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Last Supper

A Chase Adams FBI Thriller

Book 18

Patrick Logan

Last Supper

Prologue

“Is that them?” the girl asked softly from the back seat.

The woman behind the wheel leaned forward and squinted.

Four people stepped out of the grocery store. The wife, in her late thirties with short hair cut on an angle in front of her face, suited for a much younger woman, carried four grocery bags, two in each hand.

Her pencil thin arms were taught and the strain was evident on her face. Her husband, who was the polar opposite of her with traditional brown hair cut short to his square head, a burgeoning belly barely contained behind a white button-down, made no move to help her.

Neither did the two kids; the boy a teenager, the girl, not quite. The kids were arguing and as the woman continued to watch, the boy shoved the younger girl on the shoulder.

She stumbled and almost fell to the pavement.

The husband barked something at them and the boy shot his sister a seething look as if she’d been the one who’d done something wrong. This illicit another verbal lashing from the man, which they could hear from inside their parked car, windows rolled up: Stop fucking around.

“Oh, that’s them.”

In the backseat, Phillip flicked his wrist. The butterfly knife flew open, revealing a six-inch polished blade.

He flicked his wrist again and the blade disappeared.

Rinse, repeat.

Clack, clack, clack.

“Stop that would you?” the driver snapped.

He did—for now.

There was a nervous energy inside the minivan. No, maybe not nervous; more like contained excitement. Like a shaken soda can, the bubbles trapped inside eager for the chance to escape.

The family made their way to their SUV, and the woman waved her foot beneath the trunk to get it to automatically open.

The father slide behind the wheel, the boy and girl in the back.

With great relief, the woman plopped the bags into the trunk. She took a moment to catch her breath, to shake out her arms. Then she swiped a section of angled hair from her face and turned around.

Her eyes fell on the minivan for a moment. A split second, really.

The woman behind the wheel smiled and started the minivan.

With the trunk now closing, the rail-thin mother of two shuddered.

Then she hurried to the passenger seat and got in.

The SUV pulled out of the lot while the minivan remained in wait. When the family made a right onto the road, the minivan followed. This wasn’t difficult. The main artery leading away from the grocery store was busy, despite being around noon on a Thursday. There where many white SUV’s just like the one they were following. Only, this particular vehicle had a unique feature that made it easy to spot: white stickers affixed to the lower left hand corner of the rear window.

Four caricatures, meant to represent every member of the Tressfield family: man, woman, boy, girl, in descending size.

The boy’s foot rested on a soccer ball. The girl was waving. All of them had iconic half-moon smiles on their simple faces.

A farce.

A bold-faced lie.

The SUV continued further from the busy downtown core toward a residential subdivision. Three turns, a fourth, and the two cars seemed to be the only ones left on the road.

The minivan backed off even further.

They was in a sleepy neighborhood with cookie-cutter homes, three or four alternating styles to give the illusion of each being unique.

Well-manicured lawns, no cracked or oil-stained driveways.

The woman behind the wheel of the minivan started to whistle softly, trying to drown out the sound of the blade that Phillip had gone back to snapping out of the handle.

Nobody spoke.

The SUV made a final left, then pulled into a driveway. The minivan slowed and parked across the street, more than a half a block away.

The driver couldn’t risk having the minivan being caught on one of those fancy doorbell cameras. Being recorded by a security camera was a non factor. This was a nice neighborhood, quiet, full of families just like the Tressfields.

Nobody thought that anything bad could happen here.

The illusion of safety afforded by middle-income suburbia.

The two kids ran to the front door, jostling for position. The boy went to push his sister again, but a sharp warning from his father discouraged him.

Tracy Tressfield retrieved the groceries from the trunk and the driver of the minivan stopped whistling.

They waited.

Three minutes.

Four.

She pictured Tracy in the kitchen, slowly unpacking the groceries, loading the fridge. The kids were probably upstairs on their phones. Maybe listening to music while they doom scrolled.

James Tressfield would have plunked his fat ass on the worn chair in the living room by now, but not before grabbing a beer. Scratch that; ordering his wife to bring him said beer. Likely watching some sports highlights on TV, sports he could care less about.

Darts or Rugby.

“Now?” It wasn’t Phillip in the back who had asked the question but Paul in the passenger seat.

The voice startled the driver. Paul wasn’t much for speaking, never had been. He was quiet, reserved.

She was fairly certain that there was something wrong with the boy.

What do they call it these days? Autistic? On the spectrum? Atypical?

Back when she’d been young, things had been simpler.

Retarded; they would have called him retarded.

Can’t say that anymore.

All these rules. All this wokeness, the walking on egg-shells, worried that even the most benign of jokes will offend and get you canceled.

Canceled…

The woman cracked a smile as she thought of the word.

Having your sponsorship revoked or your Instagram page taken down wasn’t being canceled.

Oh, no—far from it.

“Not yet,” the driver said, reaching over and tousling Paul’s shaggy dark hair. Unlike Phillip, who routinely shaved his head, Paul’s hair was unruly and unkempt. It covered his eyes now, but he made no move to adjust it.

Made him look even more special.

He was special, autistic or not.

They all were.

More time passed.

Ten whole minutes before the woman put her arm on the passenger seat and craned her neck around. She focused her eyes on Mary.

Sweet Mary. Long, curly blond hair, upturned nose, plump, ripe cheeks.

So young yet filled with so much anger. If she hadn’t been the same at around her age, the driver would have thought that containing this amount of rage in such a small body impossible.

“You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, you know what to do.”

And she did.

Without further prompting, the girl got out of the car. Mary moved quickly down and across the street, staying well away from the walkways of adjacent homes.

Just as she’d been taught.

The driver rolled down the window to listen as Mary knocked on the door.

This was met by shouting from inside the home.

Although the driver couldn’t make out the words, she knew what was being said.

“Tracy, answer the door! Answer the damn door!”

And then, on cue, the thick wooden door, painted a matte black, opened.

Tracy peered out.

“I can’t find my mom,” Mary whimpered. The door opened even wider. “Please, I can’t find my mom.”

Concern was plastered on Tracy’s features as she glanced up and down the street, her eyes flicking right past the minivan without stopping.

“Who is it?” James bellowed from within.

Tracy turned her head.

“Nobody.”

The woman in the minivan laughed at this. She couldn’t help it.

It was true. They were nobodies.

At least for now.

“Come in, you can use the phone,” Tracy said.

Mary entered the home and Tracy closed the door behind her.

In the back seat, Phillip snapped the knife free.

This time, he didn’t close it.

PART I – Appetizer

Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent Alex Frost felt ridiculous.

She was twenty-five years old with two years of experience as a beat cop in New York City.

Almost a year as an FBI Agent in Orange County.

She’d hunted a disgruntled film editor who had nearly killed her in the Mojave Desert. She’d been knocked around by a pimp and a drug dealer while hunting a serial killer.

She’d gone to Mexico to rescue a friend who had been kidnapped and had taken on a brutal cartel.

She’d watched as a psychopath flayed her best friend’s foot  and the pieces of flesh raw.

And now, Alex Frost was… here.

In a fucking arcade of all places. Wearing a miniskirt that was three sizes too small, a t-shirt bearing a band’s name—at least, she thought it was a band—that she didn’t recognize, with a smear of glitter on her upper eyelids.

Hair pulled up in a ponytail befitting of someone half her age.

But Frost supposed that was the point.

She gnashed on a wad of bubble gum that was so large, flavorless, and hard, that her jaw ached.

Armed with a clutch filled with quarters, Frost made her way around the arcade, trying to block out the bumps, bleeps, and blaps that assaulted her senses.

A lost cause, that.

She pulled up to an empty machine. Mortal Kombat IV.

Two quarters and she selected her character. Some guy with glowing eyes wearing a sombrero. A Mexican lightning God, judging by the tendrils of electricity radiating from his clenched fists.

Frost mashed the buttons, managed to get a few blows in before the computer beat the living piss out of her.

To add insult to injury, her character was smashed together and reduced to a pulp by two massive skeleton hands that came out of the ground.

“Stupid game,” Frost muttered, slapping the joystick.

“That game is impossible.”

The man standing behind her had a shaved head and a smattering of pimples around his nose and mouth.

His name tag read Aaron.

“The computer beat me.”

Aaron laughed.

“The computer beats everyone. Hey, listen, I have some dummy coins in the back. You can get some revenge against the CPU if you want.”

Frost chewed her gum aggressively.

“What’s a dummy coin?” she asked, knitting her eyebrows together.

Aaron gave her a sly look, or at least what he perceived might was sly. In reality, he looked more sleazy than anything else.

Befitting.

“It’s basically a coin that triggers the mechanism that activates the game. It comes right out and you can keep on using it.”

“Sick. I would love one of those.”

“Yeah.” Aaron hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a door sandwiched between two pinball machines. “I’ve got it in my office.”

“That’s so nice. I should probably tell my mom, though.”

Aaron now stared at her quizzically. The man’s facial expressions were exaggerated, cartoonish.

Like Frost, he too, was playing a role.

“How old are you?”

This was too easy. Frost had been racking her brain trying to figure out a way to say her age without being obvious and he’d just opened the door.

“Almost fifteen.”

Aaron chuckled.

“Well, you can find your mom, but I can’t promise I’ll be around by then. Shift ends in…” He made a show of checking his cheap watch. “Shit, five minutes.”

Aaron moved toward the door, which was only a handful of paces from where they stood. Mortal Kombat IV hadn’t been an accidental choice.

“You sure you don’t want to slip inside? It’ll only take a sec.”

Why don’t you just get it for me and I’ll wait out here? Frost thought.

But what she said was, “Yeah, okay.”

“Awesome.”

Frost followed Aaron as he slipped a key into the lock. He opened the door, revealing a storage locker of sorts. Lining rickety, metal framed shelves were various parts of arcade and pinball machines. A joystick, a coin tray, a series of worn out buttons.

“I keep them back here,” Aaron informed Frost, moving deeper into the room. It wasn’t large, not with the shelves occupying so much space, maybe twelve feet deep, but there was enough room for a desk at the back. There was a computer buried somewhere beneath stacks of paper. “Can you close the door? I don’t want anyone to see where I keep the coins.”

“Okay.”

Frost resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Given what they knew about Aaron Beaugard, they were aware of the fact that this particular ploy had worked previously. Several times, in fact.

How could someone be this naive? Even a thirteen year old? Had they never heard of ‘stranger danger’?

Frost did as she the man asked. When she turned back around, she was surprised to find Aaron aiming pointing his iPhone in her direction.

“What are you doing?” Frost demanded. She didn’t have to feign being uncomfortable.

“They’re like two dozen kids out there. I have to get the dummy coin back or my manager is going to pissed. I just want a photo to remember what you look like.”

He raised the phone a couple of inches, his eyes flicking to the screen.

“I don’t… I don’t like this.”

Frost reached for the doorknob.

“You don’t like your picture taken?”

I don’t like my picture taken by you.

“Not really.”

“Why not? You’re pretty.”

Frost’s acting skills only went so far—she was just a guest in Orange County, a stone’s throw from Hollywood, not an aspiring actor turned waiter—and did not possess the faculties to blush.

“It’s just for me. Just to make sure I can find you again after my shift is over. Then I’ll delete it, okay?”

I thought your shift was over in five minutes? You have the memory of a goldfish, Aaron?

“I—“

“All done,” Aaron said with a smile. His phone disappeared into his pocket, then the man started to rummage through his desk. “Here, I found the—“

Three heavy knocks on the door made his words catch.

Frost reached for the handle.

“Hey, this is just between us okay? This is—“

Frost didn’t wait for him to finish. She pulled the door open and a woman pushed her way into the room.

“This is for employees only,” Aaron said, a slight tremor to his scratchy voice. “You can’t—“

“Aaron Beaugard, I’m going to need to see your phone.”

“My… phone? You can’t—“

The woman sighed, shook her head. She was holding something in her hand and now she flipped it open.

“Chase Adams, FBI. Aaron, give me your phone.”

For such a small woman, Chase carried herself and spoke with undeniable authority.

No matter how many times she witness this, Frost never ceased to be impressed.

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You took a picture of Agent Frost.”

The man’s eyes bulged.

“A-agent…? What?”

Aaron backed up and bumped into one of the shelves. A chunk of a pinball machine fell to the floor and he jumped.

“Officer Dupliss?” Chase said. A large man in uniform now entered the already crowded space. Frost squeezed herself up against a shelf, careful not to dislodge anything else.
“Can you arrest him?”

“Arrest me?” Aaron tried to put even more space between himself and the others, but there was simply no room. “For what?”

“You took a photo of a minor in a closed room. You also told her that not to tell anyone. That, my little man, is probable cause.”

Aaron surreptitiously reached into his pocket.

“It was just—she was… right there. Like, wearing all her clothes.”

Frost felt disgust wash over her.

“Yeah, in that photo, sure. What about the others?”

Aaron’s hand was stuck in his pocket.

“I don’t—“

“Officer Dupliss?” Chase repeated.

The officer grabbed Aaron by the forearm.

“Aaron Beaugard, you’re under arrest for solicitation of a minor.”

“Solici—“

“It means that you were trying exchange something for sex with someone under the age of sixteen.”

“Sex?” The officer spun Aaron around and slapped cuffs on him. “It was a coin—I was just giving her a coin for the machines. And all I took was a photo!”

Except it wasn’t just this photo. Over the past two weeks, six parents had reported that Aaron had pulled young girls into this very room to take pictures of them. Some as young as eight years old. None of the victims reported being asked to do anything lewd or remove their clothing.

But that didn’t matter.

“That’s the thing about Virginia law, Aaron,” Chase said, backing out of the room. Frost went with her. They’d drawn a bit of a crowd outside. Looky-loos wanting to know what the hell the commotion was all about. “You don’t actually need to take a compromising photo—all we need to show is intent. Anyways, you can take it up with the judge. Officer Dupliss, you got it from here?”

“I got it from here. Just gonna need you to fill out some paperwork.”

“You have my number. Send it to me.”

“Will do.”

Chase indicated the front doors to the arcade with her chin and Frost, wanting to get away from the noise and crowd, followed her out.

“That was easy,” Frost said. “Will it stick?”

“Depends what he has on his phone. But, I mean, no judge is going to buy that shit—that he was asking an eight year old to take a picture so that he knew who he lent one of the dummy coins.”

Frost dug her fingers into her ear and removed the small bud within.

“You got all that, huh?” she said, handing the device to Chase.

“Every word. Recorded it, too.” Chase put the transmitter in the case with the receiver from her own ear. “I’m parked over here.”

Successful or not, this wasn’t the type of case Frost had envisioned being involved in when she’d agreed to join the fabled Chase Adams on loan from Orange County.

Stopping Aaron Beaugard was important—Frost wasn’t so green that she didn’t know that people even as young as Aaron at twenty followed a progression from sequestering, to photographing, to touching, to sexual assault, to rape—but this wasn’t what she’d expected.

The CVU was known for taking on high-profile cases involving children.

They got into Chase’s car.

“I need to get changed,” Frost said, forcing the thin skirt down over her thighs as she sat. “I need to shower, too.”

Chase wasn’t much for smiling. Anyone who spent more than ten minutes with the woman knew this. But something close to a grin graced her lips now.

“I can take you back to your hotel. After—“

Chase had set her phone on the dash and it suddenly vibrated and lit up.

STITTS appeared on the screen.

FBI Quantico Director Jeremy Stitts. The man who had trained Frost and had sent her to Orange County for her first placement. Like Chase, Stitts himself was something of a legend when it came to recent FBI lore.

Rumor had it that the two of them—Chase and Stitts—used to be partners. Perhaps even something more.

“One sec.”

Chase pressed the phone to her ear as she answered. Frost, being polite, turned her head to the window and looked out. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but not listening to Chase’s side of the conversation was next to impossible.

“Yeah, we got him. Yeah. She said she was fourteen, he pulled her into a back room and asked her to close the door. Took a photo. Even went as far as to say not to say anything about it.” Pause. “Agreed. Definitely expectation of illicit intent.” Another pause. “Passed it on to local PD. I’ll get Frost to do up the paperwork and submit the audio recording as well.” A longer pause this time. As much as she wanted to resist, Frost found her eyes naturally drifting to the driver’s seat. Chase’s manicured brow furrowed. “What’s the case?”   The grin was completely gone now, replaced by a thin line. “Hold on, I’ll ask.”

Chase lowered the phone to her chest.

“We’ve got another case. Not sure what it is, yet. You want in?”

An unusual question, given the fact that Chase was technically Frost’s superior. If her previous partner, Con Striker, had been given a case, he wouldn’t ask Frost if she ‘wanted to take it’. He’d just tell her they were going. Hell, he might not even do that—just drive to the scene. But if Chase never smiled, Con never spoke.

But this was an unusual situation; Stitts and the then OC field office Special Agent in Charge had asked Frost if she wanted to relocate to Virginia and become part of the CVU. Under normal conditions, this would have been a no brainer. Except after what had gone down in Mexico, nothing was ‘normal’ to Frost anymore.

Frost couldn’t even think of those events without experiencing an involuntary shudder.

“Yes.”

Chase offered her a curt nod and then lifted the phone.

“She’s in.”

Stitts spoke for a good minute during which Frost tried to read on Chase.

The woman gave away nothing further.

“Baltimore? That’s just over an hour from here. We’ll drive there now. Send me the contact information.”

Chase hung up and began to drive.

Frost was desperate for answers. Thought that after what they’d been through together off the coast of Laguna Beach, that their relationship was in a place that she could ask questions.

Except she knew better. Striker had taught her better.

There was one question, however, that Frost absolutely had to ask.

“Think I can go home so I can change and get cleaned up?” The glitter makeup was irritating her eyelids, making them feel heavy.

“Sorry,” Chase said. “No time.”

Chapter 2

Chase made one concession: stopping at a service station to allow Frost a few moments to clean herself up.

Ten minutes later when Frost emerged, she looked more her age—well, still a little young, but that was no longer on account of her makeup, hairstyle, or clothes. Frost’s chestnut brown hair was tied back and her face was devoid of anything more than slightly tinted lip gloss. Chase had lent Frost a change of clothes and what they wore now was nearly identical: gray slacks and a creme colored shirt, tucked in.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Chase was struck by just how much the woman reminded her of herself, just more put together. Frost had her demons, surely, but they were of the cerebral kind.

Chase’s had been chemical.

But that was behind her.

“Feel better?”

“Much.”

The address that Stitts had given her was on the outskirts of Baltimore, and Chase, even with the pit stop, managed to arrive in just over an hour.

Baltimore had a reputation, even amongst FBI agents. A population of over half a million residents, about twenty percent survived below the poverty line. It was also one of the most dangerous cities in America. Still, the latest numbers—the FBI was provided with crime stats from every major US city on an annual basis—showed that the homicide rate had declined in 2024, a trend that continued in 2025.

Stitts knew Chase well enough not to bombard her with information about a case before assigning it to her—or, in this situation, asking if the CVU wanted to take the case, as was their purvue.

Chase liked to enter a scene with a clear mind.

Stitts had mentioned, however, that there were two minors among the victims: a male, 14, and a female, 11.

That was mostly it.

That was mostly enough.

Chase was surprised that the GPS directed her to an upscale suburban neighborhood. The CVU didn’t handle gang cases, preferring to leave these to local task forces who had experience with the socio-economical landscape. Not only were they better suited to investigate these crimes, but they often bristled when the FBI butted in and tried to take over. After what had gone down in both Orange County and, before that, in Maple Hollow, the last thing Chase wanted was to butt heads with more brain dead, insecure cops or sheriffs or state bureaus.

This was unfortunate part of the job but, in her experience, these negative interactions only resulted in one thing: slowing everyone down.

And in this line of work, slowing down meant that more kids died.

They had no problem finding the location. A police barricade blocked off the road, but the Baltimore PD Officer standing guard, a geriatric man with grooves around his nose and mouth that were so thick that they gave him an almost muzzle-like appearance, let them through with just a flash of Chase’s badge.

A good sign, one that suggested egos might not be an issue here.

But it was still early.

Chase was forced to pull over about a quarter block from the crime scene—clearly identifiable by the buzz of activity and the excessive use of yellow tape—on account of the sheer glut of law enforcement vehicles.

All Baltimore PD, save for a handful of blacked out cube vans marked with the ominous CSU letters emblazoned on the side.

“Ready?” Chase asked.

“Ready.”

They got out.

“Who’s in charge?” Chase demanded of the closest officer.

“Monty Denver. He’s the big guy with the glasses.”

Chase noticed the man immediately. He was standing in front of a house, the front door to which hung open. The man spoke curtly to a much thinner officer wearing a black CSU jacket.

According to Stitts, immediately upon discovering the scene, a call was placed to the local FBI Field Office. They passed the information on to the CVU.

This also bode well for not running into any resistance.

“Mr. Denver?” Chase called, hurrying over to the man.

Monty Denver cocked his head in response to his name.

Chase thought it strange that the officer had described Monty as ‘the big guy with the glasses’ strange, a far from respectful description.

But, boy, was it apt: Monty Denver was big. Roughly six feet tall—although, Chase had never been a great judge of height being only five-foot-five herself—and upwards of three hundred pounds. His glasses, square with thick, dark frames and even thicker lenses, were also a prominent feature.

He was dark skinned, and even though he was wearing his hat, Chase could tell that his hair was thinning.

“You must be Agent Adams,” Monty said, holding out his hand.

“Yes—Agent Adams and this is my partner Agent Frost. Sorry, don’t do handshakes. No offense.”

This wasn’t the friendliest of introductions. It came off as pretentious and unpleasant—not exactly the impression Chase wanted to give. It also wasn’t an accurate reflection of who she was.

Chase was self-aware enough to know how most people saw her. Not all the adjectives her colleagues would use were flattering—far from it—but pretentious wasn’t one of them. Cold, certainly, but not self-centered.

She knew all this, but Monty Denver thinking that she was a little stuck-up was better than thinking she was certifiable, which might be the case if her ‘voodoo’ decided to kick into overdrive when their skin touched.

“Understood.”

Chase suspected that Frost would have also avoided shaking hands, if for no other reason than to support her, but Monty saved them the trouble by lowering his hand.

“What’ve we got?”

“I told CSU to hold off on entering the scene until you guys arrived.”

Not an answer, but Chase didn’t asked for clarification.

She’d know what they were dealing with shortly.

Monty led them up a walkway. The house was nice, a two story, one family affair. Decent sized front yard, which had been recently mowed.

An SUV, white, newish model, was parked in the driveway.

“Neighbor saw the door hanging open, checked inside. Called out, but nobody answered. They were worried so they went in. Then immediately ran out again and called 9-1-1.”

“Where’s the neighbor now?” Chase asked.

“In a squad car. Still trying to catch her breath.” Chase looked around as Monty continued to speak. “I have to tell you, though, the scene is… well, it’s fucked up, pardon my French.”

Chase found the neighbor. Hard not to notice her.

She was sitting in the passenger seat of a BPD vehicle, staring blankly ahead. As Chase watched, the woman brought a bottle of water to her lips with a trembling hand.

Equal amounts of liquid landed on the front of her flowered shirt as in her mouth.

They reached the front door, which was blocked by two officers. They parted as the trio approached, then Monty stepped in front of them and turned. It looked like he was squinting, but it was hard to tell behind his magnifying lenses.

“Like I said, it’s fucked in there.”

This didn’t appear to be one of those macho situations, the all too familiar, ‘I’m not sure if you little ladies can handle it’ refrain.

Monty seemed genuinely disturbed.

And he had every right to be.

Fucked up, in this case, turned out to be a massive understatement.

Chapter 3

Nothing in the front foyer alluded to the violence that Monty Denver had done his best to prepare them for.

Nothing seemed out of place, either. Car keys sat on a long table, outdoor shoes were lined up on a mat. A mirror, recently cleaned, hung on the wall.

“Near the kitchen.” Monty’s voice was strained. It was clear that he had no intention of heading deeper into the home.

Good. The less people around, the easier it was for Chase to focus.

With this in mind, she cast a glance at Frost.

The woman was pale, but Chase suspected that this was on account of her having aggressively wiped off her previous makeup.

Or maybe not.

Chase led the way. Maybe ten feet in, the hallway opened up. There was a staircase off to the left, a living room to the right.

The living room was equally as tidy as the front entrance. The TV was still on, showing sport highlights. There was a beer resting on the table beside a warn lounge chair. The bottle appeared to be half full, but it wasn’t dotted by perspiration; it had gone  warm.

Chase moved through the archway toward the living room, taking everything in as she moved. One lounge chair, a couch. A less comfortable-looking wingback a bit further from the TV.

Frost was behind her, also inspecting their surroundings.

Chase didn’t rush, giving her eyes time to fall on every object in the room, letting her subconscious mark and record every item, something that the active part of her brain might miss.

She stopped completely when she entered the kitchen and her gaze fell on the dining area.

The first thing that struck Chase wasn’t the carnage, it was the table setting. Everything was perfect. Neatly arranged. Crisp white plates with classy flowers dotting the edges lay in front of every chair. Two forks, gleaming, a knife. A spoon. Two different styles of glasses, too. One for wine, the other, squat, for water. All were empty.

As were the plates sitting on gold chargers.

The second thing that Chase noticed was the blood. Some of it had landed on the place settings, on the lace table cloth. But the vast majority of the thick, dark liquid coated the chest and laps of the tables occupants.

“Jesus Christ,” Frost gasped from behind her. Chase ignored the comment, took two steps toward the table.

There were four of them. A man, woman, and two children. The patriarch and matriarch sat on either end, the kids across from one another. Their mouths were taped shut and their arms twisted behind them, bound by more of that same gray tape.

The throats of each family member had been slit from ear to ear, leaving raw, crescent-shaped wounds in their wake. Some—especially the father—were so deep that their heads lolled back unnaturally, exposing ragged strands of severed esophagi and vocal cords.

Chase was surprised at how little blood had actually landed on the table. A direct cut to the aorta would have caused significant spray and that wasn’t the case. Despite the extreme violence, this fact suggested an inexperienced hand. Much of the victims’ blood had already leaked onto their chests before their aortas had been severed.

Chase’s thoughts were interrupted by a thick grunt from behind her. She didn’t want to look, didn’t need the distraction. When the sound came again, she identified it as a suppressed gag.

Chase ignored this, too, as well as the sound of someone hurrying out of the house. Paying close attention to her footing, Chase moved toward the closest victim: the man. Even though she was fairly certain that she was alone in the dining room now, aside from the open stares of the seated corpses, she still made it look like she was checking for a pulse in case anyone was observing her.

But this wasn’t what she was doing. The stillness of the scene, even if it had been devoid of blood, would have been enough to convince her that everyone was dead.

The first two fingers of her right hand came in contact with the side of the man’s neck, just inches from the start of the knife wound.

Still warm, she thought. Still luke—

I bring the beer bottle to my lips, sip. It goes down easy. I take another sip before setting it back down.

My eyes go to the TV. It’s too early for anything interesting to be on. They’re showing yesterday’s golf highlights. I hate golf. What a boring ass game.

But I watch. Nothing else to do.

Behind me, I hear my wife in the kitchen. Making too much noise, as usual.

“Hey, keep it down in there,” I holler.

My wife goes quiet. I hear nothing from upstairs. The kids must be on their damn phones again.

