects' responses.

"Please let me go," Julia begged once the gag was removed.

"No," Aaron stated. "I believe you are the one. I believed that of the others, but you are special, Dr. Nash."

Julia didn’t say anything about him mentioning her by name.

"I don't know if you remember me, but you treated me in prison," Aaron said as he led her through the warehouse. "There, I gained certain skills that have improved my life considerably. I wish to gift these skills to you, Dr. Nash."

The warehouse was a winding mess of corridors and hallways. At one point, it had been an office building for a startup, but it was converted into a research facility after that. Both needed lots of rooms, and that’s what they had.

"You were always very good to me," Aaron said. You understood my pain and tried to help me. I liked talking with you. Dr. Nash, do you know what I liked most about our talks?"

"Please," Julia whimpered.

"It was seeing through your lies," Aaron continued. "You said all the right things but didn't mean any of them, did you?"

"You need help," Julia said. "I know people."

"I don't need help!" Aaron snapped. "Don't you see that? You tried to help me back then, but I didn't need it. I have these abilities now that free me from this world. Do you know what it is like to experience the world as it is meant to be experienced? To see vivid colors as if seeing them for the first time? To have your tastebuds explode in ecstasy? To feel the very vibrations of this world and see the things that mere mortals can't see?"

"I do believe you. I did believe you… Aaron?" Julia said, guessing which of her former patients had abducted her, trying to build some rapport.

Aaron shook his head as he walked her through the building. "No, you don't, and you never did, and that is what makes you special. When Dr. Kent first experimented on us, I hated him with a passion, but he set me free. Do you understand why that was, Dr. Nash? It was because I doubted his work. I didn't believe it would affect me and resisted the change. It was that resistance that made it happen. When you don't believe it will change you, it truly does. It is not about acceptance but resistance. I came close with Channing, but he became too malleable. He saw me as his God, but I am far from that. You never believed what I experienced back then, and you still don't believe it. I know that to be true. It is that which makes me sure you will be the one to experience the change. I will heighten your senses in a way that you never thought possible. I will make you like me."

"Please," Julia stated, trying to keep her calm.

"The first part will be the hardest," Aaron said. "Getting past the first hurdle takes time, but you will understand in time."

"Talk to me about it," Julia said. "Tell me what you experienced. Please, I want to know."

"You won't fool me into hesitation." Aaron opened the door before him, pushed Julia into the cell, and then closed and locked it. "I hope you survive, Dr. Nash."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

"The person we are looking for is Aaron Mitchell," Sloane said to Sergeant Ramirez over the phone. "He was one of Dr. Nash’s patients while in Thornwood Prison, and he was experimented on by Dr. Kent. He believes he has supernatural abilities after the experimentation, and I believe now that he’s trying to recreate the experiments on a grander scale to bestow the same abilities on other people."

"Mercy me!" The Sergeant stated. "It just gets worse."

"I don't know if he's rewarding them for something or if he wants to punish them. Maybe he's doing it to change their minds or enlighten them. Dr. Nash was his psychiatrist in prison, so he might have built a rapport with her and believes he is doing something good. Perhaps he liked Michael Torres as a prison guard. He likely received help from Sarah Patel and David Channing."

"I have all available officers searching for everything on him right now," the Sergeant said. "As soon as we have a hit, I’m mobilizing all available units to hunt him down."

"Good," Sloane said. She didn't mind being part of a team, but she wanted to bring in Aaron herself. "Listen, I know you don't like it, but if Dr. Kent has any information that will help us, you have to talk to him."

A reluctant sigh came from the other end of the line. "Let’s see where we are with what information we can uncover first, and if we can't find him, I’ll talk to Thomas Kent personally."

"Okay," Sloane replied.

"Anything yet?" Max asked. He was antsy and shifted from foot to foot, unable to stand still. The forensic team and two officers were going over the home, some dusting for fingerprints and looking for other DNA and the others searching for anything that might lead them to Aaron Mitchell. A third officer had been sent to canvas the area to discover if anyone had seen anything.