Those fucking phones. All they do is go one their phones. From the moment they wake up to the—

There’s a knock on the door. Light, barely perceptible above the sound of the  TV.

My chair squeaks as I lean forward to try to see through the window.

Nothing; the blinds are closed, obscuring my view of the porch.

Maybe I imagined it.

Then it comes again.

“Hey, answer the door. Answer the goddamn door!”

I hear my wife shuffle forward. She says nothing as she looks out the peephole and then reaches for the handle.

Chase wrenched her hand back and gasped.

No matter how many times she experienced these visions, they never failed to startled her. Nor did they make her feel any less self-conscious. Her eyes darted, but she was still alone.

After regulating her breathing, she backed out of the room. Monty was standing on the front porch, his eyes downcast.

Chase found Frost by herself off to one side. The woman looked more green than pale now.

Frost and Chase had been through one hell of an ordeal together off the western coast of California. Frost had nearly been thrown off a cliff. Chase had almost been burned alive by a native tribe that had long since been deemed extinct. This had positively flavored her opinion of the young FBI Agent.

But seeing her now, dry swallowing like she had a porcupine quill stuck in her throat, made Chase question her previous judgment of Frost.

The woman needed comforting, reassurances.

But Chase wasn’t that type of person to give either of these. Their job was hard enough as it was—butting heads with local law enforcement or not. As much as the keyboard warriors on X and Reddit wanted to believe that the world had changed, evolved, moved on, that even one and everything from an ant to a bullfrog were all equal, this wasn’t reality.

One woman working for the FBI, a specialized FBI unit investigating some of the most despicable crimes against children, no less, was challenging. Two? Nearly impossible to gain their respect. People were always looking at them, observing, studying, waiting for them to fuck up.

Oh, look at the little girls throwing up at a crime scene… so cute. I knew they wouldn’t be able to do this work. It’s a man’s job, after all.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Chase hissed just loud enough for Frost to hear. “Now.”

Chase tried to offer an empathetic look, in direct contrast to her words, but wasn’t sure if this accomplished anything more than confusing Frost.

Empathy wasn’t in Chase’s repertoire, either.

Still, she gave Frost a few more seconds. Whatever was clinging to the insides of the woman’s throat—be it bile or a clandestine quill—finally made its way to the pit of her stomach.

“Good. Now, let’s go back inside.” Without waiting for a response, Chase raised her voice. “Monty, bring the CSU in—just one tech. I want everything photographed and bagged. And I mean everything.”

Chapter 4

The CSU tech that Monty Denver granted entry into the house was named Charles Ipsis. He was young and handsome.

“I’ve worked with Charles on several cases,” Monty informed both Chase and Frost as the tech walked through the front doors. “He’s great. Won’t miss anything.”

“Good,” Chase said. She was apprehensive given the man’s age, but it would be hypocritical for her to judge him—anyone, really—based on how they looked.

They remained a little behind, giving the man space to work.

“One of my men interviewed the neighbor who found the bodies,” Monty continued. He had a pleasant way of speaking; slow, but not so slow that it was tedious, making you want to wave your hand and encourage the man to just come out with it. “She said that the they’re the Tressfield family. Father’s name is James, mother is Tracy. Kids are Nina and James the second.”

Chase indicated for Frost to enter the house and was pleased to see that whatever had overcome the woman the first time around appeared gone now. Frost moved with confidence.

“Work?”

“The father is a lawyer… taxe law, she thinks. Wife is a stay at home mom. The boy goes to a local high school, the girl the elementary feeder school. Both local.”

They followed Frost and this time Chase picked up on two prevailing scents: the characteristic tinge of copper in the air and human feces.

One or more of the Tressfield’s bowels had let go.

“What about family life?”

Monty nodded.

“I got my man to ask and he said she was… hesitant. I mean, she was hesitant about pretty much everything. She’s shook up.”

Chase pictured the trembling woman in the cop car.

“But she said that the father had a temper.”

Hey, answer the door. Answer the goddamn door!

“Right.”

Charles Ipsis removed a large professional camera from a hard case.

“I want you to document everything in the entire house, including upstairs,” Chase told the man.

Charles looked at her. He had pale blue eyes.

“I will. I like to start with the bodies, though; while they’re still fresh.”

Chase nodded her approval and the tech got back to work. She watched him approach the girl—Nina— first, so small and frail. Cute, if not for her garish throat wound. He took a series of photographs, the shutter of the DSLR camera firing at regular intervals. Charles then cocked his head and pulled a black latex glove out of his pocket and put it on.

She noticed that he was focusing on Nina Tressfield’s left arm. Charles lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt with a gloved finger. He held it up as he snapped a photo.

While Frost made her way to the other side of the table, Monty and Chase inched toward the tech.

“What is it?” Chase asked.

Charles didn’t stop taking photos as he answered.

“Bruising on her arm.”

“From the attack?”

Charles shook his head and changed levels. If nothing else, the man was damn thorough.

“I’m no expert, but I don’t think so. The bruises are mostly yellow. If I had to guess, they’re about a week old.”

A thought began to form in Chase’s mind.

Answer the goddamn door!

“Where’s the Medical Examiner?” she asked Monty.

“Put a call in even before I contacted the local FBI field office. He’s swamped. Had two separate shootings last night on the other side of the city, both gang related. Has nine corpses and one soon to be corpse to get to.”

Chase bit her lip.

This is a priority, was on the tip of her tongue. But not bumping heads went both ways. She couldn’t just try and strong arm these people.

“I want the entire family’s medical records going back…” Chase hesitated. “Three years.”

“I can put in a request for a warrant.”

Chase grunted.

HIPAA—doctor/patient confidentially—still applied after death. Chase knew this but the scene and her vision had caused her memory to lapse. After scolding Frost for acting amateurish, no less.

She could argue that something in the medical records were directly related to the homicide and thus they wouldn’t need a warrant, but considering the scene, this would be a tough sell.

“Try for the warrant. I’ll reach out to my people, too. One of our partners—“

“Adams?”

Chase eyes shot to Frost. She was standing next to the young boy, James Tressfield the Second. One corner of her lip was twisted upward slightly, but this expression had nothing to do with the brutality of the scene.

“Yeah?”

“Was James adopted?”

Chase was taken aback by the question. She turned to Monty, who just shrugged.

“I have no idea.”

“Probably not,” Chase surmised, considering that the boy had been named after his father. “Why?”

“Because he looks nothing like the rest of the family.”

They had Charles’ attention now, too.

Chase observed the corpses, one-by-one. The daughter held a clear resemblance to her mother: both were thin, with high cheekbones. Nina’s nose was small, buttonish, while Tracy’s was slightly rounder. But there was no doubting the resemblance. Nina also shared the patriarch’s square jaw and dark eyes. The boy?

He had a shaved head, and the stubble that had started to grow in was dark, almost black. Neither parent had black hair. His face shape had a different shape, too. More oval than square.

Not every kid looked like their mom or dad, young or old. But Chase was inclined to agree with Frost. The boy with the taped mouth and the slit throat did not resemble the other corpses at the table.

“I’m on it,” Charles said, slipping the strap from his camera over one shoulder and hurrying out of the room.

She heard him mounting the stairs.

What the hell is going on here?

It could be that James the Second had been adopted. It could be that James the Second just didn’t look like his parents.

But now that Frost had planted this idea in her head, it refused to let go.

She closed her eyes saw James, the father, on the couch. Drinking his beer.

Yelling at his wife to get the goddamn door.

Chase was just falling into a dreamlike state when Charles came down the stairs, clutching a high school year book.

“It’s not him.”

Charles flipped to a page near the back, planted a gloved finger on the image of James Tressfield II.

The boy in the photo also had a shaved head, but his hair was either a dirty blond or a light brown. He had his father’s square jaw.

There was no question that the James in the yearbook and the dead boy at the table were completely different people.

“What the fuck?” Monty whispered.

“Did you search upstairs?” Chase asked Charles.

“No one up there.”

“Then we need to put out an Amber Alert for James Tressfield II—ASAP. And I want DNA from everyone at the table.”

Monty and Charles got to work immediately, the former on the radio, the latter snapping away with his DSLR.

Chase retreated out of the house and got on her cell.

As the phone rang, she continued to back up.

Her eyes fell on the rear windshield of the Tressfield’s white minivan and she focused on the sticker depicting outlines of the family members.

Four of them: James, Tracy, Nina and… someone else?

“Hello?”

“Linus, I need you to do something for me.”

Chapter 5

For such a big, out of shape man, Monty Denver moved quickly. Within the hour, the Amber Alert for James Tressfield II was live.

Monty was right about Charles Ipsis, too. The man was good. He’d not only taken DNA samples from everyone at the table, but had also obtained samples from James Tressfield II’s bedroom, both from a razor and a short-bristled hairbrush.

Chase and Frost had completely a search of the house. Discovered two cell phones upstairs, one with a cherry red case, the other black with an embossed snake.

Presumably Nina’s and James’, respectively.

Father James’ and Tracy’s phones were found on their persons.

All of them were locked.

Learning from their first mistake, Charles had confirmed the identities of the other family members from a photos and driver’s licenses about the house.

“The Amber Alert has gone out,” Monty informed Chase when they were back outside the home. The sun was starting to dip behind the horizon.

“I know.”

“My captain,” Monty began uncomfortably, “suggested we hold a press conference, get the photo out to more people.”

The man wiped sweat from his brow. He was sweating profusely, despite the fact that the weather had dropped a good fifteen degrees since they’d arrived.

Normally, Chase would have been staunchly against going public. This tactic was almost always more trouble than it was worth and there was always the fear that spooking their unknown subject, their unsub, would cause them either to flee or to do something irrational.

Something dangerous.

But whoever was behind this quadruple homicide had already shown what they were capable of. No amount of mental gymnastics could convince Chase that whatever they did would have any effect on their unsub’s future actions.

“How long will it take to set up?”

“Ten minutes. We usually contact Cable 10 News to do our press conferences. They’re unbiased and unlike some of the other news outlets—“

“Where?”

Monty glanced around.

“We can do it right here.”

Chase considered this. Aside from the multitude of cop cars and the crime scene tape, there was no indication of the violence inside the home.

“Do it.”

While Monty got back on his radio, Chase turned her attention to the front of the house.

Frost emerged as if she’d been summoned.

“I—“

Chase didn’t give her the opportunity to speak.

“I have Linus back in Quantico looking into hospital records for the family. He’s also looking at camera footage from the neighborhood, trying to retrace their final steps.”

Frost had overheard the whole ‘need a warrant for hospital records’ spiel from Monty but didn’t bat an eye when Chase mentioned Linus.

When Frost had agreed to come to Quantico with Chase and join the CVU on loan, she’d spent the first day introducing the woman to the team.

‘Team’ meaning Linus and Stitts, the latter of which she already knew.

Linus, never one for subtlety, had had a difficult time taking his eyes of Frost.

Chase didn’t blame him. Alex Frost was an attractive woman. She also wasn’t going to call the man on it. So long as he kept it at looking and stayed far from leering or anything more, Chase gave Linus a pass.

She needed him.

He was an absolute master when it came to all things digital.

“What were you going to say?”

“I found grocery bags in the garbage. There was a receipt in one of the bags from early this morning.”

Chase’s ears perked up.

“Where’s the receipt?”

“Charles bagged it.”

“You need—“

“I took a photo.”

Frost showed her the image on her phone.

“Farmer’s Market,” she said. “Checked out at nine-eighteen A.M.”

Chase squinted at the screen. She must be getting old; the numbers were too small to read.

“1216 Culver’s Way,” Frost said.

Chase called Linus back, relayed the information.

“Concentrate your focus on cameras around the Farmer’s Market at 1216 Culver’s Way. I have no idea where that is, but these groceries stores are usually located on main thoroughfares,” she said without preamble. Chase had already provided Linus with the make, model, and tag number of the Tressfield’s SUV.

“On it. Still working on the hospital records. Going to take some time.”

“Just send me whatever you find on the fly.”

“Done.”

A news van arrived in less than Monty’s stated ten minutes. The side was adorned with a ‘Channel 10 News’ logo straight out of 1991. The side door opened and a thick man holding a camera, also circa the 1990s, emerged. He was followed by a woman holding a microphone.

Monty signaled to Chase and Frost and they met the news team on the lawn.

“Monty,” the woman said. Women newscasters almost always had the same look: big, coiffed hair, usually blond, with heavy makeup around the eyes.

This woman hadn’t been prepared for being on camera, which wasn’t surprising given the impromptu nature of the call. This woman was no different, except she’d obviously been taken by surprise by the call. Her hair—yes, blond—was in a messy ponytail, and she continually tried to smooth the top with the hand not holding the mic.

“What have we got?” She looked toward the house, but Monty had been smart and had closed the front door after Frost stepped out. “This have anything to do with the Amber Alert?”

It was Chase who answered.

“Yes. Missing boy, fourteen years of age. James Tressfield the Second.”

“I’m sorry… who are you?”

Chase glared at the woman. When she’d agreed to go public, she wanted it done immediately. Nothing pissed Chase off more than standing around doing nothing. At least the newswoman hadn’t called her ma’am.

“That’s Chase Adams and I’m Alex Frost. We’re with the FBI, CVU,” Frost said.

The woman’s expression was one of awe. She’d heard of them or maybe of the CVU; their reputation was starting to make rounds.

“Can you go live?” Chase snapped her fingers when there was no immediate response. “Can you go live?”

“Y-yeah. We’re all set up. Do you have a photo of the kid?”

Shit.

“I’ll get it,” Monty offered. He rushed—okay, waddled briskly—back to the house, hollering Charles’ name as he went.

“Can we get any shots of the inside?” Startled or not by the FBI’s presence, the newswoman was no rookie.

“You may not,” Chase replied sharply. “I want the name and photo on the screen.”

“What about a number to call?”

This, Chase had to stop and think about.

Monty Denver seemed like an amicable guy. Not only had he immediately called the FBI, but he’d handed over the reigns as soon as they’d arrived and continued to be helpful after the  fact.

Chase hoped that getting James’ picture out there might yield results—hopeful, but not terribly optimistic—but the last thing she wanted to do was spend hours, either herself or Frost or Linus, listening through dozens of phone calls.

“You have Monty’s number? His precinct, or whatever?”

“I do.”

“Use that then.”

The woman nodded just as Monty himself returned with the high school yearbook in his hand. He flipped it open.

“This is him.”

The cameraman juggled the video camera on his shoulder while he struggled to get his cell phone out of jeans that, like the van and the camera itself, appeared to be at least three decades old.

And three sizes too small.

The news anchor helped him out and took the photo.

“It’ll take me a minute to set up the overlays on the computer in the van and get the live feed going.”

“Get it done, Larry,” the woman said, annoyed.

If Monty Denver waddled, Larry the camera man shuffled.

“Where do you want to do this?” she asked while her partner retreated to the van.

“Right here is fine.” Chase indicated the front lawn where there was only limited Crime Scene Tape. A little was fine. A little added credence to the seriousness of the case. A lot meant that people would come looking for the house. On that note, she added, “Just don’t put the house number in the shot.”

“Not a problem. I’m assuming that it will be the three of you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be front and center.”

Chase wasn’t a fan of public pleas for help and was less enthused about the idea of speaking.

“Monty, you do the talking. Keep it short, simple. Missing kid, if anyone sees him, call the number on the screen, that sort of thing.”

“Got it.”

The cameraman returned, this time with his device firmly nestled on his shoulder.

“Lexxie, we’re good to go.”

Inwardly, Chase cringed.

Larry and Lexxie.

Sweet Jesus.

“Let’s do this, then.”

A small group of neighbors had ventured forth, gaining confidence in numbers.

Chase wanted this over with before there was a large crowd.

She nudged Monty toward the location on the lawn that she’d previously indicated. Monty got in the middle, slightly ahead of both her and Frost who flanked him.

He hiked up his forty-inch pants.

“Okay, let me know—“

“We’re ready,” Chase said.

“In ten,” the cameraman said, focusing his lens on Lexxie who stepped in front of them. “Three, two.”

He signaled one and Lexxie immediately broke into a practiced speech.

“I’m standing here in front of a suburban home…”

Chase’s phone started to ring in her pocket. She did her best to ignore it.

“…with Baltimore PD Officer Monty Denver. And he has a request for the public tonight,” Lexxie continued.

The camera moved to the three of them as Chase’s phone finally went silent.

“Good evening. We…” Monty began.

Chase’s phone rang again.

What the fuck?

“…our missing child is fourteen year old James Tressfield the Second. He has short, dirty blond hair…”

Her phone simply would not stop ringing.

“If you’ve seen James, please contact the number on your screen. We thank you for your help.”

It was a bad look for Chase to pull out her cell phone during the press conference, even if there was just one camera pointed in their direction.

But Chase did it anyway.

It was Linus.

“Can you tell us a little about what happened in the Tressfield home?” Lexxie asked.

In addition to the three missed calls, Chase had more than half a dozen texts from the man.

The first read: Answer your phone. I found the SUV.

Then, Chase, I found the SUV. Answer your phone.

This was followed with by three video files.

Chase was opening the first video when she realized that it had been a good ten seconds of silence since Lexxie’s question. A question clearly directed at her.

She raised her eyes from the phone.

Shit. What the hell was the question?

For the life of her, Chase couldn’t recall.

Frost saved her.

“At this time, our main concern is finding James Tressfield.”

“You’re with the FBI?”

“Yes. I’m Special Agent Frost. We would like, again, to ask the public—“

“Does the FBI usually get involved with missing persons?” Lexxie pressed.

Chase frowned.

What the hell is this? An ambush?

Hand still on her cell phone, Chase was about to say something but, once again, Frost took the lead.

In fairness, Frost did a better job than Chase thought she might have, given the unexpected barrage of questions.

“My focus right now, FBI or not, is finding James Tressfield.”

“But—“

“It is imperative that if you’ve seen James, or even someone you think looks like James, to call the number on the screen.”

The glare from Frost—an absolute glare—convinced Lexxie to stop with the questions.

The feed ended and Larry lowered the camera.

“What the hell was that?” Monty asked.

“Nothing,” Lexxie said. “I was just—“

“You do something like that again, and I’ll call the Bernie over at WMAR 2.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do it again.”

Channel 10 started to pack up.

“Sorry about that,” he said to Chase. “Lexxie is usually pretty good with these things.”

“It’s alright.”

It wasn’t, but there was no point arguing now.

“I’m going to go check on Charles,” Monty said.

“Okay.”

When they were alone, Chase said, “Good job. You handled that well.” Frost wasn’t pining for praise like some agents might have, but Chase figured the woman had earned it. “Linus sent me a couple of videos.”

She played the first one as Frost leaned over her shoulder.

It was taken from a red light camera but other than that she couldn’t make out a single detail—the video was blurry.

“What the hell?”

Chase opened the second video.

Same result. It was blurry and pixelated.

“Hold on.” She called Linus. He answered before the first ring ended. “Linus, what the hell are these videos? It looks like someone smeared Vaseline all over the screen.”

“What?”

“They’re blurry as fuck.”

“They’re fine for me.”

Chase waited.

“I think maybe the videos are too large and are being compressed,” Frost suggested.

“She’s probably right,” Linus said, overhearing her. “Can you get to a computer? I can email them to you.”

Chase’s rarely used laptop was in her car.

“Yeah, I can do that. Did you see anything?”

“Don’t think so. You were right, the road outside of Farmer’s Market is busy. Wanna know how many cars I clocked going in and out around the time the Tressfield’s went to get their groceries?”

Chase did not and said as much.

“Geez, you’re no fun. I—“

“Nothing about this is fun, Linus. Just tell me.”

“One hundred and twelve.”

Shit.

“Okay, continue to send me what you’ve found and start looking up license plate numbers. See if anything pops.”

“One more thing: the Farmer’s Market has CCTV cameras in the store. You want me to reach out, see if they’ll allow me to access it? Or do you want me to… uhh… investigate?”

Code for do you want me to do this through official avenues or do you want me to hack in? Chase thought about the bodies inside the house, the perfect place settings.

“Do whatever you have to do.”

“Got it. But I can’t do license plates, look at the Farmer’s Market CCTV, and check Hospital Records at the same time.”

They had too few skilled hands at there disposal. Even if Tate had been with them, Chase wasn’t sure he’d be much help. The man was perhaps even less useful when it came to computers than she was.

They needed to prioritize. The bruises that Charles had identified on Nina’s arm were concerning, but they were still waiting on the Medical Examiner to arrive. 

“License plates and the CCTV,” Chase said at last.

“Got it.”

Chase hung up.

“Okay, let’s open the computer—shit, what now.”

Her phone started to ring again and she was about to answer with a hostile ‘What’ when she read the call display.

Chase excused herself.

“Hey, Georgina, what’s up?”

“Where are you?” her niece asked.

“I’m… I’m working. What’s going on?” A long pause. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah… fine.”

An even longer pause.

“Okay, well—“ Chase stopped cold.

With everything that had happened, from the creep at the arcade to being pulled out to Baltimore, Chase had forgotten all about her plans with Georgina tonight.

Had forgotten that it was the girl’s birthday.

“I’m sorry, G. I called out to Baltimore on a case.”

“Baltimore?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Well, that’s alright. We can celebrate this weekend. Rachel is coming home and—“

“No,” Chase said, shaking her head. “I’ll be there. Two hours, okay?”

“If you have to—“

“G, I said I’d be home.”

The girl sighed.

“Alright. See you soon.”

Chase understood Georgina’s frustration. How many times had Chase said she’d be home only to not show up?

Too many to count.

Not this time. There wasn’t much else they could do here. Calls from James sightings were going to go directly to Monty. The ME was MIA and Charles Ipsis seemed more than capable of collect evidence from inside the home. Chase supposed she could speak to the neighbor who had discovered the bodies, but she was highly doubtful that she’d be able to get any more out of the distraught woman than Monty’s fellow officer already had.

That left only computer work. Linus’ specialty and something that she could do from anywhere.

No, I’m not going to flake on Georgina again, Chase decided. As little as a year ago, going home during the middle of a case would have been unfathomable.

Was this growth? Or was this her getting soft?

Frost was waiting patiently, not sure what to do, which only added to the pressure.

What sort of precedent was she setting by leaving a crime scene, especially one like this, just hours after they’d arrived?

But her mind was already made up. And what was she supposed to do? Leave Frost here to fend for herself? With no car? No place to stay?

No.

“Let me have a word with Monty,” Chase told her partner. “Then we’re going to head back to Quantico.”

Chapter 6

It was closer to two hours—traffic—when Chase finally opened her front door.

A smell filled her nose. Her first thought was that it was the same as the blood she’d inhaled at the Tressfield house.

Her heart kicked, then calmed.

It wasn’t blood. It was… Chinese food?

“Georgina?” Chase kicked off her shoes. “G?”

Movement from the kitchen.

“Chase?”

Chase hated the apprehension in the girl’s voice. Was saddened further when she found her niece sitting alone at the kitchen table, Chinese food containers open in front of her.

A plate smeared with sauces typical of the fare—peanut, sweet and sour—was pushed a few inches from Georgina.

“I… I started without you.”

Translation: I didn’t think that you’d actually show, so I ordered food and ate alone.

Chase had to grit her teeth to keep her emotions at bay.

Georgina just turned fifteen today. A fifteen year old shouldn’t be alone on their birthday, eating Chinese food.

She walked over and kissed the girl’s forehead and swept a lock of orange hair from her face.

“Happy Birthday.”

Georgina smiled.

“Thanks.”

I should have gotten her gift. Why didn’t I buy her something?

This was quickly followed with, But what would I buy?

Chase spent so little time with her niece these days that she wasn’t actually sure what Georgina liked. Podcasts, Raven, but… what else?

More of those heavy emotions. They hit hard.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”

Georgina’s beaming smile didn’t falter.

“You don’t need to. I’m just happy you’re home.”

This made only made things worse.

“Mind if I join you?” Chase said, indicating the half empty plastic food containers.

Georgina tossed her a set of chopsticks.

“Please do. And eat. If you don’t, I’m going to keep on picking. And then the my birthday gift will be high blood pressure and diabetes.”

***

After putting Georgina to bed, with a few too many apologies than either of them were comfortable with, Chase came up with a plan.

After spending an hour or so going through the videos that Linus had sent over, she called Tate.

“Hey, Chase, how are you?”

Terrible. Guilty. So, status quo.

“Been better. It’s Georgina’s birthday, you know.”

“Yeah, of course,” Tate said. His cheery tone deepened her frown. “Called her this morning. I was thinking about what to get her—“

“About that,” Chase cut in, “I have an idea.”

She shared it, and this time when Tate replied enthusiastically Chase felt her spirits start to lift.

“What time is it there, anyway?” Chase asked.

“Just after seven.”

Silence.

“It’s ten here.”

Silence.

Why is this so fucking hard?

They knew that this long distance thing, temporary as it might be, was going to be difficult. But Chase figured they’d just power through.

Expected that they would do just that. Considered that it might even be good for them, for their relationship.

What had Tate said while hugging her on San Nicolas Island?

I can’t do this anymore.

Something like that.

He’d meant work together. Meant that he lost his mind when she lied to him and took off, recklessly hunting a dangerous suspect.

Hadn’t he?

“I miss you, Tate. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The awkwardness remained.

As did the questions rolling around inside Chase’s head.

***

Frost couldn’t sleep.

Impossible.

Every time she shut her eyes, she saw those kids sitting around the table, their throats slit.

Can you pass the peas, honey?

The words came out of the gash, wet and blubbery.

Sure, thing.

They would eat, and the food would just fall out of the hole in their throats.

Then they would change. They wouldn’t be the Tressfield family, but Tory. Tory and Emma.

And Corvus, the cannibalistic cartel Sicario would be there. Only he wasn’t eating peas with gravy.

He was eating them.

Frost gave up sleeping.

When she’d first been stationed in Orange County, she hadn’t known not a single person. It had taken her months to grow even remotely comfortable with her new surroundings.

It was somehow worse coming to Quantico.

She knew people here. Well, had known people here. She’d gone to the academy, made a handful of friends. But those friends were either gone or dead.

There was Chase, of course. The idea of Chase.

From a professional standpoint, no agent could have asked for better partners to learn from. First, Constantine Striker, who had brought down The Sandman, one of the most notorious serial killers on the west coast in decades.

Chase’s reputation was perhaps even more illustrious. Definitely more varied.

But they were both damaged individuals.

Had been damaged, in Striker’s case.

Had… had… had…

She was too young to be locked into the past tense.

Frost had learned from Striker, and even earlier, during her training, that listening was almost always more insightful than speaking.

But after spending almost two hours in the car with Chase and uttering only a handful of words, most of which involved requests to stop and pee, Frost longed for some human interaction.

In Quantico, her primary focus had been her work. She’d passed up many a social engagement to put in more hours than anyone else. But she’d always had Tori to fall back on.

Tori—What up, bitch?—who somehow knew exactly what to say when Frost started to feel things slipping away from her.

Tori had been reliable.

There it was again: had.

Tori’s leg had been amputated. Tori had also awoken from her chemically induced coma.

But her mind had not recovered.

She was just a shell of the woman she used to be. Prone to breaking into spontaneous crying fits interspersed by moments of… sheer nothinging.

Without her, Frost was lost.