"Not yet," Sloane replied, also becoming impatient. They couldn't leave until they knew where they were going.

Sloane didn't believe they would get anything from the house or neighborhood. It wasn’t about proving he was in the house but finding out where he had taken Julia. It wasn’t certain that Aaron was their man, but Sloane was sure enough it was him. From the notes in Dr. Nash’s books, it had to be him.

"Aron Mitchell worked as a nighttime security guard until about four months ago," Sergeant Ramirez said over the phone.

"Okay," Sloane said, interested. "Was it the same place as Kevin Walsh?"

"Let me check," Sergeant Ramirez said. It took a few minutes for the Sergeant to come back on the phone. "He did work there and another company before that. Donald Gregor, the guard who found Michael Torres. He worked for the same company as him for two months."

"That’s where he got his information about the abandoned buildings," Sloane said. "He likely wasn’t the one going to those buildings, maintaining distance so he wouldn’t be associated, but he would have known when they were visited. It could be the same for the house where David Channing was found. Maybe they had a security guard check the place when they were away. Maybe not. Either way, you need to check with both companies and find out what buildings they are responsible for. We are looking for a derelict building that would not be entered except for the security guard patrolling it. The building won’t have been on any of Aaron Mitchel’s rounds at either security company, and there’ll be no scheduled visit to the building for at least six days. The longer, the better. We have to assume he planned to take Dr. Nash today and take her to a place he had prepared."

"I’ll call you back when we have something," Sergeant Ramirez said.

"We’re close?" Max asked.

"Yeah," Sloane said, her chest filling and putting pressure on her. She was a patient person, but waiting for the Sergeant to call her back was killing her.

After a painful seven-minute wait, her phone finally rang.

"Okay, we have three places," Sergeant Ramirez said. "There's an empty house on the edge of the city, two miles from any other house, an old warehouse in the commercial district that's scheduled to be demolished in the new year, and a former clinic north of the downtown core. None of them are scheduled to be visited next week. I can send patrol cars to all of them."

"Let me think," Sloane said. "He hasn’t had success yet. He needs change. Do we know if the house has a flotation tank?"

"We don’t," the Sergeant confirmed.

"I think he wants new ground after his last failure. Send a patrol car to the house and the medical clinic. Though, the medical clinic one feels too close to society, too busy with people. Max and I will take the warehouse."

***

When they arrived at the large warehouse, Sloane knew they were in the right place. A white van was parked outside, and Sloane had no doubt it belonged to Aaron Mitchell. She immediately called for backup.

It was getting dark, but there was enough light left to search for Dr. Nash in the warehouse.

Sloane and Max got out of the car and ran toward the van, drawing their guns. Sloane went to the rear of the van and pulled the backdoor open while pointing her gun into the cargo area. It was empty. She rounded the van to find Max with his gun pointed at the ground. No one was in the front.

They both looked toward the large, abandoned building. It would soon be leveled, and a new building would pop up in its place, but someone had plans for it before then.

Will you turn it into a tomb, or do you really believe you can give her the same abilities as you?

"Let’s go," Sloane ordered.

They entered the building together but didn't stay together for long. They communicated silently, gesturing with their free hands. The building was large, and while finding Dr. Nash might be easy, they could easily lose Aaron Mitchell in the process, and that would leave him free to take someone else.

The lights in the warehouse were on, and the power was still connected.

Sloane had dealt with people like Aaron in past cases. They were the most dangerous. She could get into his head and see his thoughts. He imagined he would change the world and showcase his great new discovery. He was insane, and the only way to stop him was to find and arrest him.

Sloane took one last look at Max before he disappeared around the corner. They were in this together, but she was alone now.

She knew what Aaron believed was a delusion, but a part of her thought, What if?

Science constantly made new discoveries. What if he really did have heightened senses from the deprivation? If one sense is removed, the others are heightened. Sloane had heard this multiple times and believed it to be true.

If the senses are taken for a prolonged period, are they heightened permanently after that? There might not have been such an experiment done before. Did Dr. Kent make a breakthrough?