She’d had other friends at the Academy, none of whom she was as close with as Tori. But contacting them now was out of the question.

Out of the fucking question.

Tori’s boyfriend Ben had been sleeping with their mutual friend Yuri while Tori had been stationed in San Antonio.

The two of them even had the gall to show up together at Tori’s hospital bed.

No, she wasn’t calling them.

She wasn’t going to reach out to her father, the esteemed US Congressman Brandon Frost, either.

Frost was twenty-five years old and she needed to figure things out for herself.

What you need to do is get some sleep, Frost. You’re exhausted.

Tori’s voice? Or just a nagging internal monologue?

Either way, sleep was not happening.

Frost spent the next ten minutes scrolling on her phone before deciding that if she wasn’t going to sleep then she’d do the next best thing: work.

She called Linus.

“Oh, hey… how are you?” Linus said awkwardly.

This wasn’t alarming; awkward was the name of the game for the CVU tech wizard.

“I’m fine—thanks. I don’t mean to bother you at home but—“

“I’m not at home. I’m Still at work.”

“Well, good, I guess. I was wondering if you could send me some of those videos from outside the Farmer’s Market? Was hoping to spend a few hours—“ all night “—combing through them. See if I notice anything.”

“I can do you one better: just managed to gain access to the CCTV footage from inside the store.”

Frost’s eyebrows rose.

“Really? Can you send—“

“Do you… do you want to meet up and go over through together?”

Frost looked down at herself. With the failed expectation of sleep, she’d gotten out of the clothes that Chase had lent her, showered, and slipped into a baggy tracksuit.

“I think I’m just going to stay in.”

“Oh.”Linus sounded disappointed.

“Can you email me the videos?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll do it right away. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Chapter 7

Chase knocked on the door to Frost’s hotel room at just after six in the morning.

She didn’t expect the woman to be awake, and this wasn’t some sort of test, either. They hadn’t specifically stated a pick-up time but Chase had been up early.

Last night, she’d felt guilty about… well, a lot of things.

She’d woken up still guilty, but for a different reason.

Abandoning the case.

Chase was startled when Frost opened the door.

“I’m ready,” the woman said.

Chase was so surprised that she didn’t know what to say. Frost was dressed, and was wearing more makeup than yesterday.

Still, she looked tired, as if she’d barely slept. Not wholly unforeseen, given how the woman had reacted when first coming across the Tressfield family massacre.

“Just give me a second.” Frost darted back into the room, returned with a laptop under one arm. “Now, I’m ready.”

Tired or not, Frost started talking a mile a minute once they began driving back to Baltimore.

“I reached out to Linus last night, got him to send me over some of the video footage.”

Which is exactly what I should have been doing.

“From the traffic cams?”

“No, from inside the store. I think… I think I found something.”

Chase took her eyes off the road for a second. Frost had opened her laptop and started to play a video from the Farmer’s Market.

The shot was of the produce aisle, and featured a thin woman putting apples in a plastic bag.

“That her? Tracy Tressfield?” Chase asked. She looked back to the road ahead, applied a little more pressure to the gas pedal.

She was driving fifteen miles over the speed limit. If Tate had been behind the wheel, they’d already be in Baltimore.

“Yeah, it’s her. She did pretty much all the shopping by herself. I followed her around the store, focused on other shoppers who came near her.”

“Where’s her family?”

“The kids stayed with their father at the front the entire time. Tracy did all the shopping.”

Answer the goddamn door!

“And—wait… the kids? Nina and James? As in, the real James?”

“Yes. It’s him. James Tressfield II, not the kid at the table.”

Chase glance over again.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Frost loaded a screenshot.

It was him; James Tressfield the Second, standing right next to his father and sister.

A horn blared and Chase narrowly avoided t-boning a sedan as she passed through a red light.

She locked her eyes on the road.

No matter what Frost had found, it wasn’t worth getting into an accident.

Not at these speeds.

“Did they all leave together?”

“They did.”

“So, at some point between when the family left the store and when they got home, or maybe even at the house, James was swapped out for whoever took his place at the table.”

Could James be behind this? Could he have slaughter his family?

Chase had unfortunately seen more sadistic things.

But who the fuck was the new kid?

“Did you manage to follow their car on the road?” Chase asked.

“No, I was focusing on other shoppers.”

“And?” she said, unable to keep the annoyance she felt from her voice.

“I noticed this guy staring at Tracy. He never spoke to her but he seemed to be following her for a bit.”

Chase heard Frost type and assumed that she’d pulled up a photograph. She didn’t look over.

“And?”

“Well.” For the first time since she’d excitedly started speaking, Chase heard nervousness enter Frost’s voice. “He has a very distinctive face tattoo. A sword running from his jaw to his temple. I took a chance and punched it into the Baltimore PD criminal database and got a hit. His name is Connor Byrd. Long time criminal. Been in and out of prison since he was just a kid. There were two other people in the store at the same time as the Tressfields with criminal records, but his rap sheep was by far the longest. The thing that really tipped me off, though? Connor just got out of prison two weeks ago. He spent nearly four years inside for assault and battery… on his son. He tried to light his own kid on fire.”

“What?” Chase couldn’t resist the urge to turn her head now. As predicted, a man’s face filled the screen. There was the sword tattoo, of course, but one other caught her eye. The word ‘Blut’, in small text, arced just above his left eyebrow.

“Blut… that means blood in German,” Chase said. She tensed, thinking back to her training days when they’d been forced to memorize different gang and hate symbols. “Blut and… something. It’s German for—“

“Blut und Ehre,” Frost said. “Blood and Honor. A popular phrase used by the Nazi party. This got me thinking. Maybe James was involved in a white supremacy or neo-Nazi group—he was a lawyer—and fell out of favor with them. This was their way of getting back.”

It was a possibility. Didn’t explain why James II was missing or who the new kid was, but Frost’s theory held some water.

Baltimore’s population was primarily Black, upwards of sixty percent, and with all the gang violence an uprising of white supremacists was unfortunately expected.

“What do you know about neo-Nazi groups working out of Baltimore?”

“Right—looked into that, too. The Atomwaffen Division is active in Baltimore. It was led by a guy named Brandon Russel, but he was convicted in February for planning to blow up an electrical grid and start a race war. Could be that without their figurehead, there was some dissension in the ranks. Maybe James tried to split off or was vying to be the new leader.”

They were getting ahead of themselves. There was no evidence that James Tressfield was involved in any of these activities.

“We need to speak with Monty.”

And we can’t get to Baltimore fast enough.

Chapter 8

Monty Denver met Chase and Frost outside the Baltimore Chief Medical Examiner’s Office.

“Morning,” he said. “The Medical Examiner is waiting for us.”

He held the door open for them and they entered the building. Monty signaled to the clerk behind the desk, who nodded back, and then led them through another door. As they started down a tiled hallway, he said, “After you called, I looked into Conner Byrd, asked around. He was definitely part of the Atomwaffen Division. Mid-level. Cross-referenced his name with known associates. Not a single mention of a James Tressfield.”

“Someone said that James was a tax lawyer? Something like that?” Chase asked.

“That’s right.”

“Any way that he might have been doing taxes for some of the Atomwaffen members?”

“That, I can’t tell you.

“Right. Lawyers.”

They reached a large reinforced door.

Monty knocked twice and then opened it.

Chase was initially taken aback by the sheer size of the morgue. She was used to small, square rooms with only a handful of cold lockers and gurneys.

The morgue was easily four times as large as the others that Chase had frequented. Forty feet long, thirty wide. Dozens of gurneys strewn haphazardly about the room, most of which appeared occupied.

“Dr. Cobb?” Monty said. His voice had a slight echo to it. “Dr. Cobb?”

A man in the far recesses of the morgue raised his head. He was wearing a white hairnet and, for a split second, Chase thought that one of the corpses draped in sheets of the same color had sat up.

The face shield broke the illusion.

“Over here.”

Dr. Cobb was a scrawny Black man in his late sixties. Two of him could have fit inside Monty’s parachute-like uniform pants. He had hair that was graying at the temples and crows feet flanking his eyes.

“This is Agent Adams and Frost.”

The man forewent shaking hands; his gloves were covered in a thick, clear substance.

“Dr. Arlen Cobb. Your bodies are over here.”

Chase counted fourteen bodies on gurneys, mostly Black, before they reached the Tressfield family.

“You’re the only one in here?” she asked.

“I am. Budget cuts.”

Dr. Cobb sounded understandably exhausted.

He stopped in front of four gurneys, all with bodies resting on them, covered in sheets. Chase was unsure how the man knew that these were the Tressfield family, as she saw no identifying marks on the sheets or tags to on the metal railings.

But, sure enough, when Dr. Cobb pulled a sheet down, Chase saw Tracy Tressfield’s face.

“All four victims died from exsanguination. Their wounds were all made with a small knife, anywhere between four and six inches long—double-edged. Preliminary findings suggest a butterfly knife or a dagger of some sort.”

“Can you be anymore specific?” Chase asked.

“I cannot.”

“What about casting a mold?”

“That can be done… in time.”

Chase scowled.

“Toxicology?”

“Working on it.”

“Any other injuries to the bodies?”

“None recent,” Dr. Cobb said, moving to another gurney. He didn’t bother recovering Tracy’s gray face. Another sheet was lowered, this time revealing Nina Tressfield. Frost tensed. “But, based on what Charles Ipsis told me, I looked for older injuries.”

Dr. Cobb removed the sheet almost entirely.

Nina Tressfield was dead, but this did little to quell Chase’s discomfort at the eleven-year-old’s naked body being put on display like an offering at the butcher’s counter. Unlike Frost, she was no stranger to corpses. Yet, this one affected her.

“There’s the obvious bruising on her left arm, consistent with someone grabbing her. On her back, I found evidence of scarring.”

Dr. Cobb used two hands to lift Nina’s tiny body.

“Could be a belt or a hairbrush. No way to tell for sure.” Nina’s back was covered in patches of skin that were of a slightly different shade than the rest. Most were thin, but others were broader, and oval shaped. Dr. Cobb lowered the body and moved to the other side of the gurney. “During my exam, I noticed a slight deformity midshaft of the right forearm—the radius bone. Palpation suggests a callus formation.” Seeing their blank expressions, Dr. Cobb sighed. Oh, he was tired alright. “I think the forearm bone was previously broken. Can’t confirm without an X-ray but,” he indicated the full morgue, “that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Did it heal properly?” Frost asked out of nowhere.

“Healed fine.”

“Then it was probably in a cast.”

We need those hospital records, Chase thought.

“Most likely.”

“Are these injuries consistent with abuse?” Chase asked.

“The ones on her back, yes. The arm… can’t be sure. Could just have fallen off her bike.”

Dr. Cobb waited for further queries but when none came, he moved on.

“The other adolescent also had evidence of scaring on his back. Much more pronounced.”

Dr. Cobb repeated what he’d done with Nina—first pulling down the sheet, then flipping him up—but this took more effort on account of the unknown victim being heavier.

“Again, this is just me postulating, but these criss-crossed markings here looked like they might have been made by a whip-like object.”

The combination of ‘a whip-like object’ and the sight of more than a dozen, thick white scars marking almost all of the teenager’s back was enough to make Chase hiss.

“See how white some of the marks are? How the skin lining the edges them is much thicker? More dense?”

Chase felt herself nodding.

“That’s keloid formation. Those aren’t months old; they happened years ago. A few are fresher. Maybe, three, four months.”

All of this information and yet what did it really tell them? Other than the fact that the kids had been victims of abuse. Including the kid who wasn’t James Tressfield II.

“What about fingerprints? DNA? Can we identify him?”

Dr. Cobb grunted.

“Fingerprints didn’t show up in any database. As for DNA? That’ll take months. Upwards of a year.” Chase opened her mouth to speak. “And, no, before you say it, I can’t ‘put a rush on it’. We’re backlogged. Severely backlogged. And we have no money.”

Chase knew when to press and this wasn’t the time.

DNA would have to wait. But a year? No, they were going to have to figure out who this boy was the old fashioned way.

“Does James Tressfield have any tattoos?” Frost asked, reminding Chase of their conversation during the drive over.

“He does not.”

There goes that theory.

“You sure?”

Chase knew when not to press, but Frost, evidently, did not.

Rather than answer again, Dr. Cobb whipped down the sheet on the final gurney.

As he’d already stated, James’ fat, white body was devoid of any tattoos.

Chase had been hoping that the man had a giant ‘SS’ painted on his breast, or a swastika, or a Nazi Eagle. Anything to prove that Frost’s work last night, and into the early hours in the morning judging by the thick, dark bags beneath her eyes, had some merit. A solid connection between James Tressfield and Connor Byrd seen in footage from the Farmer’s Market.

“If you want me to flip this guy over, I’m going to need help.”

“No, that’s okay,” Chase said.

“Well, if there’s nothin’ else, I have a shit ton of bodies to get to.”

Monty looked to Chase for an indication of how to proceed.

She shook her head.

“Thank you Dr. Cobb. If you find anything—“

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Cobb said to Monty dismissively. “I have your number.”

They left the morgue. Then the building proper.

Outside, Chase said, “Monty, do you have a last known address for Conner Byrd?”

“I do. Not far from here. You think that Bryd might have killed the Tressfield family?”

Chase didn’t answer because she didn’t know.

It mattered little, because right now they had nothing else to go on.

But the question that Frost asked next held significantly more weight, even though Chase didn’t know the answer to this, either.

“He has a kid, right? Who he tried set on fire?” It was rhetorical—Frost had been the one who had dug up this detail. “How old is Connor Byrd’s son?”

Chapter 9

Frost was clearly excited about the idea that the unknown kid seated at the Tressfield table, and now lying on a gurney in the morgue, was Connor Byrd’s son, Geoff.

If this was true, their initial narrative held a little more water.

Perhaps James did some tax work for the Atomwaffen neo-Nazi group, maybe as a member but not necessarily, and he does something to piss them off. In retaliation, Connor murders James’ family and, angry at the son who he’d previously set on fire—who, incidentally, Frost discovered, testified at his father’s trial which ultimately led to his conviction—he kills him, too.

Takes a replacement.

As outlandish as this sounded, even in Chase’s head, it wasn’t the craziest thing that she’d investigated.

Not even close.

But they were unable to find any photos of fifteen year old Geoff Byrd online. He had no social media presence whatsoever.

That, in and of itself, was odd.

So was Connor Byrd’s last known address.

In stark contrast to the Tressfield home, Connor Byrd lived in absolute sty—a filthy, crumbling, single-story house. What little grass there was out front, barely visible beneath hundreds of crushed beer cans, was a burnt sienna color.

Chase considered that Connor didn’t live here anymore, that no one did, or could, but every house on the street was in a similar condition and they’d seen a handful of people smoking on their porches.

Chase was driving, with Monty squished in the back and Frost beside her. If Connor was inside, they didn’t want to spook him and risk a shootout in the middle of the street. Sending Monty, a Black cop in uniform, to the front door of a known neo-Nazi wasn’t the play here.

Chase parked across the street as she considered their next course of action.

Nothing came to mind.

A Black cop was a no-go. Two female FBI agents wasn’t an attractive option, either.

“I have an idea,” Frost said. Chase nodded at her, giving her permission to continue. “You have a bag? A brown bag somewhere?”

“I don’t think—“

“Will this do?” Monty asked, holding up a plastic bag he found in the backseat.

Frost took it.

“Sure—it’ll do.”

As Chase and Monty watched on, Frost wriggled out of her light jacket and proceeded to shove it in the bag.

“What are you doing?”

Frost loosened her ponytail and flipped down the visor to glance at her reflection in the mirror.

“Taking a guess. I’m thinking that Connor Byrd probably doesn’t have a working stove let alone does much cooking.”

Chase thought she understood where Frost was going with this.

Monty did not.

“I don’t get it.”

Frost snapped the mirror closed, then untucked her shirt. Unclasped the top two buttons of her blouse, as well.

“I’m just an Uber Eats driver, dropping off an order. I’ll knock, wait. If someone comes to the door I’ll tell them I made a mistake with the address. If not, I’ll wait and listen for movement inside. If hear anything, we—“

“Do it,” Chase said. “While you’re at the front, I’ll go around back, just in case Connor smells something is up and decides to make a run for it.”

Monty seemed uncomfortable with this idea.

“You sure you don’t—“

“Just stay here. Be ready.” Then to Frost, Chase said, “You go first.”

Frost didn’t hesitate. She got out of the car, bag in hand, and hurried to the front door, looking like a delivery driver in a rush to finish the order and move onto the next. She even had her phone out and was pretending to click the screen.

Chase waited until Frost made it to the dilapidated porch before she got out, thinking that if Connor was watching from inside the home, he’d be distracted by the young, attractive woman coming to the door and not see her slipping out of the car and rushing down the side of the house.

And Chase was quick.

There was a fence cordoning off the yard, but most of it had long since collapsed. Chase walked on top of it.

The backyard was in even worse shape than the front. More beer cans, a fire pit filled with what looked like remnants of shitty lawn furniture within.

The rear door was the simple screen type, torn in several places. Chase was tempted to look inside, but decided to let this play out first. No point risking a face full of buckshot.

She waited.

“Uber eats,” Frost shouted from out front. “Your food is here.”

Chase heard nothing from inside.

“Thanks for tip, asshole.”

Chase smiled.

Frost was good.

There was a flurry of movement and Chase put her hand on her gun, removed the clasp. It sounded like footsteps, receding at first, then toward her at a more rapid clip.

Chase bent down, pulled her gun halfway out of the holster.

The metal door violently swung open and a figure rushed out.

“Connor?”

It wasn’t Connor.

It was a kid, the right side of his face mottled and scarred.

And when Geoff Byrd saw Chase with her hand on her gun, he immediately burst into tears.

Chapter 10

“FBI,” Chase said. Now, in addition to crying, Geoff Byrd started to shake all over. Someone started to approach from behind and Chase pulled the gun out a little more.

“Just me,” Frost announced.

Chase relaxed.

“I—I—“ Geoff stammered.

“Where’s your Dad? Where’s Connor?”

Geoff was on the verge of a complete and utter breakdown.

“Wh-what?”

“Is he in there?” Chase’s eyes flicking to the screen door as she spoke.

Something in Geoff changed then. He stiffened and swallowed.

“No. He’s not in there.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The kid shook his head shake.

“Do you expect him back soon?”

Another head shake.

A sliding door opened in an adjacent yard.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do, Geoff… it is just Geoff, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Geoff, you’re going to invite us into your place, okay? And then we’re going to chat. Just have a little talk, the three of us. Nobody else. Does that work?”

Geoff hesitated.

“Connor?” a man shouted. “What the fuck is going on over there?”

Chase lowered her voice.

“Geoff, invite us in.”

“Hey!” Whoever had come out of their house to see what was going on in the Byrd yard was angry. Based on the raw quality of his voice, Chase suspected this might be a permanent state for him.

“Geoff?” she prodded.

“Okay.”

The boy opened the screen door and Chase flicked her hand, indicating for Frost to go in first. She did.

“Go ahead,” she told Geoff.

Chase entered last. Ideally, she would have locked the door behind them but that wasn’t an option. The only way you could lock the pathetic excuse for a screen was with chain and padlock. The latch didn’t even fit into the strike plate properly.

This was of no consequence to Connor, who had nothing worth stealing.

Frost had found one of the few places in what was most likely a kitchen that wasn’t covered in garbage to stand.

Chase was forced to stomp on a cardboard cup holder.

Not a speck of counter top was free of fast food refuse.

Frost was right to assume that the Byrd’s was no clandestine Michelin Star chef.

The entire house stunk of garbage and shit. Flies buzzed everywhere.

Chase felt bad for Geoff. Not only was his right ear and a good portion of his face, a section like thick mutton chops had young Geoff been capable of growing them, a deep red, but the skin was thick.

Not unlike some of the scars on the backs of the victims in Dr. Cobb’s morgue.

And he lived… here. In this place.

With his father who had tried to burn him alive.

“Are you sure your dad isn’t here?” Chase asked. The kid was about as threatening as a newborn kitten, but she had yet to remove her hand from her gun.

“He’s not here.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Be-before.”

Chase cocked an eyebrow.

“You haven’t seen him since he was released?”

“Uh-uh.”

She detected a hint of deception in his grunt of an answer, but the kid was so nervous that it was difficult to be sure.

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

This was going nowhere.

It wasn’t a complete waste of time, though; they’d determined that the kid with the whip marks on his back wasn’t Geoff Byrd.

But now Chase didn’t know what to say.

Geoff couldn’t stay here. If Connor hadn’t come home yet, he would eventually.

A man living in a place like this didn’t have any money. He wasn’t splurging at the Ritz. Having just been released, Connor was probably at a bar, strip club, or hanging out in one of his neo-Nazi cronies’ garage sucking down cheep beer by the gallonful.

Chase hadn’t read Connor’s file but she assumed that Geoff’s mother wasn’t in the picture. Or maybe she was. Maybe she was living with Connor.

Not impossible.

Why else would Geoff be here?

It didn’t matter.

The boy couldn’t stay.

What other options did they have?

CPS? Grandparents? A friend?

Chase’s head started to throb.

“Where’s your mom, Geoff?”

The kid shrugged.

“I need a minute to talk to my partner.”

Chase didn’t like the idea of leaving the kid alone, even for a moment, but she liked the idea of trying to find somewhere in this shit hole to speak privately even less.

“Okay.”

“We’ll be back. Just two minutes.”

“Okay.”

Frost and Chase went outside.

“Do you think—“

“Not here,” Chase said. She walked briskly down the side of the house and toward her car. Monty must have seen something on their faces, because he opened the door and stood half in and half out of the vehicle.

“What’s going on?”

“Geoff’s inside. Says he hasn’t seen his father.”

Monty was in shock.

“The kid is in there?”

“Yeah. He’s only fifteen. Does he have an aunt or something? Someone he can stay with?”

“I have no idea,” Monty admitted. “But while you were in there, I put a call into one of my colleagues at the station. Connor wasn’t released. He’s on parole.”

“What?” Frost said. “That’s not what the file said. It said he was released, he served his time.”

“A clerical error. My guy said he’s for sure on parole.”

Chase didn’t know what was more unbelievable, the fact that someone had made such a  mistake or the fact that a man who had tried to burn his son alive was released on parole.

How the fuck did that happen?

“If he’s on parole, then he might have an ankle monitor,” Frost said. “Did you buddy say anything about Connor wearing an ankle monitor?”

“Didn’t say. Just mentioned that Connor has to check in—“

“Call him,” Frost said. “Ask him about an ankle monitor.”

Monty immediately got on his phone.

“Hey, me again. Question for ya: does Connor have ankle monitor?”

Chase thought about Geoff. She hoped that there was another option for the poor kid other than CPS or foster home.

Something she hadn’t thought of.

“He does? Really? Can you track it? Okay, good. Do me a solid and let me know his last known location… no, I’ll wait.”

A second later, Monty’s eyes shot to the house.

“You sure?”

Chase didn’t need to hear more. She sprang to action broke into a run.

Monty’s words followed her.

“He’s in the house! Connor’s still in the house!”

Chapter 11

Chase tore the back door open, gun drawn this time.
“Geoff! Geoff!”

He wasn’t in the kitchen.

Heart racing, she ventured deeper. Sent a handful of beer cans scattering.

“Geoff!”

She cleared the living room. Had to kick over a table to see beneath it.

“Geoff!”

Frost was with her now, too, her pistol in front of her. There were three doors across from the living room, all of which were closed.

“Check the last room,” Chase yelled.

She went to the first door, opened it.

A rat the size of a small dog darted out.

“Fuck!”

It scurried over her shoes.

“Chase?”

“I’m fine!”

There was a filthy mattress on the floor. A poster featuring a swastika in a red circle on the wall, another with a faded Adolf Hitler across from it.

“Chase?”

“I said, I’m fine! Search the—“

“You need to come here!”

Chase went ramrod straight, and then she was off again.

Frost was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, her gun hanging limply at her side.

“What is it?”

She said nothing, and Chase nudged her out of the way.

“Oh, fuck.”

Chase jammed her gun into the holster.

She wouldn’t need it.

Connor Byrd lay in the bathtub, his skin was the color of cigarette ash. There was a bullet hole in his left temple. Blood coated that side of his face, dotted the chipped blue ceramic tub where it had fallen and dried.

Connor’ mouth hung agape, his eyes showing only the whites. A handgun lay on the floor.

“Guess he’s going to miss that parole meeting,” Frost said.

The comment surprised Chase. Last time they’d come across a dead body—four of them—the woman had nearly been sick.

Now, she was making a joke.

Before Chase could decipher what this meant, she was suddenly struck by a strong feeling of something being off.

Chase’s eyes flicked from Connor’s body, which was still fully clothed, to the bullet wound, to the gun, to the tub.

It was wrong, somehow.

“Should we get Monty in here? Shou—“

“Quiet,” Chase snapped.

Tub, body, bullet hole, gun.

With every word that flashed in her brain, her eyes went to the corresponding item.

Tub, body, bullet, gun.

Body, bullet, gun.

Chase was getting dizzy now.

What is it?

Body, bullet, gun.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Chase took one step into the small bathroom. Connor’s body hadn’t started to decompose yet, but it still smelled foul.

The dark stain in the toilet was the likely culprit.

Body, bullet, gun.

Body, bullet, gun.

No, that wasn’t right.

Chase stared at Connor for a long three seconds.

Not body, bullet, gun.

Watch, bullet, gun.

Oh, fuck.

“Check the other room.” Chase had meant this to be an order but her voice betrayed her. She cleared her throat. “Now!”

That was better.

Frost left the bathroom and Chase surged forward.

She went to the tub first. Wincing, turning her head slightly to one side thinking, incorrectly, that this would protect her from the smell, Chase removed Connor’s shitty dollar store watch from his right wrist. In her haste, she pulled too hard and the cracked plastic strap nearly tore.

Calm down, Chase.

She took a breath, gagged.

With more a deliberate movement, she moved the man’s watch to his left wrist, careful not to tighten it too much.

Connor’s skin was cold and leathery. Feeling this made her shudder, like chewing ice cream.

Watch, bullet, gun.

Chase stepped back, observed the scene again.

The watch was on Connor’s left wrist now. Bullet, left temple. Gun on the floor outside the tub—left side.

“It’s clear,” Frost said from behind her. “The other room is clear.”

Chase’s first instinct was to block the scene in case Frost noticed the change.

She decided that that would be too suspicious.

Would Frost notice?

Back at the Tressfield massacre, Frost would have been hard pressed to notice a fucking UFO landing in the middle of the table.

But here?

After making a joke?

She was an excellent FBI Agent.

So was Chase.

And Chase would’ve noticed.

Could Frost be trusted to keep her mouth shut?

Too late now to change what she’d done.

“Let’s get Monty,” she said.

Frost nodded.

They didn’t have to return to the car; Monty nearly bowled them over down the side of the house. He was out of breath.

“What… what happened? I heard shouting.”

“Connor’s in the bathroom. Shot himself in the head.” As Chase spoke, her eyes locked onto Frost’s.

This is your chance. If you saw something, now’s your chance to say it.

Frost’s mouth opened and Chase tensed.

“Geoff’s gone. Probably ran when we came to talk to you.”