She wondered if he could hear them coming through the warehouse or if he had seen them from afar. Could he smell them? He had spoken to Dr. Nash about vibrations. Could he feel the air move with them in the building?

The priority was getting Dr. Nash out of there. They had entered the building to save a life.

The hallway Sloane walked down had a new feel, but years of sitting empty without regular maintenance had made it old. The floor was covered in dust as if they were in the middle of a construction site. The paint on the walls was chipping. There were far too many rooms. Everything was laid out as you would expect an office building to be, but it still felt labyrinthine.

Scientific equipment, covered in dust, evoked a sense of the macabre: a microscope on a desk, an old monitor, and a stand with multiple test tubes. It was as if they were walking into a mad scientist’s laboratory—and, in essence, they were. However, Aaron needed only one room.

A creak from behind sounded like someone stepping on a loose floorboard. Sloane swung around and pointed her gun. No one was there.

A slight breeze intrigued her. It almost sounded as if the wind spoke, and as she stood and listened to it, she realized it was speech.

"I can hear you," the voice said, lighter than air.

Sloane spun around again, even though she knew the voice had come from afar. She searched the immediate area for a speaker but didn't find one. She knew Aaron was delusional and couldn't really hear or see with superhuman ability, but she didn't make a sound, just in case. She didn't want to give her position away.

Sloane swiveled on the spot to look up and down the hallway but saw no one. There were many rooms to the left and right, and he could have been hiding in any of them. She counted to three and tentatively stepped forward, taking one long stride after another, moving in complete silence.

She swung silently to the right and pointed the gun into the room. There were four desks with a chair at each. Sloane moved again, swinging toward the room on the other side of the hallway this time. It was completely empty. She found a small storage room, a bathroom, two empty rooms, and another small laboratory. There was no sign of Aaron or Dr. Nash.

Sloane felt something and spun around halfway when she realized it was coming from her pocket. A message had come through, and she took out her phone to find it was from Max.

I found her. She’s alive, but I can't get into the room. It’s locked with a key. Waiting for backup, but I don't want to leave her in case he comes back. She’s the priority.

Sloane sent a message back: Stay with her. I’ll track down Aaron.

She put her phone back in her pocket and continued her search. She found some relief that Dr. Nash had been found, but she would have to track down Aaron by herself. That was if he was still in the building.

A moment later, the lights went out. The warehouse was plunged into darkness. He was here.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Sloane spun one way and then the other. She had become blind after being plunged into darkness. Her body trembled as she expected to be grabbed or hit by someone in the darkness. She wanted to reach into her pocket to take out her phone and contact Max, but he would have been plunged into the same black hole. She was afraid, and hearing his voice would make it better. She didn't reach for her phone. She needed to be ready for an attack.

Sloane took steady breaths to collect herself, swinging back and forth, looking for any change in the darkness, a shadow within a shadow. There were flashlights in Max’s car, and she kicked herself for not bringing one with her. She thought about returning the way she came to retrieve one, but a ticking clock surrounded her.

He was at a temporary advantage, and the longer she took, the greater his chance of escaping. No, that was not what she was afraid of. Dr. Nash was his prize. Sloane was scared Aaron would go in that direction first, and Max would be hurt—or worse, killed. Sloane didn't know where Max was; she only knew she had to get there quickly.

Sloane slid to the side until her shoulder touched the wall, then turned to put her back against it. This action served two purposes: it improved her field of vision so she could see in both directions at once; it also prevented anyone from sneaking up on her.

Did you plan this? Did you want us to enter and become trapped in the darkness? Do you believe you can see better than us in the darkness, and it will help you to kill us?

Most serial killers Sloane had encountered would kill when trapped, fighting like rats in a snare, but most didn't try to trap the detectives chasing them. The entire building felt like a maze, the perfect place to lure two detectives to harm them.

And then what? Will you take Dr. Nash from here to somewhere else?

Sloane had to move. She couldn’t stay with her back to the wall forever. She checked back the way she had come one more time and headed in the other direction. She held her gun straight out ahead of her, ready to shoot if someone came her way. The sound of sirens could not be heard.

Will he try to make a run for it if he hears them coming?

Sloane tried to plan her route through the warehouse. When she came in, she spotted some stairs, but he was not up there—not yet. If he had turned off the power, he had done so from the ground floor or the basement, if there was one.

"I know you are there." The whisper sounded like it was right in her ear but had come from a long way off at the same time.

Sloane could not tell the direction it had come from, but it had come from somewhere close. She looked ahead into the darkness, trying to remember how many rooms were left on either side. It was the second time he had whispered, and Sloane doubted he knew where she was. He was toying with her, crazy in his delusions that he could hear her.

You said you knew where I was. Don't you know there are two of us in here? Are you talking to me or Max?

Sloane came to a room on her right, barely visible in the darkness. She peered into it, seeing nothing but black shapes. She was certain that the voice had not come from the room, but she was hesitant to enter. The dark room reminded her of the prison cells from her dreams. She felt her hand shake as her emotions came back.

Is this place familiar to you?

The warehouse interior was constructed like a prison. It had many small cells on each side of long hallways, and the darkness was the bars that kept them locked up. Although she could not see well, she didn't want to leave Max and Dr. Nash. She felt her hand tremble at the thought of going into one of the rooms and being locked in.

The very thing that she feared was the exact thing Aaron Mitchell yearned for. He’d wanted to spend the rest of his prison sentence locked in a small room with no light or sounds. The entire warehouse was dark and silent, exactly the environment he was most comfortable in.

Sloane found herself frozen. She stared into the dark room as if staring into her nightmares. She wanted to back away and leave the place forever, to run from the darkness that had plagued her sleep, but she couldn't when someone was in danger.

You are in control of the situation, but only because you have designed it that way.

"Mitchell!" Sloane shouted.

The exclamation immediately removed the shake from her hand. She stepped away from the room and into the darkness. She had spent some time outside now, and the darkness had become a little clearer.

"Mitchell!" she shouted. "You want me? Then come and get me!"

She would not play into his hands and sneak quietly through the warehouse so he could toy with her, believing himself superior in the darkness. She hoped her shouts would disrupt the environment he had created.

"You don't have anything to say?" Sloane shouted.

She knew she was taking a risk by giving away her position. She would deal with him if he wanted to come to her. She understood what he wanted. He wanted to make her afraid in the darkness, sneaking around while he slipped into the black, stripping their confidence until he could make his move. He had created a lightless labyrinth, but she would not play his game.

"Mitchell!" Sloane shouted.

He relished the dark and quiet, and she hoped the shouting caused him discomfort. At the very least, he would not expect it.

"You can't best me in here," the voice said.

Sloane stopped. The sound was different this time. It was not a whisper that had come from afar but a voice close by, one that was trying to remain quiet but could not. Sloane followed where she thought it came from.

"Tell me what it feels like," Sloane said into the darkness. She turned the corner and followed a second hallway toward the middle of the warehouse. It was getting darker outside, and what little light was left was fading. Sloane was becoming accustomed to the darkness, but the lower the light got, the more disadvantaged she was.

"I know where you are," the voice said.

"And where are you?" Sloane replied.

"Close," he said.

"Can you see me now?" Sloane asked.

"I know where you are," he said in a voice meant to be sinister.

It was not sinister to Sloane. She didn't believe he could see her’ he had relied on his hearing and his knowledge of the building to work out where she could be. He couldn’t see her. He was only assuming where she was.

"You will be arrested," Sloane said. "Backup is on the way, and you will soon be surrounded, Aaron. We both know I can't face you alone. Read Dr. Nash’s reports. She wasn’t sure if she believed you or not." Sloane needed to lie to boost his ego. "She didn't believe it to be true, but you did something, didn't you? You showed her how it worked."

Sloane was making it all up, guessing at how he might have acted with Dr. Nash.

"She wrote it down." It was not quite a statement or a question.

"I don't know what I believe," Sloane said. "I know it shouldn't be possible."

She couldn't tell Aaron that she believed him, or she would know he was lying. She had to convince him to keep him talking.

"Everything is possible," he said. "I will show you what I can do."