Monty looked over Chase’s shoulder. The fence delineating the property line at the back was in the same state as the side gate: folded over, collapsed.

If Chase had been in Geoff’s shoes, she would have run that way. Darted between the houses.

Not stop until he absolutely had to.

The kid was gone.

“You secure the scene, we’ll find Geoff.”

Monty was a doer, and Chase liked that about him.

“Frost, with me.”

While Monty called for backup, Chase and Frost went to the car.

Their shouts had drawn more than just Monty’s attention. A mean looking bastard, bald and shirtless, started to cross the street and come toward them.

“Get back in your house,” Chase ordered.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Chase widened her stance, put her hand on the butt of her gun.

“Get the fuck back in your house.”

The man sneered.

“Bitch.” He spat but retreated.

“How are we going to find him?” Frost asked.

Like Chase, she too was ready to draw if things got dicey.

“Can you access the court documents for Connor’s trial?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Pull them up.”

Chase scanned the street while Frost opened her phone. Unsurprisingly, it seemed like every person on the street had decided that now was the time to head outside for a cigarette.

Hurry, Monty. Get your cop buddies here fast.

“Found them. What am I looking for?”

“Other witnesses. Someone who might have been with or corroborated whatever Geoff said at the trial.”

“Okay.”

“Make it quick.”

The loogie guy had made it halfway to his house before apparently changing his mind and swiveling back around.

Chase slipped her gun from the holster and laid it flat against the side of her leg.

Go away. Get back inside your shitty home.

“Found something. Elliot Curtis. Fifteen.” Frost continued to scan the document. “Looks like  Geoff went to this Elliot guy’s house after his father set him on fire.”

“You deaf? I said get back inside your home,” Chase told the skinhead.

“It’s public street.”

“It’s a crime scene. Get inside or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

“I bet you ain’t even a cop. Show me your badge.” He continued to press forward.

“Get the fuck—“

Sirens filled the air, and a Baltimore PD cruiser fishtailed around the corner. It was followed by two more.

“You lucky, bitch.”

The man spat again then walked away.

No, you’re the lucky one.

“I’ve got an address here,” Frost said, oblivious to what had nearly gone down.

Chase stood her ground until the first cop car stopped in front of them.

“FBI,” Chase said, putting her gun in the holster and and holding both hands up.

Monty emerged from the front door looking grim.

More cops joined the first.

Surprise, surprise, the stoop smokers all finished their cigarettes at the same time.

Monty started giving instructions, pointing up the street, drawing a line in the air with his hand.

“Monty,” Chase interrupted the man. “We might have bead on Geoff. We’re leaving the suicide to you.”

The use of the suicide was deliberate. Pointed.

“Sounds good. Let me know if you find him.”

Not if—when.

“Will do. Frost, let’s go.”

Chapter 12

The address listed in the court records for Elliot Curtis was a couple of notches up the food chain from the house that Connor had died in.

It wasn’t Tressfield nice, but it looked like someone at least took a modicum of pride making sure the place didn’t fall apart.

“Let’s do this the same way as last time,” Chase said, parking in a small cul-de-sac a few houses down from the address. “Just no Uber Eats.”

“Works for me.”

Frost had been quiet during the drive, which made it impossible to tell if she was thinking about the magic wrist swapping watch, Chase’s confident claim that Connor had committed suicide—a test for Frost but also to prime Monty—or was just being herself.

They were both halfway out of the car when Chase spoke again.

“Look, Geoff’s been through some shit. I would never tell you not to protect yourself—you think you need to draw, you think you have no choice but to shoot, do it. Don’t hesitate. Just remember, Geoff’s just a kid and he’s scared.”

Frost was intuitive; Chase didn’t need to say more.

They spread out.

There was a fence down the side of the house that actually worked, but it wasn’t locked. Chase squeezed a hand through the wire links and lifted the latch.

The difference now between the two homes was startling, disorienting, even.

She saw an patio of interlocking brick, a table with a yellow umbrella. A lonely soccer ball resting on recently cut grass.

Who the hell is this Elliot Curtis guy and how did he get hooked up with Geoff Byrd?

Chase snapped out of it when she heard knocking from the front of the house.

“Geoff? You in there? We just want to talk.”

Chase made herself small, hid in the shade cast by the umbrella.

The sliding door at the back of the house began to open.

“Go. Run, Geoff. I’ll tell them that you were never here.”

“Thank you. Thank—“

“Geoff, don’t run,” Chase said. “You don’t want to run again.”

Stepping into the light, Chase saw Geoff’s scarred face as he emerged from the house. Behind him, a boy she assumed was Elliot.

Skinny, shirtless.

Effeminate.

More pieces fell into place.

“Go,” Elliot encouraged desperately, practically shoving his friend.

“Don’t do it,” Chase warned. “Geoff, we found your dad.”

“I—I—“ Geoff broke. Completely shattered. Tears exploded from his eyes in a way that Chase had never seen before. Never thought possible.

It was over. He wasn’t going to run.

“Elliot, is there anyone else home?”

The boy embraced his friend.

“No. Just us.”

“Okay, let’s go inside and talk.”

***

“Frost, take Elliot into another room.”

Frost gestured to Elliot, who had since slipped a T-shirt over his head.

After they left, Chase poured Geoff a glass of water.

There was an uncanny symmetry to this interaction and their previous one, and Chase had a fleeting thought that maybe there was another body in a bathtub somewhere.

She dashed it. For as many problems as Geoff had, and despite what he’d done, Chase didn’t peg the kid as a budding serial killer.

Just someone who had been through hell and had had no other options if he wanted to crawl his ass out again.

“Drink this.”

Geoff tried, got some of it down.

“We found him in the tub,” Chase said, keeping her voice low.

“I—he was going to kill me. He… he found out about me and Elliot and he set me on fire.” It was difficult to make out all of his words, Geoff was crying so hard. “He came home and I—I had nowhere to go. I knew he was going to kill me so I—“

“No.”

Chase said the word so loudly that Geoff recoiled.

“Wh-what?”

“Don’t. You didn’t do anything.”

“I got the—“

Chase reached across the table and snatched the boy’s wrist. She squeezed but then remembered the bruising on Nina Tressfield’s arm and let go.

“Listen to me.”

Geoff wouldn’t meet her eyes. Instead of grabbing him this time, Chase slammed a fist down on the table hard enough that the glass of water nearly toppled.

“Listen to me,” she repeated. “Your father committed suicide. You were with Elliot and then came home.” She debated telling Geoff that Elliot was with him when he found his father’s body, but considered the once shirtless boy’s waif-like appearance and decided against it. The more people involved in a lie, the more likely someone would see through it. Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead and all that. One death was enough weight for Geoff Byrd’s conscience to bear. “You came home and found him in the tub. You were scared, okay?”

Was that a nod?

“You were scared,” Chase said again, more forcefully.

Definitely a nod this time.

“And you didn’t know what to do. When we came, you panicked and ran. Completely understandable, given your past. No one is going to hold that against you.”

Geoff looked like he was about to cry again.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t fucking cry. Save your tears for later. Just repeat what I said. Now.”

Geoff did, verbatim.

Chase held his gaze and then lowered her eyes to his clothes. His striped shirt was dirty as were his jeans.

“Good. Now go change your outfit.”

“I don’t—“

“Borrow something from Elliot,” Chase commanded. “Just put on something clean. Then wash your hands.”

“Wash my—“

“Wash your fucking hands, Geoff. Scrub them. Hard. Under the nails, everywhere. If Elliot has rubbing alcohol or wipes with alcohol in them, use those. You have five minutes and then the cops are going to be all over this place.”

Geoff didn’t move.

Chase smacked the table with both palms and aggressively forced herself to her feet.

“Now.”

***

Two hours later, Geoff was released into the care of CPS. Not the ideal scenario, but it could have been worse for the kid.

Much worse.

The ME had yet to officially submit the paperwork for Connor Byrd, but Monty had told them that Dr. Cobb had ruled it a suicide.

Gunshot residue tests on Geoff’s hands had come up negative and he’d stuck to Chase’s story. His waterworks had been real, believable.

If Dr. Cobb hadn’t been so overwhelmed, if they hadn’t been embroiled in quadruple homicide, and if they hadn’t just made a very public plea for help, things might have been different. Even a half-assed investigation into Connor Byrd’s past would have revealed that he wasn’t left-handed.

In Chase’s experience, the lesser dead phenomenon was real. With budget cuts not only affecting Baltimore’s Medical Examiner’s Office but all of law enforcement across the country, cases had to be assigned a priority.

A sex worker found dead in a ditch? They looked into it. Tried to find the killer. But self-preservation, for both the street workers and their clients, meant that only a rare few were inclined to speak to authorities. Nobody felt comfortable fucking a prostitute who was known to blab about private things with just a little pressure from a beat cop or alcoholic detective. Resources were re-allocated.

A middle-class family of four, on the other hand, who were murdered during the middle of the day and seated at their dinner table?

This struck fear directly into the hearts of middle America and thus took priority.

The same couldn’t be said for a neo-Nazi career criminal who had tried to burn his son alive because he didn’t approve of his lifestyle choices.

Connor Byrd was one of the rare cases that Chase actually felt grateful that a concept like the lesser dead existed.

Monty, Frost, and herself stood on the sidewalk outside the Baltimore Police Officer’s home precinct.

All of them were exhausted.

Chase looked skyward, squinted into the hot sun.

It was hard to believe that it was just past noon.

So much had happened, and yet nothing had happened.

The Tressfield massacre was still a mystery.

“Monty, did anything come through the tip line?”

Despite how emotionally drained she felt, and Frost, too, they had to get back on track.

The officer removed his hat and wiped his forehead with the palm of one hand. It came back glistening with sweat.

“Did anything? Oh, yeah, plenty. Anything of value? Naw. I’ve got two guys following up on calls, but if I’m bein’ honest? I’m not hopeful.”

Neither was Chase.

But they had to keep going.

They had to find James Tressfield.

“Frost, can you follow up with…” she paused when Monty’s radio burst into static and the man excused himself. “…Linus? See if he’s managed to identify the tag numbers of the cars outside Farmer’s Market? I also want to know if he’s had any luck with hospital records.”

Frost nodded.

There was a look on her pretty face that Chase didn’t quite care for, wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Frost may not have noticed the watch switch, but she’d have to be deaf and dumb not to have overhead at least a little of her conversation with Geoff back at Elliot’s house.

And Chase knew her to be neither.

Could she be trusted, though?

Chase thought so. Knew that Tate trusted her. Hell, he’d gone to Mexico and fought a fucking cartel with the woman.

Either way, Chase wasn’t about to regret the decision she’d made in that shit-reeking bathroom. Geoff didn’t—

“Guys,” Monty said in a breathy gasp.

The man’s tone was such that even Frost, who had been speaking with Linus, lowered her phone.

“What? Did they find something? Did a tip pan out?“

Monty was incredibly pale, which was a feat considering his dark skin tone.

“Monty, what—“

“We have another one—there’s been another murder. No, not another murder; four of them. We have four more victims.”

Part II — Main Course

Chapter 13

The scene was eerily, horribly familiar. The Holsteaders lived in a middle-class home, a twenty minute drive across town from the Tressfields.

Like with the Tressfields, a neighbor had placed the call.

Thankfully, this time, they didn’t go inside.

On the ride to the newest crime scene, Chase listened to the recorded 9-1-1 call.

“9-1-1, what’s the location of your emergency?”

“Well, uhh, I’m not sure it’s a real emergency. It’s just—“

“Ma’am, 9-1-1 is for emergencies only. If this is not an emergency, but you would like to speak to the police, please call your local—“

“I think I saw the kid from the news.”

“The kid from the news?”

“Yeah, the missing kid.”

Two seconds of blank air.

“Ma’am, are you in need of emergency assistance? If not, I can direct you to—”

“I don’t know the police number, and I can’t remember the one they gave on the Channel 10. I think… I think I saw him, the missing boy.”
“Hold on a second.”

The line clicked.

The operator returned.

“Ma’am, are you referring to James Tressfield?”

“Yes! That’s his name—James. I think I saw him.”

“Where is your location?”

She gave the address.

“Stay on the line. I have officers en route.”

The operator had then reached out to Monty’s precinct and dispatched officers to the scene. The information was relayed to Monty himself next.

By the time the three of them, Monty, Frost, and Chase, arrived, the home and half the residential street had already been sectioned off. Chase recognized a handful of familiar faces from the Tressfield massacre.

One was new. A well-dressed woman was arguing with a cop, standing on her tiptoes, trying to see inside the house.

Chase assumed she was the 9-1-1 caller.

Recalling how Frost had reacted at the other crime scene, under her breath, she said to her partner, “You can speak with the woman if you want.”

Meaning: You don’t have to come inside.

“I’m okay.”

Chase didn’t patronize Frost with an, ‘Are you sure?’

The cop standing guard in front of the closed front door recognized them and pointed at a cardboard box on the porch.

“You’re going to want to put shoe covers on.”

“Why?” Chase asked.

“Found a shoe print inside. Don’t want to get it mixed up.”

Chase slipped fabric covers over her shoes and the cop opened the door for them.

She went in before Frost.

Like at the Tressfield’s, the first thing that struck Chase was just how normal everything seemed. Despite the number of crime scenes that Chase had visited over the years, it was hard to shake the ingrained notion that violent crimes only took place in violent locations. That, somehow, the inanimate parts of a scene should reflect the disarray that was inherent in every crime.

Not here.

Not now.

If anything, the home looked staged; everything was in order, not even a pile of laundry or an overflowing bin close to the door that Chase suspected led to the basement.

No holes in the drywall. No graffiti.

The layout was similar to the Tressfield home, only you had to walk through the kitchen to get to the dining room.

Chase knew what she would see once she turned that corner. Monty had warned her.

But it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been shown a photo.

Nothing could prepared her.

Nothing.

The four victims were again seated at the table, which was set in a formal style. A man was at one end, a woman at the other.

Two kids sat across from one another.

One, a girl, about ten years of age. A boy, older. Thirteen, Chase guessed.

He was pale, with shaggy black hair.

Definitely not James Tressfield the Second.

All of their throats had been slit.

There was considerably more blood on the table than at the Tressfield’s. Most of it appeared to have come from the man. The spray from his throat was like a clean line, arcing to nearly the other side. There was blood splatter on the glasses, the cutlery, the plates. In the center of the table was a vase filled with a variety of flowers. Chase knew little about bouquets but thought she recognized hydrangeas and a few daisies. Even these were dotted with red.

It was a devastating scene and Chase immediately felt a hint of nausea.

Equal parts to avert her gaze, to look at anything other than the table set for slaughter, and to check on Frost, Chase turned.

Frost’s eyes were locked on the little girl’s corpse, the muscles in her jaw so tight that Chase thought she could see striations beneath her skin.

She couldn’t imagine what might be going through Frost’s mind right now.

“Come on, let’s get outside,” Chase suggested.

No nod, nothing that might even be construed as a confirmation that Frost had heard her.

But her partner spun around, steadily, and started back the way they’d come.

Chase noticed the footprint that the cop had mentioned halfway between the kitchen and the dining room. Three yellow placards surrounded the stain on the hardwood, and Chase was surprised she hadn’t seen it earlier.

It wasn’t a complete print, more like the front half of a shoe. Blood revealed a classic, diamond tread.

It was small. A child’s shoe, most likely.

Chase banked this information and exited the house.

She spotted Monty speaking to the woman they’d seen earlier.

It felt good to be outside. Chase had only been in the Holstead’s home for a few minutes but crime scenes tended to warp time. Stretch it out like warm taffy.

“You’re the one who made the call?” Chase asked, boxing Monty out.

“Yes. Are the twins okay? Are Noah and Patty okay?”

The woman must have known they weren’t. You didn’t bring in a dozen cops, the FBI, and block off almost the entire street if everyone was just ‘okay’.

“I need you to tell me—wait, did you say, twins?”

Chase pictured the young boy and girl seated at the table. They differed in both appearance and age.

“Yes. Patty and Noah.”

“How old are they?”

Chase had to deliberately avoid speaking in the past tense. No easy task, considering the carnage she’d just witnessed.

“Nine. Or maybe ten—I don’t know. Their birthday was coming up, not sure if it past yet. Sweet kids. Please tell me they’re going to be alright.”

Something inside Chase bent but didn’t break. She glanced at Frost who nudged Monty and the two of them backed off to allow her a little privacy.

The girl at the table fit Patty’s age but the boy was too old.

First James Tressfield II and now Noah Holsteader.

Both missing.

Fuck.

“What’s your name?” Chase asked, avoiding the woman’s question.

“Doris.”

“Doris, when you called 9-1-1 you said you saw James Tressfield?”

“Yeah. I was sitting in my front room,” she pointed across the street and two houses down, “reading when I saw him walk up to the front door. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, but something was bugging me. I went back to reading, but it just kept… you know, nagging at me. Then I figured out why. The kid just walked into the house. Didn’t knock, just opened the door and went in. He was too old to be one of the twins’ friends so I thought it was weird. But he looked familiar. Then I remembered the news—yeah, you were on the news.”

Doris was rambling, clearly distraught.

“You’re sure it was him? James Tressfield?

“I mean, I’m pretty sure.”

“How long between when you saw him enter the house and you made the 9-1-1 call?”

“Oh, gosh. I dunno.”

“Like a minute? Five?”

“Oh, no.” The woman made a face. “I read two chapters. So, maybe half an hour?”

Shit.

Chase had hoped that it had been sooner. James, if it was actually him, might have still been close. But half an hour… plus the time it took for the cops to arrive?

He was probably long gone by now.

Except, it was the middle of the day. No matter how neat the Holsteader’s kept their place, it was highly unlikely that the table setting had been part of their normal lunchtime routine. Someone had set it up. Someone had to convince the family members to sit. It took time to tape them to their chairs, cover their mouths.

Slice their throats.

“Gimme a sec.” Chase stepped away from the woman. “Monty?”

“Yeah?” The man adjusted his glasses.

“You need to set up a perimeter. Figure out how far someone could have gotten in half an hour and—“

“Already done. I have cops stationed at the main roads and all highway entrances and exits. More are patrolling the area. They’ve been told to stop and inspect any vehicles with kids inside. Anyone who looks even remotely like James.”

“Good.”

Chase returned to Doris.

“I should have called earlier but I didn’t—“

“Take a breath, Doris. Calm down. This isn’t your fault.”

Wrong choice of words.

“My… fault? What happened to them?” Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. Chase was on the verge of losing her.

“Snap out of it. You want to help? You have to keep it together and answer my questions.”

Doris wiped tears from her cheeks. “Good. Now, did you see anyone else other than James enter the home?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“What about a car on the street or in the driveway? Something that you don’t usually see?”

“I didn’t really look, but I don’t think so. Just the Holsteader’s SUV. I think they were out this morning because when I had my coffee by the window, it wasn’t there.”

“What time was that?”

“Around nine.”

“And when did they get back?”

“I don’t know.”

Chase nodded.

“You said you were reading a book… was the car in the driveway then? When James walked up to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Was it there the entire time you were reading?”

“I can’t remember… I mean—I mean, probably? It’s faster to get to the main road by going that way.” Doris pointed again, up the road, in the direction of her house. “If it had driven by, I would have seen it.”

This implied that she would have also noticed another car coming the same way. And that meant that either James came on foot, highly unlikely, or the car he showed up in arrived from the other direction.

Alternatively, he could have been in a car waiting for the Holsteaders to return from wherever they’d been earlier that morning.

Chase made mental notes of all of these possibilities to relay to Linus later.

“Did you see James leave the house?”

“No.”

“Okay. So, when he walked up to the house, how did he look?”

Doris swiped at more tears.

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

Chase forced herself to slow down. Doris wasn’t a cop or an FBI Agent. She didn’t think like a member of law enforcement.

Chase might notice the demeanor and body language of every person that came into a diner while she sipped coffee and scrolled through her phone, but that was a skill honed by time and experience.

Normal people didn’t do that.

“Did he look nervous? Or hurt?”

“Hurt?”

Chase bit her lower lip.

“Here’s what I want you to do, Doris: I want you to close your eyes for a second. Think about when you saw James. Keep your eyes closed and just tell me everything you can remember about him. How he walked. If he looked over his shoulder. If he maybe said something. Can you do that?”

Doris nodded and shut her eyes.

She took three breaths, the first two of which were stunted.

Then she started to speak. Her voice was slightly different, a little lower in octave now.

“James was walking fast but not running, not even jogging. But it looked like… like he was trying to keep up with someone. Only there was no one else. He glanced behind him once, that’s when I saw his face, and then just opened the Holsteader’s door and closed it behind him. He wasn’t limping or anything.”

Where did he come from? Did he just appear? Did he cross the street?

Chase had many questions, but Doris was clearly spent.

“Open your eyes.”

Doris did.

“I want you to listen, okay? Nothing that happened here today is your fault. You did exactly what anyone in your shoes would have done. More, even. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Doris said meekly.

Despite this assurance, both of their words felt like lies. When the news broke about the Halsteader’s fate, Doris would be beside herself. It would eat her up.

She would need counseling and even that might not be enough.

That was thing about violent crime. It wasn’t just the victims or their families who were affected. It was everyone. It was their teachers, their doctors, their friends. Everyone who ever saw the Holsteaders walking down the street and stopped to pet their dog or just smiled and waved.

Said, “Hello”.

But this was a problem for another time. Chase’s priority was to find the missing kids.

It had to be.

“Thank you.”

“Can you please tell me what happened to them?”

Chase could not.

She walked away without saying another word.

Monty and Frost looked at her expectantly, hopefully.

Chase let them down quickly.

“She doesn’t know much. She saw James walk up to the house and enter without knocking. Doesn’t know where he came from. Never saw him leave. Doesn’t—“ Chase was suddenly reminded of Geoff Byrd and how his father had been in the house the first time they’d entered. “Monty, have your men searched the home?”

“Yes. They cleared the place as soon as they got here.”

“Okay, good.”

Chase paused to catch her breath.

Her mind was racing, her heart thrumming.

And she had a feeling that in spite of everything that had happened since picking up Frost at her hotel at just after six in the morning her day was just beginning.

“Agent Adams, I don’t understand what’s going on,” Monty said. He sounded strangely forlorn.

“I don’t either,” Chase admitted.

Silence fell over the three of them. After a moment, Monty hitched up his pants and said, “I managed to get Dr. Cobb to drop what he was doing and come here. He’s on his way.”

“Good. But first, I need to go back inside. I don’t want anyone else to enter the house while I’m in there. Not Dr. Cobb, not the CSU, and not you.”

Monty was confused but he deferred.

“Understood.”

He didn’t, not really.

Chase exhaled and looked toward the house. Then she leveled her eyes at Frost.

She still wasn’t sure exactly how far she could trust the woman, but after what had happened with Geoff Byrd, Chase was all in with Frost.

What other choice did she have?

“Except for you,” Chase said sternly. “You’re coming with me.”

Chapter 14

Chase shut the door behind them, closed the scene off to the world.

Not much made her nervous anymore but this case had put her on edge. And after what she’d seen, what she’d felt, at the Tressfield house, Chase would have been lying if she said that the knots in her stomach had anything to do with the fact that she hadn’t eaten yet today.

Four kids dead. Two missing.

Monty’s words echoed in her head, with the addition of a little Chase Adams flavor.

I don’t understand what the fuck is going on.

But she was going to find out because that’s what Chase did.

“Frost, I want you to go upstairs, start with the boy’s room, with Noah’s things.”

A lesser agent would have asked, What am I looking for? What should I focus on?

Not Frost.

As inexperienced as she was, Frost knew the deal.

She’d worked with Agent Striker, whose past and present trauma rivaled even Chase’s own.

Frost started up the stairs while Chase headed to the dining room.

Avoiding the bloody shoe print, she allowed her eyes to drift over the scene, ensuring that she didn’t focus on any one thing for more than a split second.

Like Frost, Chase wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for. She just knew that whatever it was, her subconscious would pick it up.

That was her plan, anyway.

After about a minute of passive observation, Chase thought she was ready.

Ready as she’d ever be.

Never truly ready.

How could you be prepared to jump inside someone’s head? Someone who was about to be savagely murdered?

Chase slowly walked over to the table and was again struck by the stillness of everything.

A serenity that only death could provide.

It was time.

She extended her bare hand and placed two fingers on Mr. Holsteader’s cold forehead.

***

It’s a calm, normal morning like any other. Lazy.

Just returned from an outing with the family.

I wash my hands, pat them dry on the towel by the door. Then, as soon I step out of the bathroom, I see him.

My first thought is that it’s one of the twins’ friends. But he’s too old. A teenager.

A babysitter? Did Jessica call a baby sitter? Why? We don’t—

“Who are you?”

His head is shaved. Looks like a regular kid.

Except for his eyes.

There’s a coldness in them. A blankness.

“Jessica? Who’s—“

I hear a strange sound. A muffled cry?

I push by the stranger, hurry to the kitchen.

Then I see her.

“Jessica!”

She’s… tied up. Silver tape covers her mouth. Her mascara is streaked and her hands are twisted behind her, attached to the chair somehow.

Our chair.

“Stop,” a voice commands.

I do.

The person who had spoken is behind me, but they’re not alone. I can’t see their face. It’s… all shadows.

Noah is with them—him, I can see clearly. They’re holding my son to their chest, pressing a knife to the underside of his chin.

A fucking knife!

Noah’s terrified.

So am I.

I raise my hands.

“Take whatever you want. Please. Just leave us alone. There’s money—“

“Sit down.”

I shake my head.

“Please, there’s cash in the box above the coffee maker. Take it.” I unclip my watch, a Tag Heuer. Start to shake it off my wrist. “This is worth three grand. You can—“

“Sit down!” Their voice is louder and stronger now. Demanding.

Serious.

I don’t have a choice.

I sit at my regular spot at the table.

“Don’t hurt him, please. Don’t hurt my son.”

They ignore me, don’t remove the knife from Noah’s throat.

“Tape him up.”

I don’t know who they’re talking, to. Don’t see the person who wrenches my arms behind my back. Duct tape tears the hairs on my wrists.

“Please. Don’t—“ My words are cut off when tape is slapped roughly across my mouth.

This is wrong.

I should have fought them. What the hell was I thinking? What the fuck!

But… they have Noah. Noah and Jessica.

No, you did the right thing.

They just want money.

Reasonable advice. Except, then I see Patty. Little Patty.

I start to shout. I try to free my arms, but the tape is too tight.

Like Jessica—like me—Patty is strapped to her chair.

How did I not notice her before? If I had… I would have fought back. Strangled the person with the knife. Sure, Noah might have been cut, but I could have—

Who the fuck is that?

A whimper escapes me.

Someone is sitting in Noah’s chair. Someone I’ve never seen before.

He’s got dark hair. Shaggy.

Same dead look in his eyes.

What the fuck is happening?

This has to be a dream. A fucking nightmare.

Jessica is weeping now. Her face and the tape covering her mouth is soaked with tears.

Oh, fuck. I should have fought them. I should have—

Someone new appears from behind Patty.

There’s a knife in their hand. Is it the same knife?

These incomprehensible thoughts are racing through my mind when the blade is drawn across Patty’s throat.

It happens so quickly it doesn’t seem real. It can’t be real.

But as soon as blood leaks from the wound in my daughter’s throat, I scream.