Sloane didn't like the sound of that. She came to the end of the hallway, which opened up into a larger area reminiscent of the prison mess hall. It was a small factory floor, but Sloane couldn't make out what the machines were for. The interior of the warehouse took up both floors, and some of the machines reached up into the sky. A walkway on the second floor surrounded the open area.

Sloane was sure the voice had come from the ground floor. There was a small skylight on the ceiling. The sky was dark purple, allowing just enough light into the building to show the shape of the machines and nothing more. There were a lot of places to hide.

"None of them believed you, did they?" Sloane asked. "You wanted to give them what you have, but they didn't believe."

"That is why I can't give it to you," Aaron said from the darkness. "You need full disbelief, full darkness, to come into the light. Only when you shed your mortal proclivities can you become like me."

If he could see her from his hiding place and had a gun, he would have taken a shot by now. She stilled herself, each word from his mouth helping to pinpoint his location on the factory floor.

"Then there is no hope for me," Sloane said. "I was a disbeliever before I read Dr. Nash’s notes. I know you are not superhuman, but you see and hear things we don't, don't you?"

"Do you really understand?" Aaron asked.

"No, not really, but I’m trying," she said.

"You should lower the gun," he told her.

I am close enough for you to see me.

"I’m scared," Sloane said. "I know if I lower my gun, then I’ll lose any advantage." She stopped walking forward, scared of getting too close without knowing exactly where he was.

"Then I will have to take it from you," he said.

Sloane spun when she heard the rattling sound to her left. She pointed the gun to shoot, but it was not Aaron coming at her; it was something else. Her lack of sight did not heighten her senses, but she eventually realized what it was. Something hung from a chain from the ceiling, and there were runners near the ceiling so that it could be easily moved back and forth. He had pushed it with force toward her.

Which means you will attack me from some other direction.

Sloane’s instincts kicked in, and she processed what of the layout she understood from what her mind had picked up in the darkness.

If you were over where the chained object was thrust at me, the best direction for you to come from would be to my right.

Sloane stepped to the left, passion to the side of the large metal object hung by chains. As the direction of the noise shifted, she heard the soft padding of footsteps coming from where she had predicted. She could only see shadows moving, but most of them were from the metal swinging past her. She was not used to seeing in such darkness, and it took her mind some time to catch up.

She was almost too late as the metal bar came swinging for her head. She felt the soft freeze on the side of her head as the metal swished above her. Sloane fired two shots at the shadow she believed to be the killer. The metal bar came again, from above this time. Sloane side-stepped, but it caught her shoulder, and she heard the gun clatter to the ground.

I can't let him have it!

She saw his shadow move toward the gun, and she thrust herself forward with as much might as possible, despite the sharp pain in her shoulder.

Sarah Patel bruised herself trying to escape her tomb. I have to fight through the pain for her and the others.

He must have been crouching to retrieve the gun when she bundled into him. She toppled over, grabbing at his clothing to stop him from raising the gun toward her and firing. She kicked and punched as she rolled head over heels with a man much larger than her.

Then, a hand grabbed her head and slammed it into the concrete floor below. Sloane felt her head spin for a moment before she forced any dizziness from her mind. She could hurt later; for now, she had to survive. If she could stop him, he could go after Max with the gun and then get to Dr. Nash again before backup arrives. There must be a dozen ways out of the warehouse, and they couldn’t cover them all.

Sloane kicked, and her foot connected with something soft: his gut. Aaron let out a grunt, and she felt him stumble back. In the darkness, she had a moment of clarity. She could not make out his features, but she saw his shape. He stood tall, raising his arm, and in his hand was her gun. Everything she saw was black, but shades of black.

Then, a flash of light instead of the darkness she expected.

Sloane rolled to the side as Aaron shielded his eyes. He fired the gun twice, two bullets slamming into the concrete where her head had been a moment ago.

Max Callahan, you wonderful, wonderful man!

She knew he had heard her shouting and had known she wanted to face Aaron Mitchell. He had plunged the warehouse into darkness, so Max had done what he wouldn’t expect. He had found the power room and plunged the warehouse back into light.

Aaron fought against it, not liking the light all around him. Sloane quickly made her move, first kicking the side of his calm to put him off balance and then kicking him directly in the knee. Aaron gasped in pain and stumbled back, falling with a thud to the concrete. His head made a cracking noise on the concrete, and the gun skidded from his grasp.

Sloane was on her feet and ran for the gun. Aaron swiped out an arm, catching her foot as she ran past. Sloane pulled herself into a ball as she fell, rolling on the hard floor and coming up into a crouch by the gun. She grabbed the gun and turned swiftly.

Aaron was on his feet and growled like a bear as he ran for her, picking up speed.

Sloane aimed the gun at his head, finger on the trigger, ready to send him into the ultimate darkness. He was almost upon her when she lowered the gun and shot him in the leg, rolling to the side as he crashed to the ground as if his leg had frozen and shattered.

Sloane quickly turned and got to her feet.

Aaron Mitchell did not.

EPILOGUE

"David Channing is awake," Max said as he put his phone back in his pocket. "I just got off the phone with the hospital, and they are happy with his progress. He didn't say much, but he knew his name and seemed more aware than before. He still slurred some words and didn't know what was happening, but they expect him to recover fully."

Sloane sighed in relief, as did the rest of the precinct around her. Sergeant Ramirez even had a smile on his face.

"That’s good news," Sloane said. "Julia Nash will be treated for shock, but she didn't seem to have any other injuries."

"I spoke to her briefly after we got her out of the room, and Aaron Mitchell didn't harm her before locking her in her cell," Max said. "It will take some time for her not to be scared of the world after this, but it could have been a lot worse."

"This is a win, people," Sergeant Ramirez said. "We had a serial killer out there, and he’s not anymore. In the process, Detectives Riddle and Callahan managed to save two victims. This entire case could have been a lot worse. There is cause for celebration, but not at this late hour of the night." The Sergeant looked at his watch. "I should say morning. Callahan, did you get word on Mitchell?"

"He just got out of surgery where they managed to retrieve the bullet that Riddle so expertly put in his leg. He has a head wound, but he’ll live through that. There might be some concussion, but the leg was the main worry. He will make a full recovery, and then he will go to prison for the rest of his life."

"Riddle, you still need to go to the hospital for treatment," the Sergeant said.

"Aw, Sarge, it almost sounds like you care for me."

"Don't give me that," the Sergeant said with a snort. "I’m worried about you. You took a pretty nasty knock to the head from the sounds of it."

"I’m fine, Sarge, really," Sloane said. "If I feel rotten in the morning, I’ll go and get myself checked out. All I need right now is some sleep."

"Well done to our detectives, and well done to everyone who helped out," Sergeant Ramirez said. "We will go for beers tomorrow unless we are derailed by another killer, and the drinks will be on me."

Everyone in the precinct cheered and started applauding.

Sergeant Ramirez held up two fingers. "Two beers apiece, and then you are on your own."

"Come on, I’ll give you a ride home," Max said.

The fatigue had seeped into Sloane’s bones after arriving back at the precinct. She nodded, happy to take Max up on that.

"Go on," the Sergeant said. You can write your reports when you return tomorrow afternoon."

Sloane smiled and nodded. She and Max left the building and headed for his car. Before they got there, Max grabbed Sloane’s arm and pulled her toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, and she immediately replied with the same.

"What’s this for?" Sloane asked.

"I trust you implicitly, and I knew exactly what you were doing back at the warehouse, but when I turned on the power and heard the gunshots, I thought I had lost you. I don't know why because you are the toughest cop I’ve ever known, but the bullets felt like they hit me right in the chest. I guess I wanted you to know that I’m glad to have you by my side. That’s what this is for."

"I don't know if it was stupid or brilliant," Sloane said. "Either way, it was worth it."

Sloane felt the same safety she had felt back in the diner. She wanted to remain in Max’s embrace for the rest of the night and into the early morning, but they were standing outside their place of work.