Then I buck, pull my arms as I kick with my feet.

My chair topples and I fall. My wrists smash against the floor.

I barely feel any of this.

“Get him up!” Someone yells. A woman, I think, but anger masks the gender. “Get him the fuck up!”

Chapter 15

The twins slept in the same room in bunk beds. The right wall was painted a pale pink, the left a royal blue.

The finality of everything threatened to crush Frost.

Patty would never sleep in her bed again. Never squeeze the stuffed pink Disney character resting on her pillow against her tiny chest.

Never kiss her mother and father goodnight.

Patty’s bunk was the lower one and Frost noticed a small shelf inside. Books were stacked haphazardly on it.

It was too much.

In Mexico, Frost had been hung by her wrists from a soccer goal post. A cartel sicario was flaying her best friend’s foot beside her.

Eating Tori’s raw flesh.

But this was different.

Frost had known what the CVU was all about, knew a little of Chase’s history and why she’d wanted to start the division.

Thought she knew what that this meant in terms of what their cases would entail.

Not like Aaron Beaugard, the creepy, soon-to-be pedophile in the arcade. That was something local enforcement could take care of. More like child trafficking rings, widespread abuse in an orphanage or daycare, cults who sexually abused children.

Horrible, all.

But this?

Fucking hell.

Frost had to fight back tears.

Control yourself. This is what you signed up for.

Temporarily, but still.

Frost was on loan. Just one case, get a feel for the landscape, see if she could handle the pressure. Then she would decide if the move was to be permanent. If Chase would have her, of course.

In the meantime, Frost wanted to learn from Chase.

She knew her strengths but she also knew her weaknesses.

Frost had thought that what had gone down in Mexico had hardened her. And it had, to a degree. But there was a difference between having something happen to you, to your friends, people you loved, and the senseless murder of children. Common sense decree that the cases that were personal would have more impact, but Frost was quickly learning that this simply wasn’t true.

How does she do it? How does Chase compartmentalize everything? And she has a family of her own, which must make it even more difficult.

Frost was as determined as ever to learn from her partner, but at what cost?

After the arcade, she’d jumped at the opportunity to tag along on for the next case.

Now, Frost wished to God that she’d said no. That she’d gone back to Orange County, to Tori, to before.

But if Frost was one thing, she was determined. And she was no quitter. She’d signed up for this and she’d see it through.

Despite these mental assertions, it took another few seconds before Frost collected herself enough to actually enter the room.

A minute before she could approach the bunk beds. Once she started to move, Frost found the work easier than expected.

Driving her forward was the knowledge that Noah was still out there. He was alive, most likely, and if Frost could something—anything—to help bring him back safe, then that would keep her moving.

Ignoring Patty’s side of the room and her bunk, Frost focused her attention on Noah.

Like the girl, many of Noah’s things were expected of a ten-year-old boy.

A handful of race cars, some Lego, comic books—mostly Dog Man.

Not finding anything of interest on the shelving unit on Noah’s side of the room, Frost climbed the built-in stairs to the top bunk.

Noah’s bed was neatly made—his mother had done it, if Frost had to guess—the comforter adorned with F1 cars.

Frost didn’t know why she lay down. Seemed inappropriate. Seemed wrong.

But she was just so fucking tired.

Sleep had been fitful ever since returning from Mexico. Impossible last night.

Frost bent her knees a little to fit completely in Noah’s bed.

Don’t close your eyes.

But that was exactly what she did.

There is no way of telling the moment when your brain shuts off and sleep comes. It just… does.

Whenever the onset, in this case, it didn’t last long. Frost saw the Holsteader and the Tressfield families all sitting at one enormous table.

It was dark, reminiscent of a séance in every possession horror film she’d ever seen. Frost’s mother had even been in one—only played a bit role, but still.

All of the family members had their mouths covered, all were taped to their chairs.

Shadows emerged from the darkness and hovered behind each of the bound individuals. In unison, they raised their right arms, each brandishing an identical, shimmering knife.

Throats were slit. Blood sprayed forth. Not just arterial spray, but massive geysers of the red liquid.

An insane amount that refused to stop flowing.

Blood pooled in the center of the table and just kept on coming. More blood than a hundred bodies could produce.

It just sprayed and sprayed as the knife bearers disappeared.

Frost’s eyes snapped open, a scream frozen in her throat.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

Half sitting now, Frost smashed a fist into Noah’s pillow.

She hit it again and again, alternating hands.

It was on the seventh or eighth such blow when the kid’s pillow had been completely flattened, that Frost struck something hard.

Her first thought was that it was the mattress, but that couldn’t be; the mattress was pliable beneath her knees.

Frost picked up the pillow, slipped a hand inside. Her fingers closed around a book of some sort.

Her mind instantly went to a Playboy magazine. But Noah was only nine or ten, too young for such things, and the book had a hard cover.

Frost pulled it free.

The cover was all black, no text on it. There was a bar code on the back.

It was some sort of notebook.

Frost opened the first page.

NEVER by Noah Holsteader.

The words were written in a kid’s hand.

Frost flipped to the next page.

She was surprised by the sheer amount of text she saw. Words covered the paper, top to bottom, margin to margin. The writing was sloppy, punctuation exceedingly rare. The most frequently used was a punctuation mark. Typically three or four in a row.

Words were misspelled. Some were missing.

Frost started to read. It was difficult at first, what with the scarce punctuation and the oft-misspelled words. But after getting used to the style, Frost found it to be more or less coherent.

Never was a story about a nine-year old boy by the same name.

It was a story of nightmares.

Chapter 16

“Chase? I think I found a connection between the victims.”

Chase was still catching her breath, as she always did after one of her visions. She didn’t turn toward the sound of Frost’s voice. Instead, she glanced at the man whose head she’d just been inside. His hands were still bound, but one of his wrists was cocked at an unnatural angle.

There were scratches on the floor beneath his chair.

“Chase? Did you hear me?”

Her eyes flicked to Patty’s shoes. No blood on the tread.

“Yeah. We need to speak to Monty.”

Chase swiveled, noticed that Frost was holding some sort of notepad.

“What’s that?”

“Belonged to Noah. It’s—“

“You know what? Save it for Monty.”

Chase needed to get outside. She felt the immense pressure of the case, of the house.

Of everything.

Monty was waiting for them on the porch, a dour-looking Dr. Cobb standing by his side.

“May I go in now?” the ME whined.

Chase spoke to Monty.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay. Can he…?”

“Yeah, go in. Make sure to fingerprint the kid with the shaggy hair.” Chase didn’t think it would pop in any of their databases, but it was worth a shot. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

Monty looked around. The lawn was covered in cops. Chase also saw Charles Ipsis leaning up against the side of his van. Dr. Cobb signaled at him and the CSU tech pushed off with his foot.

“Does my office work? It’s close.”

“That’ll do.”

***

Monty Denver had a modest office in a small, Baltimore PD precinct.

It was clean, which surprised Chase. Considering the man’s size, she suspected that he, like many cops, ate the majority of their meals on the road and at their desks.

Mostly fast food.

There was no evidence of this in the man’s office.

Monty wheeled two chairs in from the hall and they all sat in the center of the room.

“We’re going about this all wrong,” Chase said, getting right into it. “We thought that Connor Byrd was behind this, just one man. But we’re not looking for one person.”

“There’s James—“

“I don’t know what to make of James, why he was there, what he was doing. But think about it: both crime scenes had four victims each. Initially, I thought that maybe the intruders had a gun, forced one of the kids at gun point, pretended that they were going to rob the house. Told the parents that if they stayed quiet, if they didn’t do anything stupid, they’d leave, not hurt anyone. But one person can’t tape the others while still holding a kid hostage.”

“They could have forced another family member to do it,” Frost suggested.

“Maybe. But that tape was tight. Let’s say they made the mother do it, they’d put it on loose, make sure the kid wasn’t hurt.” Her mind skipped ahead. “Monty, did you look into any connection between the Tressfields and the Holsteaders?”

“Briefly on the way over. Frank runs an auto dealership in town. It’s possible that James did taxes for him.”

“James drove a Lexus SUV,” Chase said, remembering the car with the sticker on the back. “Did Frank sell or lease Lexus’?”

Monty shook his head.

“Doubtful. He deals Hyundais. Their high end brand is Genesis.”

“And the mother?”

“Jessica—she’s a stay at home mom. No job. I considered that they might know each other but didn’t find any link between their social media profiles.”

“So, James is kidnapped from his home, probably witnessed his entire family being murdered. Then he… walks briskly into a stranger’s house? Does he… does he kill the family?” Frost inhaled sharply and Chase ignored the visceral response. It was a possibility that they needed to consider, but… “Who’s the kid, then? The one who replaced Noah? Did James know him? Did he take his friend Noah and leave… someone else behind?”

“Noah was nine,” Monty reminded her.  “Or ten. James was fourteen.”

Chase ignored the cop’s use of the past tense and shook her head. None of this made sense.

She once again shifted focus.

“How much does James weigh?”

“He looked pretty thin in his class photo. One hundred and thirty pounds, maybe?” Monty offered.

“And Mr. Holsteader—“

“Frank,” Monty provided.

“Right—Frank Holsteader was a big guy. Probably close to two hundred pounds. At some point, Frank fell while he was strapped to his chair—his wrist looks broken and there are scratches on the floor. James didn’t pick him back up by himself. My guess is that there were at least three people in the house.”

“Why three?”

“The shoe print. Whoever that belonged to wouldn’t be able to lift Frank, either. One person to hold a kid hostage, one to tape the Holsteaders up, and one who left the shoe print.”

“So, when Doris sees James go inside, someone follows him?” Monty said.

“I doubt it,” Chase said. “Given the short time frame, I’m guessing that they were already inside, getting started—setting the table, that sort of thing. We’re looking for at least three, maybe four people. Another thing: even if we disregard the missing kids, in my experience, crimes like these, crimes of extreme violence, are rarely completely random. There’s a link between their families. Their parents had to know each other somehow.”

Monty hiked up his belt and started to stand.

“I’m going to do a deeper dive into—“

“It’s not the fathers or the mothers who knew each other,” Frost interrupted. All eyes were suddenly on her. She’d produced Noah’s notepad from somewhere and had laid it on her lap. “It has to do with the kids.”

Chase saw her partner take a deep breath, place a hand delicately on the front cover. Chase had been so lost in her head on the drive over to the PD precinct that she’d forgotten all about Frost’s haunted words back at the Holsteader house.

“What’d you find?”

As she spoke in a detached voice, Frost massaged the book cover.

“This is Noah’s. It’s a story about a boy named Never. The kid is quiet, has no friends. Sick all the time. Something to do with his stomach. Puking. Then the story takes a turn. His mom comes into his room and… does stuff to him.”

Frost unexpectedly stopped speaking.

“Does… stuff?” Monty asked, his eyes widening behind his glasses.

Chase understood and didn’t make Frost, who was struggling to continue, say the words out loud.

“She was sexually abusing him.”

“Jesus… but it’s just a story, right?”

“No, it’s not. It’s Noah’s way of disassociating himself with the act.”

Monty still wasn’t getting it and as much as Chase wanted to start moving on what they’d just learned, she felt obligated to explain. If Monty was to help, he had to understand. Chase hadn’t read the book, but given what had happened to her sister, it was a story she knew all too well.

“When a woman is raped repeatedly, especially by someone she knows, they often talk about how they separate themselves from the act by leaving their bodies. When it happens over a really long time? Years? Decades? Some can go as far as developing a second personality. Their real self gets buried. To deal with the trauma, this new identity tries to rationalize what they’re going through. Sometimes…” A vision of her late sister, with her beautiful orange hair, a spitting image of her niece, flashed in Chase’s mind. It had been a long while since she’d thought about Georgina. Too long and not long enough at the same time. She forced this away. “Sometimes they even convince themselves that this is what they want. That they actually enjoy the rape.” Chase pointed at the book and Frost moved it a little closer to her abdomen, “The story describes what happened to Noah. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Frost concurred. Her hands gripped the notepad so tightly now that her fingers had started to turn white.

“But… Never?” Monty asked.

“As in, it never happened,” Frost said hauntingly.

There was a brief moment of silence as this set in.

Chase snapped them out of it.

“You’re right, though, Frost; that’s the link. The kids are being abused by their parents. Whoever is behind these murders killed the Tressfields and the Holsteaders to save the kids.”

Chapter 17

“I’m still not sure I understand,” Monty said hesitantly. He removed his glass and wiped the lenses with a cloth from his pocket. “I mean, I understand what you’re saying, and it makes sense, but I don’t get why they’re switching out the kids, killing them, too. That book say anything about Patty abusing her brother?”

“No,” Frost said.

“And there’s also evidence that Nina Tressfield had been abused, as well. Why kill her?”

Chase wasn’t sure she had a good answer for this. She was confident that the link was the abuse, but there were still too many unknowns to generate a complete picture. She did have an inclining of an idea, however.

“I’ve heard stories of kids who were abused by their fathers, endured horrible things. They snap, kill both their father and the mother who never laid a finger on them. They blame their mother because they knew about the abuse and did nothing to stop it.”

Monty nodded slowly as he took this in.

“Frost? Anything to add?” Chase asked.

“No.” Frost clutched the notepad protectively. “But in the story, the sister—she doesn’t have a name—knows about the abuse. Like you said, she does nothing about it.”

Hardly worth killing her over—Patty was only nine or ten years old—but Chase had learned long ago that applying rational logic to irrational acts was a fool’s game.

“I’m going to call my guy back at Quantico, see if he’s found anything.”

No one objected so Chase got on her phone.

Linus answered, exasperated, on the first ring.

“Chase, I was just about to call you.”

Linus was always just about to call her. It made Chase wondered why the man rarely did. Just another of his annoying games, she supposed.

“You have something for me?”

“Not really. Just wanted to update you. I finished running all the plates of cars at the Farmer’s Market like you asked, but nothing stands out.”

Even though Chase hadn’t explicitly told Linus what to look for, she knew that he, like most people in their line of work, formed an idea of their unsub’s appearance based on the particulars of a crime. It wasn’t always accurate—in fact, it rarely was—but this was a necessary starting point.

But things had changed. James was at the Holsteaders, as were at least two others. One was a young girl or boy.

“I need you to change focus. We’re looking for three or four people, not just one. A young kid is probably with them.”

“Really? You found—“

“I’m going to send you an address. Need you to see if you can find any vehicles that were both at the Farmer’s Market and in this area this morning.”

“Okay. I can do that. I’ll—“

Chase didn’t have time to listen to Linus blabber.

“How’s it coming with those hospital records? We think that these kids were all being abused by one or both of their parents. Whoever’s killing these families had to have known about the abuse and this is their revenge. Could be a teacher, a doctor, a family friend, maybe.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t get into the hospital database. Tried every way I know how. They use some next gen—“

“What about pediatricians? Insurance? Can you look to see if any claims were put through insurance for James Holsteader and Noah Tressfield? Do you know what schools the kids go to? They might have a councilor there or… I don’t know. A common teacher? James went to high school, Noah to elementary school so it might be a substitute or a teacher who switched schools.”

“Chase…” Linus seemed uncomfortable.

“What?”

“That’s a lot of stuff to look up.”

“Yeah, well, I have one more thing for you. These kids, the ones who aren’t part of the families but were killed at their dining tables? We need to find out who they are.”

“Wait, families? Plural? There’s been another set of murders?”

“Yes, I’ll get Frost to forward you the details,” Chase said quickly. She couldn’t give Linus an opening, else she’d be stuck wasting valuable time explaining things to the man for hours. “I need you to search recent missing persons in Baltimore to see if anyone matches their description. I’m thinking not, but you never know. They might have been abused as well and CPS could have a record of it. Might have even been sent to a foster home.”

“Chase—“

“Yeah, foster homes might be a good bet. Start there.”

“Chase!” Linus shouted.

“What?”

“I’m one man for fuck’s sake! I can’t hack into hospital records, cross reference cars from both scenes, look up missing persons, search for kids who were abused and sent to foster homes all at the same time.”

You have to, Chase almost said. For the duration of the call, Monty and Frost were observing her. She hadn’t noticed until now.

Monty was stressed, sweat beading on his forehead. Frost was still holding Noah’s journal like it was the fucking Holy Grail.

Chase forced herself to slow down.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… things are moving fast.” They weren’t, but this felt like the right thing to say. “Right now, the only link we have is that at least one kid in the Holsteader and Tressfield families were being abused by a parent. That’s the focus now.”

Linus cleared his throat.

“I already accessed CPS files. There have been no complaints, formal or informal, against the Tressfields.”

“What about the Holsteaders?”

“The fucking Holsteaders? Who the fuck are they?”

“The new family.”

“Well, I’m only hearing about them now. Spell the name for me?”

Chase did and she heard Linus type away on his mechanical keyboard. Heard him click his mouse. More typing.

Chase tapped her foot as she waited.

“Okay, I’ve got one report here. A Cameron Holsteader was admitted to the Cyprus Hospital in New York for a broken leg. The attending physician… blah, blah, blah… received conflicting stories about how the injury happened—the mother said a biking accident but the father said he fell off a swing. More medical shit… blaaaah… okay, here, the doctor was concerned enough to contact the CPS. But I don’t think anything came of it. No linked police report.”

“That’s not it—that’s a different family. Are there other Holsteaders in the system?”

More typing, clicking. Linus sipped something, probably an energy drink.

“Not that I can find in the two seconds you’re giving me to look.”

This was a problem. If their unsubs’ motivation was revenge because the child abuse wasn’t reported or investigated, then it reasoned that they wouldn’t be in any system. 

But if they weren’t in the system, how was Chase supposed to find the next potential victims?

And there would be more victims.

Chase was absolutely certain of this.

Think Chase, think.

“Chase?”

“Hold on.”

Her mind went back to the idea of a common link between the families. Dr. Cobb had told them that Nina Tressfield had broken her arm and it had healed well. Could have been abuse, could have just been an accident. But, either way, it had been treated.

“Okay, I need you to try to get into local hospital records again. One of the victims, Nina Tressfield, broke her arm a while back—six months ago, something like that. If you find out where she was treated, you can find out who treated her. They might have also treated one of the Holsteaders.” Chase’s mind was working a mile a minute now. They needed to narrow down the pool of potential future victims. “I’m going to need a list of other kids the doctor treated. Their injuries probably won’t be suspicious, otherwise I suspect they would have been reported to the CPS.”

“Chase?”

Chase lowered the phone and looked at Frost.

“Yeah?”

“In the book, the boy has some sort of stomach problems. He was sick for a long time.”

“Right.” She pressed the phone to her ear again. “Linus, Noah Holsteader might have also been admitted for a stomach problem. I want to know if they went to the same hospital or if they have the same pediatrician.”

“The security for patient records is next level. Like I said, I’ve tried—”

“Can you get in?”

Despite being the most annoying person Chase knew, Linus was the best at gaining access to privileged information.

“I’ve tried everything.”

If he couldn’t get in, then Chase doubted it was possible.

“Fuck. We have to find out where they were treated and who treated them.”

Finally, Linus fell silent. Ironic, considering this was the only time that Chase wanted him to say something.

“Linus?”

“Hold on, I’m thinking.”

Chase waited, her knee bounced.

“This new family? The Holsteaders?”

“What about them?”

“They live in a nice home?”

“Yes.”

“Then they probably have health insurance.”

“A safe bet. What are you getting at?”

“Well, insurance companies usually have even more digital security than hospitals, believe it or not. Insurance is, after all, the largest industry in—“

“Linus!”

“Sorry. Some insurance copays are tax deductible. If either family tried to claim this on their taxes, they probably had to include information like the address of the place the kids were treated, the dates and times, etcetera. I might be able to get some information from that.”

Some was better than none.

“Do it. Please and thank you.”

Chase hung up.

Monty and Frost looked at her for direction, for guidance on what to do next. This was her case. With Tate still in Orange County in his temporary post as the Special Agent in Charge, she was the CVU.

But Chase didn’t know where to go from here.

She knew what she didn’t want to do, however.

Sit around and wait for another family to be massacred.

Chapter 18

Frost could tell by the look on Chase’s face that she, like her, wasn’t a fan of Monty’s suggestion of setting up a crime board.

The idea felt stale.

But when Chase agreed, Frost went along with it.

As much as she wanted to do something, she had no idea what to do. Neither did Chase, evidently.

Monty had assured them that his men, dozens of Baltimore PD officers, were out looking for James Tressfield II and Noah Holsteader. Linus was trying to link both families through hospital records.

Dr. Cobb was… well, being ornery and hopefully transporting the Holsteaders back to the morgue.

Charles Ipsis, the CSU tech, was combing the crime scene for trace evidence. Taking fingerprints, making molds of bloody shoe prints.

There was nothing left for them.

As Monty got out the mobile board and produced full color photographs of the victims from God only knew where, Frost began to think that maybe this wasn’t a complete waste of time.

This was clearly something that Monty had done before. He put up cards with the family and given names beneath each of the victims photographs. There were even cards listing the addresses of the two crime scenes. Monty moved efficiently, with a practiced hand.

The partial shoe print went up.

Two large question marks were placed beneath the unknown victims.

All this was fine and dandy, but when Frost saw the picture of little Noah she faltered.

“Got this from a class photo. Little pixelated, but it’ll do,” Monty explained.

It was more than enough to elicit a reaction out of Frost.

She felt her stomach tighten as Noah’s written words flooded her mind. They seemed even more haunting now that she put a blurry face to the name.

Back in Orange County, Frost had worked a case with Striker involving prostitutes who had their heads wrapped in plastic and their skulls caved in. Afterwards, their pants and underwear had been removed and sperm was injected into their vaginas in order to frame a cheating husband.

When she’d been a cop, Frost had investigated a series of rapes but had eventually passed the case onto one of the detectives.

There was something even more disturbing about the events surrounding Noah Holsteader than either of these, his family’s brutal massacre notwithstanding. It could be that this was a result of having read the kid’s broken text but it could also be the fact that Noah was a boy. Gender didn’t make the act of sexual abuse any more or less devastating, but it was exceedingly rare. Most sexual assaults went unreported as there was a stigma that stuck with the victims. This was particularly true of males.

Frost was holding the notebook so tightly that her fingers began to ache.

“Anything stick out to you?”

It was an odd, but valid question.

One that neither Chase nor Frost answered.

“Well, for me, it’s that both families are nuclear, with two kids: one male, one female. Could the person—persons—“ Monty corrected, “be targeting this specific family set up?”

Frost hadn’t thought about that. They only had two families to go on, which was hardly a large enough sample size to confirm Monty’s words. But it made sense.

Her eyes roamed from the board, from Noah, to Chase, who appeared deep in thought.

“Chase?” she probed.

Chase shuddered slightly but said nothing.

“Okay,” Monty continued, musing out loud now. “Next one for you: why didn’t the parents do anything? I mean, James is just a kid. Surely, the father could have attacked him. But there’s no evidence of any sort of defense wounds, other than maybe a broken wrist that Frank Holsteader suffered when it was too late.”

“That I can answer,” Chase said, her voice detached. “They took one of the kids first—probably the girl—and held them hostage. Told the family that if they just did what they said, nobody would be harmed. When Frank realized that this was all a lie, there was nothing he could do.”

“You’d think that after 9/11 people would’ve smartened up,” Frost blurted without thinking.

“I’m not following,” Monty said.

“Well, the prevailing theory on the flights that crashed into the Twin Towers was that the hijackers played the same card: do as we say and everyone will be safe. Nobody believed that they wanted anything other than money. Why risk your life, and the lives of everyone around you, if you just thought that an airline megacorp will just pay the ransom and you’ll be set free?” Frost continued. “In the Academy, they teach us about the common tricks that predators use to keep their prey docile and complacent. ‘Don’t scream, don’t yell,’ that sort of thing. ‘Do as I say, and you won’t get hurt’.”

“They give you a blueprint on how to survive,” Chase said, nodding in Frost’s direction. “‘Don’t yell?’ Scream your fucking head off. ‘Don’t run?’ Run as fast and as hard as you can.” Her phone began to ring and she grabbed it. “If someone comes into my house, you’d best believe I’m going to fight.” She answered. “Linus?” After a brief pause during which her thin eyebrows began to shroud her eyes, Chase said, “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker with Frost and Monty from the Baltimore PD.” She set the phone down on her knee. “Go ahead.”

“Right, as I was saying, I think I found something—went the insurance route. Insurance records are typically locked up tighter than a nun’s thighs, but I found tax returns for both the Holsteaders and the Tressfields. Both had issued claims for a local hospital—Ascension St. Agnes—within six months of each other. Don’t know the details of why they were admitted, but there were no CPS investigations. Anyways, Ascension has fifteen ER pediatric beds. They have a rotating staff, but four main ER pediatric physicians do most of the work there.”

“Any idea who was working when the families went in?” Chase asked, perking up.

“Those records are sealed, but I cross referenced the times when the four doctors were either at their private practices or teaching, which was easier to obtain. This eliminated three of them—all but Dr. Fred Fontaine, sixty-one years old. No priors. Been sued three times, all settled. Being a physician for almost thirty-years, my understanding is that this is on the low end.”

Chase snapped her fingers at Monty, who was already on his phone collecting information about the doctor.

“Thanks Linus, keep—“

“Not done yet. I couldn’t find out exactly who was admitted to the hospital or for what, but by doing some quick maths on the copays that were claimed, the hospital bills had to be in the low six figures. Either they had some really intense, complex surgeries or they went to the hospital multiple times and the families just combined these in their tax filings.”

Frost thought about what they knew of Noah and the other kids. Nothing in their homes suggested that they were bedridden or wheelchair bound. Noah had documented his stomach issues, but there was no indication in the kid’s journal that he spent months in a hospital.

Multiple trips seemed the more likely scenario, especially given what Dr. Cobb had told them about the scars on Nina Tressfield’s back. The unknown victim in the morgue, too.

“Okay—“

“Not done yet.”

Chase scowled.

“Go.”

“Alright, so I looked into other families who live in the area with tax filings listing dates around the same time from the hospital? There were plenty—plenty, let me tell you. Ascension is a busy place. But three families stood out to me. At first, I didn’t—“

“Linus, please.”

“Yeah—three families stood out to me: the Blassmans, Manns, and Drovels.”

“Dr. Fontaine treated them?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Okay. Where are they now? Do you have their addresses?”

“I do. They’re all at the same location.”

“What the hell are you talking about? They live together?”

“Not exactly. They’re dead, Chase. The Drovels, Manns, and Blassmans are all dead. That’s why they rang alarm bells.”

Chapter 19

Linus was the best at what he did. Without him, Chase didn’t think the CVU would even exist. But the way he operated, with his riddles and questions and burying the lead? It was beyond infuriating.

Case and point, not leading with telling Chase that the families in question were dead.

Still, Chase managed to keep her cool. She’d already pushed Linus pretty far and even someone with his personality type had a breaking point.

She didn’t care much for ‘detective boards’ either, but with all of the names they were working with now, she thought it might actually be helpful.

And Monty seemed to like them. Chase wasn’t one for mincing feelings, but with how helpful the man had been, and the ease with which he navigated the local law enforcement landscape, she didn’t want to piss him off.

Within minutes of Linus telling them what he’d discovered, Monty had everything up on the board.