They came apart slightly, still embracing. Her face was only inches from his. She could see the tiredness reflect back at her in his eyes.

If we weren’t both on the brink of collapse, would this turn into something more tonight?

"Come on, let’s get you home," Max said.

Sloane smiled. She was too tired to enjoy anything that might happen that night, so her thoughts turned to the future. Perhaps the adrenaline still coursing through her body contributed to this. She would see how she felt in the morning.

For now, she was just glad to have Max in her life.

Sloane almost fell asleep in the car ride home. Her head fell to the side, and she was woken by bumping the side of her head into the window. She chuckled, and Max joined her.

"Better that you fall asleep than me," he said.

When they got to her apartment building, Sloane patted Max’s hand before getting out of the vehicle. She waved to Max as he left and entered her building. There was nothing she wanted more in the world than her bed at that moment. Sloane climbed the stairs and walked the hallway to her door. She unlocked the door and walked into the darkness, closing the door behind her.

Something prickled the hairs on the back of her neck, and she refrained from reaching for the light switch. She stood in the darkness and felt she could see more, hear more. She knew immediately she was not alone. Sloane reached to her belt and drew her gun as the lamp was switched on. She spun and pointed her gun first at the lamp and then at the man sitting in the chair by the lamp.

"Brendan?" Sloane gasped. She immediately stuck the gun back in the holster. "What are you doing here?"

Brendan was a mess. His face was bloodied, one eye bruised, and his lip split.

"I didn't mean it to sound like that," Sloane added hurriedly. "You are always welcome here; you know that."

"I’m sorry, Sloane," Brendan said, sounding defeated. "I really am sorry."

"It’s okay," Sloane said as she stood before her little brother. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "For now. I’d like to take you up on your offer of help that I stubbornly refused about a dozen times. Will you still help me, Sloane?"

"Of course, I will," she replied. "You know I will."

Brendan looked on the verge of tears as he nodded.

"Let me fix both of us a drink, and you can tell me exactly what’s going on," Sloane said.

NOW AVAILABLE!

AFTER HE WATCHED

(A Sloane Riddle Mystery—Book Five)

When victims become paralyzed by toxins from native plants, ex-Corrections Officer-turned-Detective Sloane Riddle must draw on her dark past and unparalleled criminal insight. But will untangling this web put even more lives at risk?

 “A brilliant book. I couldn’t put it down and I never guessed who the murderer was!”

—Reader review for Only Murder

AFTER HE WATCHED (A Sloane Riddle Suspense Thriller—Book 5) is the fifth book in a highly anticipated new series by #1 bestseller Rylie Dark, whose bestseller SEE HER RUN (a free download) has received over 700 five star ratings and reviews.

The SLOANE RIDDLE mystery series is a gripping cat-and-mouse narrative brimming with startling developments that will have your heart racing. This refreshing take on the thriller genre presents a captivating yet tortured female protagonist who is sure to win your affection and compel you to read well past bedtime. Fans of Lee Child, Melinda Leigh, and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series will soon be available!

“I loved this thriller, read it in one sitting. Lots of twists and turns and I didn’t guess the

culprit at all… Already pre-ordered the second!”

—Reader review for Only Murder

“This book takes off with a bang… An excellent read, and I'm looking forward to the next book!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“Fantastic book! It was hard to put down. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“The twists and turns kept coming. Can't wait to read the next book!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“A must-read if you enjoy action-packed stories with good plots!”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“I really like this author and this series starts with a bang. It will keep you turning the pages till the end of the book and wanting more.”

—Reader review for SEE HER RUN

“I can't say enough about this author! How about ‘out of this world’! This author is going to go far!”

—Reader review for ONLY MURDER

“I really enjoyed this book… The characters were alive, and the twists and turns were great. It will keep you reading till the end and leave you wanting more.”

—Reader review for NO WAY OUT

“This is an author that I highly recommend. Her books will have you begging for more.”