It quickly became apparent that Linus had a flair for the dramatic. Not all members of the three families were dead, although it was an undeniable trend.

The Blassman family: three members, Ingrid (mother, died three years ago in a car accident), Curtis (father), and Arthur (son). Four months ago, the Blassman’s apartment complex had gone up in an electrical fire. Both Curtis and his son Arthur were pronounced dead. Monty found a photo online of Curtis and put that on the board. No images of Arthur.

The Drovel family: four members, Andrew (father), Charlotte (mother), Nick (older brother, nineteen), and Maxine. Maxine was adopted, all three other family members had criminal records related to drugs. They all died via hot dose—heroin. Maxine was sent back to the orphanage. Monty put up three mug shots of the dead Drovel family members on the board. No images of Maxine.

The Mann family: three members, Peter (father), Ana (mother), Michael (son). Police reported the crime as a murder suicide, perpetrated by the mother. Peter was found in his bed, his wrists slashed. Ana was found in the tub with the same fatal injuries. Michael is still missing. Like with the Drovels, crime scene photos of Peter and Ana were placed on the board. Again, as with the other three, Monty was unable to obtain a photo of Michael.

Where they were missing photos, Monty tacked cards with question marks and listed their names beneath.

The cork board, a five by three foot wheelable device, was nearly full of photos and cards now.

It was overwhelming to say the least.

The only tangible link between any of them—aside from most of them being dead—was that someone in the family had been treated at Ascension St. Agnes Hospital.

There was a chance that they weren’t related at all, Chase reminded herself. You stare hard enough at a blank wall, you’d eventually see shapes.

Maybe even a face.

But at least it was somewhere to start.

“You wanna go visit this Dr. Fontaine?” Frost asked.

Chase most definitely did. In an ideal situation, she’d send Frost off to look into the families that Linus had uncovered while she spoke with the pediatric doctor.

But she didn’t think that Frost was ready to go out on her own.

There was another problem. It was the middle of the day and Dr. Fontaine was more than likely at work. If they went into the hospital and started asking questions, eyebrows would be raised.

Alarm bells would sound. Without any real evidence against the doctor, he’d likely lawyer up. If that happened, they might never find the missing kids.

But they couldn’t just let Dr. Fontaine roam free, either.

“I think we need to play this slow.” The words almost physically hurt her to say. “Don’t want to scare him.” Chase considered their options. She didn’t like the idea of Monty going on his own, either, but he had experience. “Monty, I want you to put eyes on Dr. Fontaine. I don’t want you to interact with him, just follow him. Learn his movements.”

“Done.”

“In an unmarked car, out of uniform. The last thing I want to do is spook him.”

“Again—done.”

“Good. Any idea what orphanage Maxine Drovel was sent to?”

Monty looked down at his phone, scrolled. Paused.

“Yeah, looks like it’s a place called Baltimore Youth Residential Center. Has room for fifty kids.”

“Sounds lovely,” Chase remarked. Then to Frost, “C’mon, let’s go.”

***

Baltimore Youth Residential Center, or BYRC as it was commonly referred to, was as pleasant as the name implied.

Drab, brown brick. The field surrounding the building included a playground and soccer field both sitting on dirt.

In the passenger seat, Chase noticed Frost tense.

“You going to be okay?”

It was the soccer field that triggered her, most likely. Although the details of what had gone down in Mexico was shrouded in secrecy, Chase knew about Frost’s friend Tori.

Rumors had spread about an infamous scene in a soccer field, as well.

“Yeah,” Frost said dryly.

Chase wasn’t one for spelling out her plan of attack, but to take Frost’s mind off the soccer field and Mexico, she decided to outline her intentions.

“Maxine was in a foster home and that ended in tragedy. She’s gonna be reserved, timid. Or, alternatively, bitter. Either way, she isn’t going to be all that talkative. Our main goal is to get her to speak about the hospital and, hopefully, Dr. Fontaine.”

Frost nodded. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the soccer field the entire time Chase had spoken.

“Frost,” Chase said sharply.

She finally looked over.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to stay with me. I know how this feels, how you feel, but you have to remember that Noah is still out there. Somebody has him.”

Frost nodded and her expression hardened.

“I’m with you. But I think I should be the one to speak with Maxine.”

Chase didn’t like the idea. This could be their only chance. If Frost froze up, or worse, if she  upset the girl, Maxine might curl up into a shell.

And then they’d be back at square one.

Eight victims, two missing kids. A tenuous lead to a doctor who may or may not have treated the children. But Frost was younger than her and Chase knew that her approach could occasionally be… abrasive.

Chase hated giving up control. And trust with her had never come easy.

“I can do this, Chase.”

Chase gave in.

“Okay. You do the talking. Remember, our goal is to find out everything we can about Dr. Fontaine.”

Frost nodded and they got out of the car.

In the end, Chase’s fears were unwarranted.

Neither of them spoke to Maxine Drovel at the BYRC because Maxine wasn’t there. And, so far as they could tell, the girl never had been.

Chapter 20

Monty watched Dr. Fontaine sitting outside at a picnic table alone. He was a small man in his early sixties with gray hair and a potbelly. He tucked his tie between the buttons of his dress shirt and leaned forward to take a bite of his sandwich.

Monty had a hard time picturing this man slitting the throats of children, let alone their parents, irrespective of their transgressions.

Could he even do it? If he hadn’t been a doctor, Monty wouldn’t have thought so. Even bringing the sandwich to his mouth seemed like a chore.

But what had Agent Adams said? If Dr. Fontaine was behind this, he had help.

Monty wasn’t sure what to make of the two female FBI Agents. Both were a bit off. But he supposed that if this case was what they saw on a regular basis then this was to be expected.

If they weren’t off, then he would have real reason for concern.

Dr. Fontaine’s only worry right now was keeping his shirt clean. With Monty observing from inside his car, he saw a woman in scrubs approach the doctor from a different table. He was too far to make out the words that were exchanged, but they seemed amicable enough.

The interaction lasted about a minute before the woman waved and returned to her seat.

During the conversation, a drop of something yellow, probably mustard, dripped from Dr. Fontaine’s sandwich and landed just below the knot of his tie.

The man noticed this and his face contorted.

Freak out. Lose your shit, call the nurse over and scream at her.

Dr. Fontaine was visibly upset as he used a napkin to smear the stain. He scrubbed furiously, his face turning a deep scarlet with the effort.

But the massive outburst of emotion Monty expected from a suspected serial murderer never came.

Eventually, Dr. Fontaine just gave up even though the stain was still clearly visible.

The man was no longer interested in his sandwich and closed the Styrofoam case. Then he drank from his cup with a straw, got up, and placed both items in their appropriate bins leaning up against the side of the hospital.

Dr. Fontaine held the door open for the woman in scrubs who had spoken to him earlier, going as far as to giving her a courteous nod.

Monty had been a cop for a long time. He’d been offered higher positions but had always turned them down. Didn’t think that he’d earned them. He knew he was a solid cop with a good track record.

That wasn’t the issue.

Monty’s reason for not accepting these promotions was simple: he wasn’t good enough at identifying the bad guy. He blamed a little of this on the explosion of TV shows depicting both cops and criminals. Cops were the good guys, well-groomed, smart, in control. Even the anti-heroes, a more recent development, shared most of these qualities. The bad guys were even more stereotypical and obvious. A ‘look’ in their eyes—how many times had heard that one—and a complete disregard for all human life.

The irony was that the real actors were the criminals, not the people who portrayed them on television.

Monty had seen loving parents, true loving parents in every sense of the word, murder innocent people in cold blood. He’d witnessed despicable human beings doing equally terrible things.

There was no common thread between them. Child molesters weren’t all overweight men living in their mothers’ basements surviving on a diet of Cheetos and Coke. Murderers weren’t all meticulous plotters who followed their victims for months planning the perfect crime.

Monty started his car and slowly drove around to the other side of the hospital. There were three different parking lots: the visitors lot, a much larger underground parking section, also for visitors, and an employee lot. When he’d first arrived, Monty, doing his best to look as natural as possible, walked through this final lot.

He’d managed to pull up Dr. Fontaine’s DMV records, found his tag number. Also found the man’s car in the lot.

A new Audi.

This time, Monty parked in the outdoor visitor lot. It didn’t give him a great view of the employee space, but there was only one shared entrance and exit and he could see that clearly enough.

While he waited for an unknown amount of time—doctors were notorious for working extremely long hours—Monty pulled up the photo he’d taken of his board back in his office.

It was good, thorough. He was proud of his work. The agents seemed less than impressed by what he’d done, but that didn’t bother Monty.

He stared at the board for a while, only occasionally glancing up when a car came or went.

Dr. Fontaine’s Audi remained in the lot.

His eyes kept coming back to the Mann family. Frost and Adams were looking into the Maxine Drovel and the Blassman family was all dead.

Michael Mann, twelve years old, was missing. His mother had killed his father and then herself.

Monty had read the police report several times. Micheal was at school when the wife, who had a history of mental health issues, committed the murder suicide. He left school around the time that the anonymous call came in reporting the crime. Police attempted to trace the call but had no luck. Michael never came home. There was a manhunt but even after a number of tips had been investigated, including a credible sighting at the local mall, Michael was never found.

Monty went back to the file. At the end, there was a small note, an addendum that he hadn’t noticed before.

He clicked it and JPEG image opened.

He clicked on it.

The top read: MISSING. The bottom listed a number for the local Baltimore PD branch.

But it was the photograph of a frowning young boy that took his breath away.

Monty had seen him before.

Just two days ago.

Chapter 21

Chase was pissed. Frost was, too.

The BYRC was a shit show. Understaffed with nearly a hundred kids instead of the fifty that Monty had mentioned was the capacity when he’d first made them aware of the place.

Records were in shambles, with several of the kids not even having surnames, while others’ names had been changed to protect them from their pasts.

The Center had a record of a Maxine Yakovski, but this was from more than two years ago before she’d been adopted by the Drovel family and had acquired their surname.

They had no record of her ever coming back. No photos, either.

“How the fuck can a kid, an eleven year old girl, whose foster parents and older brother ODd, just slip through the cracks?” Chase demanded.

“We wouldn’t even know that she existed if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was treated at Ascension,” Frost added.

She watched as Chase tightly gripped the steering wheel, tried to wring it out like a damp cloth.

“And we don’t know what she was treated for,” Chase followed up through clenched teeth.

She let go of the wheel, flexed her fingers.

“This place should be shut down.”

Frost knew that Chase’s words were coming from a place of anger, but she also knew that the government couldn’t close the BYRC no matter how poorly it was run. Where would the hundred or so kids go?

On the street?

Chase started the car but drive anywhere. As they’d planned, Frost had done the talking to the sour-looking woman purporting to be in charge. But when they entered the woman’s office and saw the stacks of rotting boxes, Chase slowly started to make remarks.

When the woman, exasperated more at their intrusion than anything else, was unable to find a record of Maxine Drovel Chase lost her cool.

Threatened to arrest the woman and worse.

It was all Frost could do to get her out of their before she acted on her words.

Agent Adams had a reputation, one that wasn’t completely complimentary.

When they’d first met in Orange County, Frost couldn’t picture the tiny, white-haired woman following through on some of the more violent threats, but what she’d seen at the Byrd house had brought this into question.

“Eleven years old. Eleven fucking years old. And she could be anywhere. Trafficked, sent abroad.” Spit flew from Chase’s lips as she spoke. “Murdered. In a fucking cult.”

There was a buzzing noise inside the car, one that Frost realized had been going on for some time.

“Fuck this. I’m going back in.” Chase reached for the door when Frost noticed a light was shining through the pocket of her slacks.

“Your phone is ringing.”

Chase pulled it out so quickly that her pocket tore a little. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What?” She slumped back into her seat. “What?” A different intonation this time. Chase removed the phone from her ear and pushed the speaker button so hard that Frost saw the screen flex inward.

“I said, I think I found Michael Mann.”

“Who the fuck is Michael Mann?”

Frost was about to say, The missing kid from the murder suicide, but decided now wasn’t the time to speak up.

Monty repeated pretty much those exact words, anyway.

“Monty, Maxine is gone. They have no record of her at the Residential Center. No one knows where the fuck she is.”

Monty was breathing heavily.

“I’m going to send you picture, okay?”

“Did you here me? Maxine is gone.”

“You need to see this.”

Chase growled but then picked up the phone and opened the attachment that came through.

Her eyes widened and Frost leaned over to get a better look.

Based on Chase’s expression, Frost prepared herself for another horrific scene, another slashed throat.

Instead, she was greeted by something even more disturbing. A young boy with a shaved head. Dark eyes.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “That’s the kid from the Tressfield house. That’s the kid who was seated at their table.”

Chapter 22

Chase’s mind was spinning.

“Where are you now?” she said, after a hard swallow.

“I’m sitting in the visitors lot of the Ascension Hospital. Dr. Fontaine is inside.”

“Don’t move. We’re coming to you.”

Chase put the address into her phone and started to drive.

How can this be? Micheal Mann’s mother kills her husband and then commits suicide. He goes missing then shows up at the Tressfield kitchen table with the family, his throat slit?

This case was fucked up before any of this came to light.

Now, it was a full-blown nightmare—one that refused to make sense, no matter how they looked at it.

“Chase, if Micheal Mann took James II’s spot at the Tressfield’s table, who’s the boy at the Holsteader’s table?”

Chase thought back to Monty’s stupid detective board. Linus had identified three families that all had dealings with Dr. Fontaine at Ascension Hospital. The Manns, the Drovels, and the Blassmans. Maxine Drovel was a girl but, like Michael, she was—had been—gone to the wind.

But Arthur Blassman?

“Arthur’s dead,” Chase said, thinking out loud. “Monty said that he died with his father in an electrical fire. Mother died… in a car accident, I think.”

Frost bit her lip.

“What?” Chase probed.

“Remember Connor Byrd?”

Chase pictured the man in the tub, the bullet hole in the side of this head. The watch on the wrong wrist.

Her first thought was that this was what Frost was going to bring up. That she’d gone over everything she’d seen in that filthy, shit-smelling bathroom and decided now was the time to call her on tampering with evidence.

“The police report said that he’d been released, that Connor had served his time. But that was wrong; the man was on probation.”

Chase was surprised, pleasantly so, that this wasn’t about the watch. So much so, that she didn’t have a clue what her partner was saying.

“And?”

The hospital came into view and Chase finally slowed.

“What if the report is wrong? What if Arthur didn’t die in the fire?”

Now, Chase understood.

“What if the kid at the Holsteader’s table was Arthur Blassman?” Chase finished for Frost.

“Exactly.”

No more needed to be said.

They found Monty standing outside his vehicle, looking casual, in the visitor lot.

As much as Chase wanted to park directly next to the cop, blocking in at least two other cars in the process, she didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

Their only suspect at this point, weak as their evidence was, was inside the hospital.

Monty gave them a half wave as Chase parked several places down. She waved back, but with intention.

Monty came over.

“Get in,” Chase said.

Monty plunked his bulk down in the backseat behind her.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chase said the moment he closed the door.

“I don’t know. But that picture I showed you sure as hell looks like the kid at the table.”

“How did he get there? Did someone kidnap him, keep him hostage for months, only to drag him to the Tressfield house to kill him?” Chase was speaking just for the sake speaking now, which wasn’t like her, but she couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

Neither Monty nor Frost even attempted a guess.

“How old was Micheal Mann?” Chase asked.

This question, Monty did have an answer for.

“Twelve.”

“Right, twelve. He was thin, but he didn’t look sick and he wasn’t an invalid. My niece is fifteen—no, she’s sixteen now—not much larger than Micheal was. Do you know how hard it is to get her to do anything?”

This, like Chase’s previous comment hung in the air.

“We need to look deeper into Arthur Blassman. Figure out if he could be the unknown victim at the Holsteaders,” Chase said, falling back into professional speak.

“The report says—“

Chase cut Monty off.

“I know what the report says. I need you to do a deeper dive into the fire.”

“But—“

“If you can’t do it, if you aren’t comfortable, I’ll put my man in Quantico on it.”

Chase didn’t want to give Linus any more work than he already had, but she would ask him if Monty was unwilling to comply, if the man was averse to stepping on toes and ruffling by looking into a closed case.

“No. I’ll do it.”

“Good. While you do that, Frost and I will have a chat with Dr. Fontaine.”

The time for waiting was over.

***

The pediatric ER was swarming with people. Kids, parents, staff. This worked in Chase and Frost’s favor, as they went unnoticed in the crowd.

Monty had described Dr. Fred Fontaine as a short man with white hair, a little chubby with a stain on his tie.

Chase noticed several men in doctor uniforms—white coats with stethoscopes draped around their necks—but none of them looked like Dr. Fontaine.

“You see him?” Chase asked under her breath.

“Not yet.”

Chase moved quickly through the waiting area, allowing her eyes to drift over the pained expressions on kids faces, the consoling nature of the parent accompanying them, usually the mother.

Toward the back of the busy room Chase saw a set of beige, swinging doors. She nodded at Frost then moved in that direction. By nature, most people were non-confrontational. If you walked around somewhere you didn’t belong with an air of authority, rarely would someone ask you who you were or what you were doing.

Two orderlies triaging a young girl who looked to have a separated shoulder noticed Chase and Frost moving toward the doors that were clearly off-limits to the public.

Neither of them said a word when they passed through.

Chase recognized this wide hallway as a sort of secondary holding area. Not as busy as the main area, but there were kids sitting in chairs lining both walls.

At the end of the corridor was a door marked ‘Restricted Area – Authorized Personnel Only’.

Before that, though, were several screening rooms lining either side.

Chase looked at Frost then signaled toward the doors on the left.

Frost nodded and went that way, Chase the opposite.

She peered through the window in the first door, saw a crying boy holding his arm protectively to his chest. A woman rubbed his back.

No doctor.

Chase moved onto the next. There was a doctor in this one, swabbing a teenager’s throat, but he was young, with short dark hair.

When Chase peered through the window of the third door, she knew she was looking at Dr. Fred Fontaine.

She would have known it was him even if hadn’t been for the stain on his tie.

The doctor was speaking to a girl with pigtails and a red face. Maybe nine.

Chase immediately thought of Maxine Drovel, the girl who had fallen through the cracks at the BYRC.

Except it couldn’t be her. The man squeezing her hand tightly as Dr. Fontaine pressed a stethoscope against her back was a carbon copy of the child, minus the pigtails.

They even had the same red face.

Chase backed away.

“Frost,” she whispered.

The woman turned and Chase tilted her head toward the door.

Frost hurried over and they both stood off to one side and waited.

Looked important. Looked like they belonged.

Less than a minute later, the door opened and the doctor stepped out, his eyes on a clipboard in his hands.

Chase moved into his path.

“Dr. Fontaine?”

The man looked up, scanned her face, then Frost’s.

Chase wanted him to run. It would have made things so much easier if the man panicked and bolted.

He didn’t.

“Yes?”

“We need to speak with you.”

Chapter 23

“Who are you?” Dr. Fontaine asked. His tone was curt.

He tried to move forward but Chase remained where she was.

“I’m Chase Adams with the FBI.” She kept her eyes trained on the man as she said this, trying to get a read on the man.

“Well, as you can see,” Dr. Fontaine waved his hand about the room, “I’m very busy now. Maybe if you—“

“This won’t take long. Just want to ask you a few questions.”

Dr. Fontaine’s eyes dropped to his notepad and he flipped the page.

“You have thirty seconds.”

This time when Dr. Fontaine moved, Chase fell in beside him. Frost followed suite.

“Do you remember a patient of yours named Michael Mann? He’s twelve years old. Shaved head.”

“Can’t say I do.”

“What about Maxine Drovel? She’s eleven and—”

“Agent, I see more than twenty patients each day. You can’t possibly expect me to remember all of their names.”

Dr. Fontaine stopped in front of a boy seated next to his mother. He flipped to another page and scanned it.

But you should remember these kids. They were all abused by their parents.

“What about Noah Holsteader?”

Dr. Fontaine’s eyes flicked up. They were narrow to begin with but now his lids closed nearly completely.

“I remember Noah. Had a complicated stomach issue.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Like the fact that his mother was molesting him?

“No, I can’t tell you anything else. Probably said too much already.” Dr. Fontaine lowered himself to the child’s level. A small smile graced his lips. “Ben? How are you feeling?”

The kid grunted.

“Dr. Fontaine—“

“Your time is up, Agent. I need to get to work.”

What a surprise—Chase’s patience ran out just as Dr. Fontaine’s time.

She flipped through the images on her phone and before the doctor could turn back, she held it out to him.

“This is Michael Mann. You recognize him now?”

If a normal person had been shown a photo of a kid with their throat slit from ear to ear they would have had a visceral reaction.

Dr. Fontaine did not.

Then again, the man was a pediatric ER physician. He’d probably seen more death than even Chase.

“Agent, I’m going to ask you to leave. If you have any more questions, you can either speak to HR or my lawyer.”

Chase instinctively reached out, although she wasn’t entirely sure the purpose of this action.

A nurse suddenly appeared. She was short with thin brown hair tucked behind her ears.

“Dr. Fontaine?”

“Yes?”

“The patient in Room 4 is complaining of a headache.”

Dr. Fontaine addressed Ben.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Sit tight. It won’t be long.”

Frost leaned close to Chase as Dr. Fontaine walked away with the nurse. The former stopped in front of a room and checked his notes while the latter tapped a young girl on the head. The girl stretched her legs and nodded at the nurse.

“What do you want to do?” Frost asked.

There was nothing they could do.

Chase wanted to force Dr. Fontaine to sit down and speak with her, allow her more time to get a proper read on the man. But even if she held such power, which she didn’t, getting a doctor to speak on privileged information about a patient was going to be next to impossible. If he did, the man could face criminal charges as well as losing his license.

“Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

***

“How did it go?” Monty was still in the backseat of Chase’s car where she’d left him.

“As well as expected. He said he knew Noah, but I don’t about the others. Frost?”

“I’m not sure, either.”

“And now we tipped him off—fuck. Any update on the Blassman case?”

Monty’s expression went grim.

“You’re not going to like what I’ve found.”

“What?”

“Arthur’s body was never recovered from the scene.”

“You’re shitting me,” Frost exclaimed.

Chase wasn’t surprised. She’d already mentally accepted the fact that the kid at the Holsteader table replacing Noah was Arthur Blassman.

“I’m not—they had sufficient evidence to assume that he was dead. A neighbor said he saw Arthur enter the building and when the fire—“

“Doesn’t matter,” Chase interrupted. “They fucked up. I’d bet my life that Arthur is the unknown victim in the Holsteader house. But at least now we have a link—this hospital, Dr. Fontaine. We need to stay with him.”

“Except now he knows that we’re looking into him,” Frost said, parroting Chase’s words from moments ago.

“What exactly do we know about Dr. Fontaine?” Chase asked.

Monty shifted in the backseat, trying to get comfortable. He was a big man who had been sitting in the car for a while now but as much as Chase wanted to go to a coffee shop or a pub, she wasn’t keen on giving the good doctor a chance to slip out.

“I did some research on him while I was waiting. He likes sandwiches, mustard not so much.” Chase stared at Monty, blinked twice. “The stain on his tie?”

It dawned on her that Monty was making a joke.

She didn’t laugh and the man continued, serious now.

“Never been in trouble with the law—like I said, three previous lawsuits against him, but nothing malicious. Regular doctor stuff. Married to a woman named Lauren who is in her late thirties or early forties.”

“That makes her, what? Twenty years younger than him?” Frost said.

“Something like that. She’s all over Instagram, posting selfies around Baltimore. Good looking woman.”

“Kids?” Frost again.

“Don’t think so.”

Chase tried to picture Dr. Fontaine, short, out of shape, and his attractive wife going around the city breaking into people’s homes, murdering them at their kitchen table.

Taking one of the kids, leaving one behind.

It didn’t make sense. Didn’t mean that it wasn’t accurate, however.

“Could they be working together?” Frost asked. “I don’t get the impression that Dr. Fontaine has much spare time to do all of… this alone.”

Couples who kill together, stay together, Chase thought.

“I don’t know.” Chase cocked her head. Earlier, when she’d considered splitting up with Frost, she’d decided against it. Now, however, it didn’t appear as if they had a choice. If—when—their unsub killed again, Chase was fairly certain that one of Noah Holsteader, James Tressfeild II, or Maxine Drovel would also be murdered and left at the scene. And as much as she found Monty to be amicable and helpful, competent, too, Chase wasn’t comfortable giving him such an important task. This was a CVU case and would stay that way. “Frost, I want you to check out Laurent Fontaine. Follow her, see what she gets up to. Stay dark, don’t let her know that you’re on to her. If the doctor and his wife are behind this, he probably already called her.”

Frost reached for the door.

“Which means that she’s probably going to move quick. Tie up loose ends.”

Frost was completely outside the car now.

“Anyone know where she lives?”

Monty looked at his phone.

“Found one of Lauren’s posts from about six months ago announcing that they’d just bought a new home. She didn’t mention the address, but I recognize the neighborhood: Rolan Park. Upscale area about twenty minutes from here. I’ll send you a photo of the house. Shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

“Perfect.” Frost took two steps and then stopped. “Wait, I don’t have a car.”

“Take mine,” Monty offered. He dug into his pocket for his keys.

“You sure?” Chase said. “I’m going to need my car to stay with Dr. Fontaine.”

“Not a problem. I can get one of my officers to swing around to pick me up and take me back to the station. I’ll work on the board, update it with Arthur Blassman’s photo—if I can find one. Also continue to dig into Maxine Drovel’s whereabouts and into the doctor.”

“Thank you,” Chase said. “Thanks for your help on this.”

“I just want to find whoever is killing these kids.” Monty paused, looked pensive. “I have two kids of my own, you know.”

Chase knew that this was the time to ask about them, that Monty expected her to say as much.

How old? Two girls? Boys? One of each?

She just didn’t have it in her.

“Thanks again, Monty.” Then to Frost. “Stay out of sight. And stay safe. Keep me updated.”

Chapter 24

Earlier, Frost had wondered how Chase managed to compartmentalize the horrible details of this case—all her cases, most likely—but now, as she scanned the beautiful mansions in Roland Park, searching for the one in the picture that Monty had sent her, she thought she knew how.

Staying busy. When you were working a case, trying to stop a killer before they inevitably struck again, your focus was singular. You didn’t think of James or Nina or Maxine or Patty or Michael.

You thought of victims—victims 1, 2, 3, however many there were. They weren’t people, weren’t kids, they were a means to an end.

For a while, this worked for Frost, too. But then her eyes fell from the house in front of her—a beautiful stone mansion, probably six-thousand plus square feet—to the notepad on the passenger seat of Monty’s car.

Noah’s journal.

Frost thought about Never, about the things that the fictionalized version of Noah’s mother Jessica, did to him.

Frost felt sweat break out on the small of her back.

Focus, she told herself. Focus.

It was impossible.

Patty’s tiny, cherubic face kept popping into Frost’s mind. Her neck ragged. A giant smile beneath what might have once been a comparably-sized, toothy grin. Her T-shirt—was it Cinderella? Paw Patrol? Just plain, pastel pink?—soaked with her own blood.

The sweat on her lower back was now icy cold.

How the fuck could a person do that to her? No, not person—animal. Only an animal could do something like this.