—Reader review for NO WAY OUT

AFTER HE WATCHED

(A Sloane Riddle Mystery—Book Five)

Rylie Dark

Bestselling author Rylie Dark is author of the SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books; of the MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books; of the HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books; of the TARA STRONG MYSTERY series, comprising six books; of the ALEX QUINN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books; of the MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books; of the KELLY CRUZ FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books; of the JESSIE REACH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising seven books (and counting); of the BECCA THORN FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the CASEY FAITH SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the ARIA BRANDT SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); of the HAYDEN SMART SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting); and of the new SLOANE RIDDLE SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting).

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

BOOKS BY RYLIE DARK

SLOANE RIDDLE MYSTERY

AFTER HE TOOK (Book #1)

AFTER HE STRUCK (Book #2)

AFTER HE SNAPPED (Book #3)

AFTER HE WAITED (Book #4)

AFTER HE WATCHED (Book #5)

HAYDEN SMART MYSTERY

ALL FOR ME (Book #1)

ALL FOR NOTHING (Book #2)

ALL FOR VENGEANCE (Book #3)

ALL FOR YOU (Book #4)

ALL FOREVER (Book #5)

ARIA BRANDT MYSTERY

THE UNKNOWN WOMAN (Book #1)

THE UNKNOWN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNKNOWN NEIGHBOR (Book #3)

THE UNKNOWN GUEST (Book #4)

THE UNKNOWN PAST (Book #5)

CASEY FAITH MYSTERY

BEHIND HIS EYES (Book #1)

BEHIND HIS SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HIS MASK (Book #3)

BEHIND HIS LIES (Book #4)

BEHIND HIS THOUGHTS (Book #5)

BECCA THORN MYSTERY

GONE COLD (Book #1)

GONE DARK (Book #2)

GONE SILENT (Book #3)

GONE HOLLOW (Book #4)

GONE FOREVER (Book #5)

JESSIE REACH MYSTERY

HIS OTHER SIDE (Book #1)

HIS OTHER SELF (Book #2)

HIS OTHER SECRET (Book #3)

HIS OTHER WISH (Book #4)

HIS OTHER PLAN (Book #5)

KELLY CRUZ MYSTERY

WHERE YOU GO (Book #1)

WHERE YOU HIDE (Book #2)

WHERE YOU SLEEP (Book #3)

WHERE YOU RUN (Book #4)

WHERE YOU FEAR (Book #5)

MAEVE SHARP FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

WITH MALICE (Book #1)

WITH ENVY (Book #2)

WITH VENGEANCE (Book #3)

WITH RAGE (Book #4)

WITH YOU (Book #5)

ALEX QUINN SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIRST, MURDER (Book #1)

SECOND, DEATH (Book #2)

THIRD, ENVY (Book #3)

FOURTH, LUST (Book #4)

FIFTH, WRATH (Book #5)

TARA STRONG MYSTERY

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE (Book #1)

GIRL WITHOUT A HOME (Book #2)

GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE (Book #3)

GIRL WITHOUT A NAME (Book #4)

GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER (Book #5)

GIRL WITHOUT A PAST (Book #6)

HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND YOU (Book #1)

BESIDE YOU (Book #2)

AFTER YOU (Book #3)

WATCHING YOU (Book #4)

JUDGING YOU (Book #5)

FOLLOWING YOU (Book #6)

SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ONLY MURDER (Book #1)

ONLY RAGE (Book #2)

ONLY HIS (Book #3)

ONLY ONCE (Book #4)

ONLY SPITE (Book #5)

ONLY MADNESS (Book #6)

MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SEE HER RUN (Book #1)

SEE HER HIDE (Book #2)

SEE HER SCREAM (Book #3)

SEE HER VANISH (Book #4)

SEE HER GONE (Book #5)

SEE HER DEAD (Book #6)

CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NO WAY OUT (Book #1)

NO WAY BACK (Book #2)

NO WAY HOME (Book #3)

NO WAY LEFT (Book #4)

NO WAY UP (Book #5)

NO WAY TO DIE (Book #6)

MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TOO LATE (Book #1)

TOO CLOSE (Book #2)

TOO FAR GONE (Book #3)

TOO LOST (Book #4)

TOO BROKEN (Book #5)