In the Academy, they’d instructed prospective agents not to think about the victims this way. Not to picture how they were, what they might have been like, unless this directly impacted the case.

Dehumanize, depersonalize.

As part of their training, the FBI had new recruits work through cold cases. They had free reign to select any number of cases that still hadn’t been solved for a year or longer. But they had ‘suggested’ certain cases, not because these were of particular importance or priority, but because the cases themselves were gruesome.

A double homicide where the victims hands had been removed for reasons unknown. An apparent suicide in a car where the man had tied a rope around his head, then around the steering wheel before moving the seat all the way back. Only, it wasn’t his car.

The man’s tongue, swollen, hung out of his purple lips. His eyes bulged.

Frost had worked these with Tori, then alone. They’d both been disgusted by the images but had, together, powered through.

Seeing the victims firsthand? While their skin was still lukewarm to the touch?

Reading Noah’s notebook?

That was different.

Worse.

Infinitely times worse.

Frost knew that her mind was in a tailspin. That she was starting to breathe in short bursts, that her heart was thudding in her chest so hard that it felt like her sternum was on the verge of snapping.

But there was nothing she could do about it.

Did she need to take something? A Beta Blocker? Vicadin? Something stronger?

There were rumors that Chase had had a drug problem. That she’d overdosed.

Frost didn’t put much stock in these, but on the off-chance that they were true, she wouldn’t blame Chase.

How could you? How could anyone see this sort of insanity and not need something to make sure that your own mind stayed intact?

Frost slowed as she reached the next house.

Shit, that’s it.

It was the same house that a workout clad Lauren Fontaine had been standing in front of in her Instagram photo.

Frost didn’t even get a chance to park before she spotting the woman herself. Lauren was sporting fashionable workout attire, clearly a uniform of sorts, and had a Lulu Lemon bag slung over one shoulder.

It was hard to believe that the young, attractive woman was married to Dr. Fontaine, who was neither of these things, but she supposed that this wasn’t terrible unusual.

Lauren stopped to speak to the gardener, a man holding a leaf blower in one hand. The woman laughed, grasped his shoulder in a friendly manner.

Smiling, Lauren got in her car—a fancy new BMW—and drove around the circular entrance before exiting through the front gate.

Frost had no reason to duck down and hide; Lauren had the visor down and was busy applying cherry red lipstick.

You have to look good before going to the gym, after all, why else would you go?

Frost followed the woman, staying well back even though she thought that the possibility of being made bordered on zero.

She did cast one look in the rearview mirror, a final look, at the impressive Fontaine mansion. Could Noah be in there? Could Maxine?

How would they ever know?

Frost pictured the interior of the gray stone building, not the main floor, glitzy and shiny as it likely was, but the rooms below the surface, both literally and figuratively.

The dark rooms, the ones that were lit only by torch light. Kids, not just Noah and Maxine, but dozens of them, huddled within.

Clad only in rags, living with rats, pissing and shitting in buckets.

Frost shuddered and cursed her vivid imagination.

Close to ten minutes later, Lauren pulled up to a fancy gym in an ritzy neighborhood.

After checking her lipstick a final time, Lauren entered the building. She was greeted by a man wearing a tight sleeveless T-shirt. The man wrapped his muscular around Lauren and lifted her off her feet.

Lauren threw her head back and laughed.

When he finally let her go, she shoved him playfully and looked out the glass front window.

The man with the shaved head tried to wrap his arm around Lauren’s waist and pull her close again, but Lauren didn’t let him.

They moved deeper into the gym, opened a door.

Now, Lauren let the man take her, kissing her on the lips. She closed the door behind them with her foot.

Interesting, Frost thought. Lauren was cheating on her husband.

But the real question was, is Lauren Fontaine also a mass murderer?

Chapter 25

Dr. Fontaine emerged from the hospital just after six in the evening. Chase had expected to be waiting for hours for him to finish his shift, but that wasn’t the case.

Not only that, but the doctor seemed to be in a hurry.

The Audi pulled out of the lot and Chase followed. While she’d been waiting, Chase had familiarized herself Baltimore’s landscape. Roland Park was about seven miles north of Ascension St. Agnes, while both the Holsteaders and the Tressfields lived to the South.

Right now, however, Dr. Fred Fontaine, actually Fredric Chase had learned, was heading east.

This, too, was an area that Chase recognized, which was confirmed when the BYRC came into view.

The fuck is he doing?

The way Dr. Fontaine parked and walked right up to the gate suggested that this wasn’t the first time he’d been here.

Chase winced when the man was greeted by the same woman who had spoken to her and Frost earlier. She invited Dr. Fontaine inside with a warm smile.

Chase wanted to go in after him. For all she knew, the woman was warning Dr. Fontaine that the FBI had come by. Hell, maybe they were working together.

Maybe Maxine was really inside.

Chase remained in her car. She didn’t honestly didn’t believe this but until Dr. Fontaine emerged five minutes later, her stomach was in knots.

These knots twisted even tighter when she saw that Dr. Fontaine was no longer alone. The elderly doctor was holding the hand of a young boy.

Noah?

No, it wasn’t him. The boy was a few years older than Noah.

The kid got into the back seat of Dr. Fontaine’s car while he got behind the wheel.

What the hell is going on?

Chase followed the Audi away from the BYRC.

Her mind was working its way through scenarios—Could Arthur and Michael and Maxine all been at the BYRC? Is this where Dr. Fontaine gets his victims from? Does he need them for something? Perhaps use them to gain access to the Tressfield and Holsteader homes?—when Frost called a few minutes later.

“Yeah?”

“I found the house, found Lauren Fontaine. She’s sleeping with her personal trainer.”

“Really?”

Dr. Fontaine parked at a movie theater. They both got out.

“Yeah. Not that subtle about it, either,” Frost said.

“Any sign of the kids?” It was a stupid question, but Chase was distracted. She exited her car and walked slowly toward the theater.

“No. The house is massive, though. I…” Frost trailed off.

“You what?” Chase entered the movie theater and was immediately felt a chill from the air conditioning.

“Nothing.”

“Okay, I’m following Dr. Fontaine. He picked up a kid from the BYRC and now it looks like he’s heading in to watch a movie.”

“Wait—the BYRC?”

“Yes. He—” Dr. Fontaine purchased his tickets from an automated machine and walked toward the ticket taker deeper in the theater. “I gotta go. Just stay with Lauren. I’ll call as soon as I’m out.”

Chase hung and put her phone on silent.

Dr. Fontaine handed a man in a black shirt his tickets, the latter laughing as he tore the stub.

Chase waited until they disappeared down a corridor before she approached the ticket taker. He was a large man, someone better suited to be manning the door at an overcrowded nightclub than a nearly empty movie theater.

“What movie did they just go into?” Chase tried to see where Dr. Fontaine and the kid had gone but they’d vanished into the dark.

“Who? Dr. Fontaine?”

Chase was surprised that the man knew the doctor’s name.

“Yeah. Dr. Fontaine.”

“Inside Out 2.”

“Any idea who he was with?”

The man shrugged.

“One of the kids from BYRC.”

“Does he come here often?”

The man hesitated before saying, “Who are you and what’s with all these questions about Dr. Fontaine?”

Chase’s plan had just been to show her badge, certain that the man would allow her inside, and observe the doctor and the kid. But now that the man had mentioned Dr. Fontaine by name and the BYRC, Chase wanted to see what else he knew.

“Between us?”

The big man shrugged.

“Sure.”

He was still suspicious, had every right to be.

Now, Chase showed him her badge. This had the desired effect.

“Shit, is he in trouble? Dr. Fontaine’s such a good guy.”

“No,” Chase said quickly. “He’s not in trouble.” She thought of what Frost had just told her. Should she mention the infidelity? Tell this stranger that Dr. Fontaine’s wife was fucking her personal trainer?

“Then…” the man said expectantly.

Think, Chase. Think.

“Are you—”

“I’m not supposed to say this, but we’re looking into Dr. Fontaine’s wife.”

The man’s eyes bulged.

“Lauren?”

“You know her?”

The man shifted his weight to the other foot.

“I mean, not really. I—I follow her on Insta. Followed her, anyway, until she took most of her pictures down.”

Ah, of course you did.

“So, you know what I’m talking about, then?”

He shifted again.

“Yeah.”

Chase was a bit lost even though she was the one leading the conversation. And as much as she wanted to dig a little deeper into whatever she’d scratched the surface of, Chase didn’t want to leave the doctor alone with the kid for much longer.

“Anyways, does Dr. Fontaine come here often?”

“Sure. Once a week, about. Always with a new kid from the BYRC. It’s a good thing he’s doing. Dr. Fontaine ain’t got kids of his own so he takes one from the orphanage. Spends time with them.”

A thought occurred to Chase. She scrolled through the images on her phone, skipping past the ones taken at the crime scene. Eventually, she settled on the photo of James II from his yearbook.

“Have you ever seen Dr. Fontaine with this boy?”

The man made a face.

“What does this have to do with the cheating stuff that was all over her Insta page?”

Chase tried to act like she knew what he was talking about.

“Between us? We think that one of the kids might have been behind some of the more brutal comments.”

“Kids? Writing that stuff?”

“I’m not really at liberty to say more. Have you seen this boy?”

“I don’t… think so? I mean, like I said, he’s here each week. Don’t really remember all of them.”

Chase put her phone away.

“Thank you. And this—“ she made a circular gesture with her finger, “—this is just between us, right?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Okay. Mind if I go through? See if I can catch up with him?”

“No problem. He’s watching Inside Out 2.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter 26

Lauren Fontaine emerged from the fancy private gym about an hour later. She’d gotten a work out in alright, just not with weights.

Face flushed, the few strands of baby hairs that weren’t contained by her tight ponytail were glued to her forehead.

There was a small smile on her plump lips.

Lauren skipped to her car. Got in.

Checked her makeup in the mirror again. Took another selfie.

Frost’s eyes floated back to the gym. The trainer, now shirtless, was posing in the mirror.

Grade A douche.

Lauren left the lot and Frost stayed a few car lengths back.

The woman made a stop at a grocery store—not the Farmer’s Market—and Frost waited in the car.

Frost pulled up the woman’s Instagram account. Lauren had only posted a handful of photos, including the one of her posing in front of her house, which struck Frost as odd.

Not only had she seen Lauren take a handful of selfies, but the woman also struck her as the exact type of person who got off on posting this shit.

Why do people think others care about nonsensical things like this?

This reminded Frost of Tori, who also liked to post pictures of herself at the bar, gym, just going for a walk, until the FBI released a new mandate following some scandal involving an agent in Jersey posting selfies at a crime scene banning all agents from using social media.

Fucking Tori.

If only I’d been better, faster, more violent. I could have saved her.

With nothing else to do and wanting a distraction, Frost dug deeper into Lauren’s account. The woman followed the usual nonsense, raw milk gurus, weight loss aficionados, current celebrities, and after only a few seconds of scrolling, Frost had had her fill. She was about to close her phone when she saw that Lauren had just, moments ago, liked another post.

She followed the thread.

Oh, you sneaky devil.

The photo was the one that Lauren had just taken in her car, the gym clearly visible in the background. This secondary account had hundreds of pictures, almost all of which were duck-lipped shots of herself.

Look cute, might delete later. Off to the gym! Lauren’s caption beneath the photo read.

Frost cringed.

Someone shrieked and Frost looked up.

Lauren had come out of the grocery store, a paper bag in one arm, and she was waving, mouth wide, at a carbon copy of herself: a woman in expensive workout gear, ponytail, fake tits and lips.

They chatted, laughed.

After a half embrace, asses out, Lauren returned to her car.

She drove home and took the bag of groceries inside.

FBI Special Agent Alex Frost remained out of sight and waited.

***

Chase sat at the back of the nearly empty theater, her eyes on Dr. Fontaine and the kid, who had prime seating.

While they watched the movie, she watched them.

Nothing untoward happened. In fact, Dr. Fontaine and the kid were the model child and grandfather. Laughing at all the right parts of the movie, gasping when some neon character on screen did something unexpected.

Chase kept waiting for Dr. Fontaine to do something despicable, deplorable, something of the like that Noah described in his journal.

This never happened.

Not once.

The movie finished with Chase having watched a grand total of six minutes of Inside Out 2. The BYRC kid seemed particularly enthused, so much so that he actually clapped as the end credits began to roll. When the duo got to their feet and the lights started to brighten in the theater, Chase slipped out.

The hallway continued deeper to other rooms and Chase, wanting to be behind Dr. Fontaine, went that way. She pretended to be interested in a poster for a generic-looking action film, one eye still on the theater she’d just left.

The handful of other patrons exited the theater, with Dr. Fontaine and the kid coming last.

The kid went to the bathroom while the doctor waited outside.

He smiled when the kid returned, shaking water off his hands.

Chase stood, started after them only to stop again when the ticket taker said something to Dr. Fontaine.

The man’s brow furrowed and he said something back.

Oh, fuck.

There was nowhere for Chase to hide now. If the big man in the all black outfit was outing her and Dr. Fontaine looked in her direction, her cover would be blown.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Dr. Fontaine said something, something terse, and the ticket taker appeared suddenly embarrassed. He held up a hand, shook his head. Pointed at his phone.

Dr. Fontaine spoke again, and this time Chase heard the man’s words clearly.

“What do you mean, my wife? She’s posting again?”

“I—I—I just—it’s nothing, Dr. Fontaine. Just saw that… another account…”

The kid pulled on Dr. Fontaine’s arm, wanting to get going.

The doctor muttered something under his breath and the two of them hurried toward the front doors.

“What the hell did you say?” Chase hissed.

The bouncer was startled.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What did you say about his wife?” Chase was furious—but not entirely at the bouncer.

“I just—I’m sorry. After you said that stuff about her Insta account, I went online. Found her second account… I—I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just, Dr. Fontaine is so nice and—”

Chase left the man while he was still speaking.

Dr. Fontaine’s Audi was peeling out of the lot when she made it outside.

Cursing, Chase ran to her car.

Chapter 27

Lauren Fontaine didn’t reappear once she went inside.

There was no movement from within for an hour, almost two.

Then an Audi, Dr. Fontaine’s Audi, entered through the still open gate, sped up to the BMW and slammed on the brakes. Frost had been dozing a little but she was wide awake now.

Dr. Fontaine got out of his car and waddled quickly to the front door.

He left it open behind him as he barged in. Frost’s car was angled in such a way that seeing the inside of the Fontaine mansion was impossible—all she could make out was a shiny marble floor.

Frost lowered the window and listened.

The landscaper she’d seen earlier had since moved onto a neighbor’s yard. Frost couldn’t see them, but she heard the dull whir of a lawnmower.

Not much else.

Another car came down the road, not going nearly as fast as the Audi had been.

Chase’s car.

Her partner slowed even more, then turned and parked directly behind Frost.

Frost quickly exited her vehicle and got into Chase’s.

“What the hell’s going on?” Chase asked, indicating the still open door to the Fontaine’s mansion.

“I don’t know. Dr. Fontaine just came home. He got out of his car and ran inside. Left the door open.”

“Shit. He went to the movies with a kid from the BYRC. I went in, too—spoke to the ticket guy there. Made up something stupid about his wife and when Dr. Fontaine came out he told him. Fontaine looked pissed.”

“He still looked pissed when he got here.”

“The ticket guy said something about Lauren’s old Instagram posts, something about her being bullied for cheating. I’m not really sure—“

“Shh.”

Frost held up a finger. The lawnmower had stopped now and she’d heard someone shouting.

Chase cocked her head and they both listened.

A shrill voice reached them, the words incomprehensible.

And then, as if spoken just outside the car and not across the street and down, both Frost and Chase heard Dr. Fontaine bellow, “Lauren, put the gun down!”

Chase was already of the car and starting to run. Frost was quickly on her heels as they sprinted up the long driveway to the open front door of the house.

“Just put the gun down!”

When Chase drew her weapon, Frost did as well.

“Fucking asshole!” Lauren shrieked. “I’m not going to just stand here and take this. I don’t—“

Chase burst through the doorway, barely breaking stride. She went right, Frost went left.

The latter found them first.

Lauren was standing in the far side of an expansive kitchen a small handgun clutched in one hand. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red.

“Just put the gun down, Lauren.”

Dr. Fontaine, still wearing the same outfit with the same stained tie, grasped a marble island, crouching down slightly.

“Not until you find the prenup and tear it up.”

Lauren’s hand was trembling violently. Even if she didn’t deliberately pull the trigger, there was a high probability that it would go off by accident.

Frost had to do something.

She stepped forward, raised her own weapon and aimed it at the center of Lauren’s chest.

“Lauren Fontaine, lower your gun.”

The woman let out a squeak and spun toward Frost’s voice.

The gun followed and Frost turned sideways, making herself a smaller target.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Just put the—“

“Lower the gun or I’ll shoot.”

It was Chase, appearing at the opposite end of the kitchen.

“What?” Lauren started to move her gun toward Chase.

“You fucking aim that thing at me and I will shoot.”

There was a moment of calmness during which Frost thought that Lauren was going to continue swinging the weapon around.

And she was confident that Chase would follow through on her threat.

But at the last moment, Lauren’s hands fell to her sides and she burst into tears.

“He… he hit me,” she whined.

Frost ran forward, snatched the gun and tucked it into the back of her pants.

“He hit me… he said he was going to kill me.” Lauren’s wet eyes stared pleadingly at Frost.

“What? I didn’t hit anyone!” Dr. Fontaine shot back.

“Stay where you are,” Chase ordered.

“He did…” Lauren sniffled. “He made up something about me cheating on him and then he slapped me. I—I—I had to protect myself.”

Frost was only half listening as she wrenched the woman’s arms behind her back and applied the cuffs.

“That’s bullshit—wait, it’s you? From the hospital? What are you—“

“Dr. Fontaine, put your hands behind your back.”

“But I didn’t—“

“Put your fucking hands behind your back, now,” Chase ordered.

“This is complete bullshit. I was at the movies and just got home. She’s sleeping with her trainer again. Posting that shit all over Instagram. I never hit her. I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”

“You did, you asshole! You hit me and—“

“Both of you, shut the fuck up.” Chase said this with such authority that even Lauren, who was putting on one hell of a show of being the battered, abused wife, dropped the act. “Frost, call Monty. Tell him to get over here. Tell him to bring Charles Ipsis. We’re going to search this house from top to bottom. If the kids are here, we’re going to find them.”

Part III — Dessert

Chapter 28

Chase was incensed. They’d spent three hours searching the entirety of Dr. Fontaine’s mansion. There were no hidden rooms. It had a basement, but the only thing of interest they discovered there was a wine cellar. The young CSU tech Charles Ipsis spent an hour in the basement alone, searching walls, pressing panels, trying to find secret passages.

He came up blank.

If the Fontaine’s had taken Noah and Maxine, they weren’t keeping them here.

“We need to find out if Dr. Fontaine has any other properties. A cottage or summer house, something like that.”

Monty made a face.

“What?” Chase snapped. It was late and was irritable.

“No, nothing,” Monty replied defensively. “I’ll look into it.”

“Then why the face?”

Frost intervened.

“We need to consider the possibility that Dr. Fontaine isn’t involved in this. That the kids being treated by him at the hospital is just a coincidence.”

Coincidence…

Chase bit her tongue.

Frost was right.

“I want to talk to him—the doctor and his wife.”

Monty nodded. The man was sweating again.

“No problem. They are being held in separate rooms back at my precinct.”

“Anyone spoken to them yet?”

Monty shook his head.

“No—I told them to wait for you.”

“Good. Frost, give Monty his keys back. You’re coming with me.”

***

They decided to speak with Dr. Fontaine first. They found the man in an interview room, an untouched bottle of water sitting in front of him.

The moment that Chase stepped through the door, the man stood.

“Sit down,” Chase instructed.

“Am I under arrest?” Dr. Fontaine’s face was red.

“No—“

“Then I can leave?”

“Dr. Fontaine, do you want me to tell Baltimore PD to arrest you?”

“For what? I haven’t done—“

“Domestic assault.”

“Domestic assault? I didn’t touch Lauren. Never have. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Chase indicated for Dr. Fontaine to sit.

“I might know it, but the Baltimore PD might not. And they might deem it in the best interest to keep you overnight while they investigate your wife’s claims.”

“Overnight? I have work in—“

“Or you can sit down and talk with me. Answer some of my questions. You do that, and I’ll give a recommendation to the Baltimore PD to allow you to go home.”

Dr. Fontaine frowned but he knew he was trapped. He flopped down in the chair.

Now Frost took over, as they’d planned.

“Why don’t you start by telling us what happened this afternoon?”

Dr. Fontaine, eyes cold, started slowly.

“I was at work when you guys came in. Had a few patients left to see then I went to the BYRC. Took one of the kids to see a movie.”

“What movie?”

This was a baseline question—they already knew the answer.

“Inside Out 2.”

“And then what happened?”

“When I came out, Rodney said something about my wife’s Instagram account.”

“Rodney?” Chase piped in.

Fontaine’s eyes leveled on hers.

“The ticket taker. He’s there every weekday when I take one of the orphans to see a movie.”

“And how often is that?” Frost now.

“Once a week.”

“Always the same kid or different ones?”

Dr. Fontaine wasn’t a stupid man—he knew what they were getting at. He’d also heard Chase back at his house when she’d said something about finding the kids.

“If this is about—“

“Dr. Fontaine,” Chase warned, “please just answer the questions.”

“Yes,” he said, exasperated, “always a different orphan. And before you ask, I never took either of those kids that you showed me at the hospital.”

That’s because neither of them are orphans. Maxine, however, was.

“What about Maxine Drovel?” Chase asked.

“Who?”

“A girl named Maxine Drovel. Did you ever take her.”

“No,” Dr. Fontaine said immediately.

“You seem certain.”

“That’s because I am.”

“How long have you been taking orphans to the movies?”

“Three years.”

“That’s 150 kids then, give or take.”

“Something like that.”

“And you remember all of their names?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be certain that you never took Maxine?”

Dr. Fontaine sighed.

He looked tired and worn out.

“Because I never take girls and I’m assuming that Maxine a girl.”

“And why is that?” Frost asked.

“Because Maxine is a girl’s name.”

“No—I meant, why do you never take girls?”

“Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why! I take those kids because they have nothing and I don’t have kids of my own. Just to treat them. But I don’t take girls. Some of these kids have issues, have suffered from past trauma. If one of them claims that I did something, my career is over.”

Chase kept her mouth shut.

“Okay, let’s continue—what did Rodney say to you?”

“He was being weird, said something about Lauren posting a photo again. We agreed that she wasn’t going to post anymore not after… well, she took those pictures down. But I found her second account. And that fucking gym was in the background.”

“So?” Frost asked, playing dumb.

“So,” he spat, “six months ago, her messages started getting these weird comments. Stuff about her cheating with her trainer. One day, I decided to surprise her at the gym. That’s when I found them. Together.”

If the man was embarrassed by this, it didn’t show. All Dr. Fontaine seemed to feel right now was anger.

“Okay, I get it. You saw another picture of her outside the gym. I’m guessing you were pretty pissed when you went home?”

“Yeah. Lauren said that she’d quit that gym, that she wasn’t going to go back. Apologized. Like I said, I’m not stupid. I know she isn’t with me because of my looks or my body. But we had a deal. She goes back to that gym, she sleeps around again, it’s over. And my prenup is rock solid. She gets nothing and goes back to that shitty little town she grew up in. No more Cartier watches, no more driving BMWs.”

“What happened when you confronted her?”

Dr. Fontaine shrugged.

“What do you think happened? She freaked. Grabbed a fucking gun. Then you guys arrived.”

“Whose gun is it?”

“Hers.”

“Legal?”
“Yes. She spends most of her time alone at home and was worried about a break-in. I don’t know if you’re from around here, but Baltimore can be a nasty place. But I never hit her. She only made the stuff up because she realized how bad it looked when you guys came in. Why were you at my house, anyway?”

Frost ignored the question.

“I’m going to ask you a few more things. When we visited you at the hospital, my partner asked you about a Noah Holsteader and a Michael Mann.”

“What does this have to do with my wife holding a gun on me?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Do you recall treating either of them?”

“You already asked me this. I treat dozens of kids a day. I don’t recall their names.”

“But you have access to their medical records, correct? And you said that Noah had a stomach issue?”

Dr. Fontaine’s eyes narrowed.

“I shouldn’t have said that. And yes, I have access to their medical records if they were treated in the state of Maryland. But you don’t. And you won’t. Agents, I can’t, by law, reveal any patient information no matter how much you threaten to keep me locked up here.”

Chase took over again.

“Let me ask you some hypotheticals, then?”

Dr. Fontaine scowled.

“What happens if you suspect a child is being abused by a parent?”

“We have a strict protocol for that sort of thing. If any of the doctors or staff suspect abuse, everything is documented and forwarded to the Baltimore PD and the CPS. If we have strong enough suspicions we have the authority to keep the child in protective custody. And before you ask, no, I can’t reveal any of this documentation to you without a court order.”

“Have you filed any reports recently?”

“I can’t say, Agent. But, like I already told you, if I did, a report is filed with the Baltimore PD.”

Implicit was check with the Baltimore PD.

They already had. No reports in the CPS system for the Holsteaders or Tressfields.

They were back at square one.

Chase wasn’t sure what to say next and they sat in silence for a minute. Dr. Fontaine finally reached for his water and took a sip.

“Is that it? Have I answered all of your questions? Can I go now?”

“One more thing,” Frost said. “You say that you can’t share patient details but can you share your work schedule?”

Chase frowned. She wasn’t sure where Frost was going with this.

“Sure. But you guys took my phone and it’s on there.”

“Let me just rattle off a few dates for you.”

“Agent, I work—“

Frost already had her phone out and she prattled off some dates.

“Did you work any of those days? They’re all weekdays.”

“I don’t know. Probably. If I had my phone I’d—wait, the sixteenth of last month? No, I wasn’t working then.”

“How do you know?”

“Had kidney stones removed that day. And if you’ve ever had kidney stones, you don’t forget the days they were finally removed.”

Frost shot a glance in Chase’s direction. She didn’t have the dates that Monty had put on the board handy. She assumed that it was when one of the children had been admitted—or, rather, it was the date that was listed on the insurance form—to the hospital.

“Do you remember who took your shift?”

“I asked Dr. Corrado to cover for me.”

Frost now nodded at Chase.

“Okay, Dr. Fontaine,” Chase said. “We’re going to chat with your wife and if everything checks out, you’ll be free to go.”

Chapter 29

“You hear all that?” Chase asked Monty outside the interview room.

“I did. Also, double-checked the names. No reports of any of the five families were made to the CPS or Boston PD by hospital admin.”

Monty’s expression suggested that he was thinking about what Frost had said back at the Fontaine mansion.

That Dr. Fontaine wasn’t involved in this.

Frost was of the same mind.

“Can you look into Dr. Corrado for me?”

“Yes. Just one more thing, Lauren Fontaine has a slight bruise on her forehead.”

“She didn’t have one when we first came into her house,” Chase said.

“I know. Have her on dashcam footage; she deliberately banged her head on the back of the front seat after we put her in the squad car.”

“Great,” Chase said. “Okay, give us ten with her.”

Monty nodded and took them to another interview down the hall.

They hadn’t discussed how they were going to approach Lauren, but when Chase gestured for Frost to enter the room first, she figured this was an indication that she was, once again, supposed to take the lead.

“Did you arrest him? Did you arrest my piece of shit husband?” Lauren cursed.

Like Dr. Fontaine, she started to rise, but Frost stopped her.

“Sit down.”

“Fine. But I want him charged. Look at what he did!” Lauren jabbed a finger at her forehead, which did indeed show signs of bruising. Unlike before the gym and even after at the mansion, the woman’s hair was a sweaty mess. “Look!”

“I see that,” Frost said calmly. “How did Dr. Fontaine do that you?”

“He… punched me!”

“He just walked up to you and punched you?” Frost sounded incredulous because she was.

“Yes!”

Lauren was in excellent shape and had at least three inches on the doctor.

“Right. And why would he do that?”

“I don’t know! Ask him!”

“He just randomly walked up to you and punched you? Has he done this before?”

“Y-yes. I mean, not often but he’s hit me before, sure.”

“Did you fight back?”

Lauren’s face cracked.

“No. I mean, I tried but… he gets angry. That’s why I grabbed the gun! I thought he was going to kill me!”

Lauren’s voice had reached a fever pitch while Frost remained completely calm.

“You thought he was going to kill you.”

“Yes! You don’t know him, he can be mean.”

“Like how he takes orphans out to the movies each week? That’s him being mean?”

Lauren finally realized that this wasn’t the typical interview of an abused spouse.

“Well, I mean, he can be mean.” Her lower lip trembled.

“You ever meet these kids?”

“No. Why would I?”

Frost glanced over at Chase.

“Why are you looking at each other like that? Did you arrest Fredric?”

“Lauren, you want me to tell you what I think happened?” Chase said.

“I already—“

“Your husband came home after taking an orphan to see a movie. On the way out, the ticket taker told him about your post. He was pissed. Came home, told you it was over. Said that he warned you what would happen—“

“I didn’t cheat on him!” Lauren lied—Frost had seen her sleep with her trainer.

“He said that it was over,” Chase repeated. “And he also reminded you of the ironclad prenup. You got angry, picked up the gun—“

“He—“

“—and threatened to shoot him. Then we came in and you decided to change your story. Made up this bullshit about him hitting you.”

“The bruise, I—“

“We have you on dashcam doing that to yourself,” Frost said. Lauren’s eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut.

“You’re a real piece of shit, aren’t you?” Chase said.

The brazen words and sudden change surprised even Frost.

“You can’t speak to me like that!”

“No, you are. The thing is, Lauren, when you sit here with a bruise you gave yourself and claim that your husband did this to you? You didn’t—“

“I—“

“You had your turn to talk!” Chase yelled. “Now, you sit there and listen.”

Lauren’s lips disappeared.

“As I was saying,” Chase continued, “Not only do you spoil Dr. Fontaine’s reputation, but you ruin it for every woman who was actually been beaten by their husbands. Every cop out there hears your story, about how you made this up, and what do you think goes through their head the next time they come across a woman claiming abuse? They question it, think maybe they’ve got another Lauren on their hands. Then other women are hesitant to report their crimes because the cops don’t do anything about it. Or maybe they report it, but the cop doesn’t believe them. What do you think happens when both are let go and they head back home? You think their husband are happy about being dragged to the police station, huh? No. The beatings continue. They get worse. So, yeah, you are a piece of shit, Lauren. And not only are you not getting a cent of your husband’s money, but you’re going to prison.”

“Prison?” Lauren whimpered.

Chase stood and Frost joined her in the doorway.

“Yeah, prison.”

Like following their interview with Dr. Fontaine, Monty met them outside.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Through the book at her.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”

“Okay. What about the doctor?”

Chase bit her lower lip. Frost could tell that she was finally coming around and agreeing with the both of them that Dr. Fontaine had nothing to do with their murder investigation.

“Keep him here.”

“Under what charge?”

“No charges. If he asks to go, just let him. But don’t go in there and tell him he’s free to leave.”

Monty grew visibly uncomfortable.

“Okay, I’m with you,” Chase relented. “I don’t think Dr. Fontaine killed those families and kidnapped those kids. But we might need to ask him a few more questions.”

This appeased Monty at least for the time being.

“You guys are on board?”

“Yes,” Frost said. She’d been surprised by the vehemency of Chase’s words directed at Lauren but agreed full-heartedly with what her partner had said. Lauren should be punished for her false claims. And, despite her often rash behavior and brazen attitude, she’d regained Frost’s trust.

Chase broke the rules—often—but everything she did had one design: find the killer or killers.

Fast.

That was admirable if her methods were a little unorthodox.

“Good. Monty get someone else to charge Lauren. We need to go back to your board and figure this thing out.”

Chapter 30

Dr. Corrado was clean. No priors and he hadn’t been working any of the other days that the kids had come into the hospital.

Monty had put up the new photos, including ones of Dr. Fontaine and Dr. Corrado. Lauren, too. But the only threads they had linking them to the cases was to the hospital and, in Dr. Fontaine’s case, the BYRC.

Tenuous, at best.

Monty was rehashing all the details, something that Chase personally found annoying but knew it was part of his process, while Frost appeared deep in thought.

Chase herself was doing nothing.

It had been her idea to come back to Monty’s office but it was only a placeholder. She didn’t want to be here, sitting, chatting.

She wanted to be doing something.

Chase had so desperately wanted Dr. Fontaine to be their man that she’d gotten tunnel vision, something she was trained not to do.

Her phone rang and she quickly answered.

“Linus? Please tell me you have something for me.”

“I’ve been grinding over here. Going over footage. I think I got something.”

Chase sat up. Snapped her fingers at Frost.

“What is it?”

“Well, based on what you said about multiple people being involved, and one maybe being a  kid, I went over all the footage again. Found a minivan that was outside the Farmer’s Market and near the Holsteader’s. Car belongs to a Charlotte Drovel but the plates are expired.”

“What?”

“A van—”

“What name did you say the van belongs to?”

“A, uhh, Charlotte Drovel.”

“What’s going on?” Frost demanded, coming to her side.

Chase ignored her.

“But Charlotte Drovel is dead?” she said this as a question and raised her eyes to the board. Monty pointed at the name and photo—Charlotte was Maxine’s foster mother and had overdosed on heroin along with her husband and biological son.

Her gaze flicked to Arthur Blassman’s image.

They’d thought he’d been dead, too. And he was… now. Not months ago in an electrical fire, however.

“On it,” Monty said.

“I didn’t get that far. All I know is that her tags are expired,” Linus said, clearly confused as to what was happening on the other end of the line.

“Send me the videos, Linus.”

“Okay. Any update on the doctor?”

“Yeah, it’s not him.”

Chase hung up.

Monty worked quickly.

“Found the death report for Charlotte Drovel.” Monty showed her the image of a cadaver in the morgue. A woman, pale, eyes closed, lids dark. Her lips were swollen.

“Is it her?”

Monty scrolled through the report.

“Confirmed as Charlotte Drovel via fingerprints. She’s in the system for a bunch of drug related priors.”

“Who the fuck is driving her van, then?”

Linus’ videos came through.

The first was blurry and it was nearly impossible to work out much other than the van itself. There appeared to be a woman driving, based solely on her hair, and there was someone much smaller, also female, in the passenger seat. The way the light struck the windshield caused a lens flare.

“Can Linus sharpen the image?” Frost asked, peering over her shoulder.

“If he could have, he would have,” Chase said more harshly than intended.

She moved to the next video.

This one was taken just outside the Farmer’s Market—Chase could see the grocery store’s parking lot in the background—and was of much better quality than the first.

It was the same minivan and the same two people sat in the front seat.

Chase focused on the driver, then the passenger.

Her mouth instantly went dry and she stood up.

“What?” Frost said, leaning back from her chair.

Chase ignored her, left the room. She navigated the hallways, worked back to the first interview room.

Please still be here. Please still be here.

She opened the door and Dr. Fontaine, who likely had just been making his way to the door himself, stood inches from her.

“Who is this?” Chase demanded, thrusting the phone into the man’s face. Dr. Fontaine recoiled.

“I don’t have my glasses and—“

“I saw her at the hospital. She was a helper or an aid. A nurse, maybe. I saw the girl, too.”

Confused, Dr. Fontaine leaned closer and squinted.

“That’s—“ he took a breath. “That’s Amanda.”

“Amanda?” Chase’s heart was racing now.

Dr. Fontaine fed off her intensity and started to huff.

“Amanda Beecher. She’s a nurse in the ER. And that’s her daughter, Max.”

Chapter 31

“Amanda has worked at the hospital for two years, no idea what she did before that,” Monty said. They were in Chase’s car, ripping back to the hospital. “I managed to get her address from her employment file—my men are heading to her place now.”

“Anything else?” Chase asked.

“Linus sent us both a text,” Frost said from the backseat. “Amanda was working all the dates that the kids were in the hospital. She was not working during the days when the Holsteaders and Tressfields were murdered.”

“According to Dr. Fontaine, Amanda often brought her ‘daughter’ Max to work with her. Said she was a quiet kid,” Chase remarked.

“And he didn’t recognize her?” Frost asked.

Chase weaved through the thickening traffic. It was almost eleven at night, but the roads seemed busier than usual.

“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the pattern is that Amanda is identifying these kids who are abused and ‘saving’ them, it stands to reason that Maxine Drovel was one of them. If Dr. Fontaine treated her, you’d think that he’d recognize her when Amanda brought her by and announced her as her ‘daughter’.”

“Except, the man has already said that he sees a couple dozen kids a day. He’s overworked. I don’t think he’d recognize his own family if they came in with a sore throat or a sniffle,” Chase said. “And the nurse would no that.”

“Could Maxine be Amanda’s biological daughter?” Frost asked.

“What do you mean? She’s an orphan. Her last foster family all ODd.”

“I know, but maybe they were separated and then met again at the hospital. Amanda could be Maxine’s birth mother.”

Chase hadn’t thought of that.

“See if Linus can find a birth certificate for Maxine. Also ask him to find out everything he can about Amanda Beecher.”

“Okay.”

Chase saw the hospital up ahead, pulled into the lot. Found the closest available space to the front doors, which was reserved for the Chief Resident, and parked.

“Monty, you search the lot for the minivan.”

“Will do. I’ve already put out an APB for the tag.”

“Good. Frost, you come with me.”

Having been to the hospital before, Chase knew her way to the pediatric ER. It was even busier tonight than when they’d come during the day to question Dr. Fontaine. The waiting room was packed, every single chair occupied. At least twenty people were standing, another ten in a line to be triaged.

Chase scanned their faces, looking for the girl that she’d seen Amanda speaking to the last time, for anyone who looked even remotely familiar.

“Frost, you talk to the admin, see if they know where Amanda is. I’m going to search for her.”

They separated, with Frost forcing her way to the front of the line to speak to a woman in scrubs, while Chase went through the swinging doors to the secondary waiting area.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The triage area had been packed but this area was absolutely jammed.

Fucking hell.

“Excuse me,” she grumbled, elbowing her way forward.

A woman holding a wailing baby to her chest grumbled something, while another, who was trying to comfort a kid who looked like he was having a horrible chicken pox outbreak, told her to wait her turn.

Chase ignored both of them and let her eyes drift toward the area where she’d seen Amanda and Maxine while they’d been trying to coax information out of Dr. Fontaine.

She couldn’t see—being short didn’t help.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and pushed through the crowd.

“What is your problem?”

My problem? My problem is that a nurse at Ascension is murdering families and stealing their children.

Sometimes, Chase wished she could be as naive and ignorant as regular citizens. The only thing they knew about dangerous criminals was what the media sensationalized. These were almost always retrospective, too, and painted the bad guy in a specific light, focusing on things that hinted at their guilt only after they’d been caught. Omitting the fact that even with a handful of law enforcement agencies and dozens, maybe even a hundred agents, looking for the unsub, they didn’t recognize these signs first time around.

The public were under the false pretense that they could easily spot a budding serial killer or child abductor.

Hell, even Chase had made mistakes on this case alone.

They’d wasted so much time looking into Dr. Fontaine, thinking that it had to be a doctor who had treated the kids who was behind this.

No one had mentioned the possibility of a nurse.

“Come on, get out of my way.”

Maxine wasn’t in the chair where she’d been sitting when the nurse she now knew as Amanda Beecher had patted her head.

In her place, was another kid.

A boy.

Fuck.

She couldn’t see. Chase was too short to get a good view of the entire room.

“Hey, can you stand up for a second?” she asked the kid in Maxine’s chair.

“What?” the boy’s nose was a painful red, which was only aggravated by him wiping the sleeve of his shirt across his face. A trail of snot ran from his left nostril all the way to his sleeve.

“Can you stand up? I’ll give your chair right back.”

“I was here first.”

Chase pulled out her badge.

“I’m with the FBI. I need your chair.”

When the boy, confused now, lifted a little, Chase grabbed him by the arm and helped him to his feet.

“Hey—”

Chase jumped up and now held her badge out for everyone to see.

“Listen up!” she shouted. The crowd seemed to get even louder. “Everyone, I’m with the FBI!” This got their attention. Loud conversations became quiet murmurs as most eyes flicked in her direction. “Has anyone seen nurse Amanda Beecher?”

People looked around. She saw many mouths form the word, ‘Who?’.

“Nurse Amanda Beecher,” Chase said, raising her voice again. “She’s—“

Chase saw her. Not the nurse, but the girl.

Maxine Drovel.

Their eyes met and the girl turned, her curly blond hair flicking behind her.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Hey!”

Chase jumped off the chair and this time, people got out of her way.

Maxine kept walking, oblivious to Chase coming after her. The girl ducked into one of the screening rooms and closed the door.

Chase barged through seconds later.

Maxine was standing off to one side, picking up the cap of a clear jar filled with tongue depressors.

When the door opened, she turned.

“Maxine Drovel?”

The girl cocked her head, stared at Chase curiously.

“Yes?”

“I’m Agent Chase Adams with the FBI. You’re safe now.”

Chapter 32

Frost eventually found her way to the desk, excusing herself multiple times to skip the line.

“Ma’am you need to—“ the hefty woman behind the desk that she likely hadn’t moved from in weeks started to say.

“I’m Agent Frost with the FBI.” She showed her badge. “I need to know if nurse Amanda Beecher came into work this morning.”

“Amanda? No. She’s one of the reasons we’re so swamped. Left early yesterday, claimed she was sick. Was supposed to show up today but never did. Tried calling her but she didn’t answer. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“What address do you have on file for her?”

The woman’s Muppet-sized mouth turned into a frown.

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to—“

Frost relayed the address that Linus had given her.

“Is that the one you have?”

The woman’s fat fingers moved to the keyboard. Despite the fact that this woman was a lifer, she typed painfully slowly.

One finger at a time.

Peck, peck, peck.

“Yes, that’s what I have here on file. What—“

“I’m going to need her cell phone number and everything else in that file.”

The woman pulled her hands back.

“I’m sorry but you’re going to have to go through HR for that. I’m not supposed to give out employee information.”

Frost scowled.

“Where do I find HR?”

“On the third floor.”

They were on the ground floor now.

Frost was about to head for the elevators but then stopped.

That was the old Frost. The new Frost had learned a thing of two from Chase Adams.

“That’s not going to work for me.”

“Well, I’m sorry but—“

“Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to give me Amanda’s phone number and her employee file. Everything you have on the woman.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. If you don’t, I’m going to shut down the entire ER. I’m not going to let anyone in or out, and I’m going to take every single one of your ER doctors into an interview room and spend today and tomorrow—maybe even the next day—speaking to them, asking about Amanda. What do you think HR is going to say about that? You think this place is packed now?”

The woman was shocked, then angry, then shocked again.

She was still on the fence and Frost decided to give her a little push.

Showing her badge again, “You think that the FBI would show up here for a simple malpractice suit? Ask about a nurse, no less? Trust me, that’s not what this is about.”

“I know, but—“

Another push was required, it seemed.

Frost held her badge high and turned to face the throng of people.

“Everyone,” she said loudly. “I’m with the FBI. I’m sorry to tell you that—“

“Okay, okay,” the secretary said.

Frost turned and lowered her voice.

“You going to give me what I need?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” To the crowd, Frost said, “Never mind, it was just a simple clerical error. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Rest assured, you will be seen by a doctor shortly.”

The woman started to type on the computer again. Moments later, a printer behind her came to life.

“What’s Amanda’s phone number?” Frost asked as they waited for the pages to print out.

The woman’s eyes dropped to the computer and she read it off.

“Thank you.”

The woman said nothing. A minute later, when the printer finished, she grabbed a stack of maybe fifteen sheets and passed them beneath the glass partition to Frost.

“I’ll just need to use this counter for a second.”

Frost snapped a photo of each pages, which included everything from hours worked to Amanda’s nursing certificate, and sent these to Linus. She included the woman’s phone number, as well.

Moments after pressing send, a text came in from Monty.

Searched the entire parking lot—the minivan isn’t here.

Frost frowned and fired off another message to Linus.

The woman we’re looking for is named Amanda Beecher. She’s a nurse at the hospital but I don’t think she’s here now. We need to find her. See if you can trace her cell.

Frost grabbed the stack of papers, offered the woman behind the desk a tight smile, then headed into the next room in search of Chase. 

Chapter 33

Maxine Drovel broke into tears. It was as if a switch had been flipped. Sobbing, the girl stepped forward and embraced Chase.

Chase hadn’t been expecting this and didn’t know what to do.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Maxine squeezed her even harder.

Sobbed louder.

This went on for nearly a full minute before the girl’s emotions died down.

She finally let go and backed up. There was a table covered in white paper behind her and the girl hoisted herself on top of it.

Her freckled cheeks were streaked with tears.

“I know you’re scared, Maxine, but I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

The girl sniffed and nodded.

“Do you know where Amanda is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she here in the hospital?”

“I don’t know.”
“You normally come here with her when she’s working, right?”

Another nod.

“Yes. I just sit and play on her phone.”

“How did you get here today? Did she drop you off? Is she working?”

Maxine’s head sagged.

“She… she made me do things.”

Oh, shit.

Chase pictured the Holsteader and Tressfield crime scenes. The slit throats, the table settings.

The blood splatter.

Chase’s eyes went to the girl’s danlging feet. She couldn’t see the thread pattern on Maxine’s shoes, but they looked to be about the size as those that had left the blood print in the Holsteader’s kitchen.

“I know, sweetie. It’s not your fault. I just want to find her, find Amanda. I want to—“

“She made me set the table,” Maxine whimpered.

Chase tried not to fall back into the dream like state that she’d been in at the crime scenes, tried to force these visions away.

“Maxine, do you know what happened to the families after you set the table?”

Maxine shook her head, her curly blond hair moving back and forth.

The kid sniffed.

That was good. There was a chance that Maxine hadn’t seen anything. Chase hoped to God this was the case.

“Do you know why Amanda took you to the Tressfield house?”

“She said… she said that they were mean. That they were bad people just like Charlotte and Andrew.”

“Those were your foster parents, right?”

“Hmm, hmm.”

Maxine pushed her nose upward with the palm of her hand, sniffled loudly.

“Did Amanda do something to them? To your foster parents?”

Maxine didn’t answer.

“Maxine, did your foster parents ever do anything to you? Did they hurt you?”

Still nothing. The girl seemed to be withdrawing now.

“Maxine, I know this is—“

The door behind them started to open and Chase, who had since lowered herself, craned her head.

A blond boy, maybe ten years old, was standing in the half open door.

Chase recognized him immediately: it was Noah Holsteader.

So shocked was she, that Chase actually fell on her ass.

“I think Amanda did something to my foster parents,” Maxine whispered.

“Noah!” Chase yelled, pulling herself to her feet.

“I think Amanda killed them.”

Fuck.

The door swung closed and Noah disappeared.

“Maxine, stay here,” Chase ordered. “Do not leave this room. I’ll be right back.”

“But—“

“Maxine, please. Do not move.”

Chase scurried into the hallway.

The crowd of sick kids seemed to have grown.

“Noah!” Chase yelled.

She got on her toes, searched over the top of dozens of people’s heads.

Noah was nowhere to be found.

“Noah!”

A woman nudged Chase, likely a newcomer or someone who had simply forgotten that Chase, not five minutes ago, stood on a chair and announced that she was with the FBI.

“Stop yelling, you’re upsetting my son!”

“Noah!”

“Stop—“

Chase bowled her way forward.

Where the fuck did he go?

When, after thirty seconds, Chase still couldn’t find Noah’s blond head of hair, she decided that enough was enough.

She grabbed the first person in scrubs that she could find—a nurse, but not Amanda Beecher.

“We need to shut this place down.”

“What?” The woman tried to wriggle free, but Chase squeezed the woman’s arm even tighter.

“We need to shut down the hospital.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“You’re going to hurt a lot more if you don’t shut this place down!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I’m calling security.”

“Yes,” Chase said emphatically, finally loosening her grip. “Call security, tell them that no one is to enter or leave the hospital until I say so.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m with the FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Yes, the fucking FBI. Now shut this place down!”

Someone approached from behind, and Chase, thinking that it might be an overzealous hospital security guard spun around, her hands balling into fists.

“Chase? What the hell is happening? Amanda isn’t here.”

It was Frost.

“But Maxine is. So is Noah.”

“What?”

Chase didn’t have time to explain.

“Go to that room,” Chase turned and pointed at the examination room she’d just left. The door was partway open, even though she was certain she’d closed it behind her. “Shit. Hurry, Maxine is in there.”

Frost didn’t hesitate.

“We can’t just close the hospital,” the nurse Chase had assaulted told her. “There are sick people. People who need—“

“You can’t, but I can.”

Chase pulled out her gun. Several people had been drawn to her aggressive interaction with the nurse, watching them out of the corner of their eyes. When they saw the weapon, they gasped. One even shrieked and covered their daughter’s eyes, as if that would help.

“I’m Chase Adams with the FBI!” she yelled as loudly as she could. “I want every to be quiet and stay exactly where you are!”

This didn’t work. It only incited more panic.

Chase saw two couples bracing a child in front of them, slip out the doors leading to the main triage room.

Another couple darted through the doors marked ‘Restricted Area – Authorized Personnel Only’.

Goddamn it.

“I’m looking for a lost child,” Chase shouted. “He’s nine years old with blond—“

A shrill whine, high-pitched and ear-splittingly loud cut Chase off.

And then all the lights in the hospital cut out and they were bathed in darkness.

Chapter 34

The darkness only lasted a split second before the lights came back on. The alarm persisted.

It took Chase a few seconds to realize what was happening: the fire alarm was going off.

Pandemonium broke out in the ER. Thinking that perhaps the alarm was in response to her pulling her gun, people bolted.

Sick children were knocked down, others trampled.

The nurses did their best to try to maintain control, shouting that all ambulatory non-emergency patients should leave out of the front doors in a calm, organized manner, but this only spurred additional fear.

Someone screamed—My baby! Where’s my baby!—but nobody took notice.

“Everyone calm down! It’s just the fire alarm!”

Chase didn’t see fire or smoke.

She didn’t smell it, either.

This had to be Amanda’s doing.

“Chase?”

Chase saw Frost emerging from the examination room alone.

“Where’s Maxine?” Chase demanded.

“She’s not in there. What the fuck is happening?”

“What do you mean, she’s not in there?”

“It’s empty!”

“Fuck—someone pulled the fire alarm!”

Amanda had come back for Noah and Maxine, pulled the fire alarm.

That was the only thing that made sense.

“We have to find them, Frost.”

Frost nodded and immediately started to scan the crowd.

There was a glut of people at the doors which, if the circumstances had been different, might have been comical. The double doors were wide but with so many people trying to exit at once, they’d managed to get stuck.

Good, Chase thought. At least that will slow them down.

Her phone started to ring and with her free hand, as she continued to muscle her way through the crowd, inspecting their faces as she moved, Chase answered.

“Chase? What the hell is going on in there?”

“Monty, Maxine and Noah were both here. I think Amanda came to grab them—she pulled the fire alarm. You have to make sure that no one leaves.”

“I can’t! There are too many of them!”

“Monty, stop them!”

“I’m—“

“Put the gun down!” a male voice bellowed. “Now!”

Two men had somehow managed to move against the crowd. Both were dressed in security guard uniforms. They had fanned out, standing about twelve feet apart.

Both had pistols aimed at Chase.

“I’m FBI!” she yelled, not adhering to their order. “We need to find—“

“Put the fucking gun down!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m with the FBI!” Chase was tempted to take aim. The security guards, despite the bravado in their words, looked scared. They were young and when they took this job, they probably never thought they’d pull their weapons.

And this made them dangerous.

What was she supposed to do, anyway? Shoot them?

Three guns drawn now, the crowd reached a frenzy. People ducked into examination rooms, others screamed, more still dove behind counters and hid under chairs.

“Okay! I’m putting it down!”

Chase raised her phone, heard Monty demanding to know what was happening, while at the same time lowering her gun to the floor.

“We’re FBI agents!” Frost said, finally cluing in to what was going on.

“You, too, get down!” The security guard swung the gun around and aimed at Frost.

Chase saw her partner’s hand go to the gun on her hip.

“Don’t!” Chase dropped to her knees and saw Frost do the same.

“On your stomach!”

Chase obeyed this, too.

She was fuming. Knew that her chance of finding either of the kids or Amanda Beecher was slipping away from her.

One of the guards, breathing hard, came over.

Chase turned her head to one side, pressing her cheek against the cold tile floor.

“I’m an FBI agent.”

“Shut up.”

The man kicked her gun away.

“Check my pocket,” Chase said.

“I told you to shut up.”

But despite this, he began to search her pockets. He found her badge and pulled it out.

She heard him flip it open.

“Uhhh, Craig?”

“What?”

“They really are FBI Agents.”

“I’m getting up now,” Chase said. “Don’t you fucking shoot me.”

Chase heard the man step back and she slowly pushed herself to her feet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frost doing the same.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t know.”

What, I didn’t yell loud enough?

Chase picked up her gun and holstered it. The glut of patients and their parents had managed to break through the doors. Only a few remained behind, cowering in the corners of the room.

None of them were Amanda, Noah, or Maxine.

“What the hell happened?” one of the guards asked.

He looked terrified now, moreso than when he’d thought that she was some sort of mad gunman.

“We need you to lock down the hospital. We’re looking for two kids: a blond boy, ten years old. A girl of about the same age, with curly blond hair. We think that a mousy woman, a nurse, named Amanda kidnapped them.”

“Kidnapped them?” the guard was aghast. “We got a call about someone with a gun and then the fire alarm went off.”

“And now I’m telling you to lock this place down!”

The man started to move although it was clear he had no fucking clue what he was doing.

Chase grabbed Frost.

“Search all the examination rooms.”

Without waiting for a reply, Chase went to the room that she’d spoken to Maxine in. The cap to the tongue depressor container was still off but Maxine was gone.

Chase went to the next room, and then the next.

Frost had already cleared the others and shook her head.

Chase cursed and approached the doors to the restricted area.

She stepped.

Only two of the eight surgical suites were occupied and unlike the hallway, which was still inundated by an annoying strobe and loud siren, the lights in these ones remained unchanged.

One of the patients appeared to be having his leg set, while another was hooked up to a ventilator. The doctors and nurses in these rooms continued about their business as if they hadn’t noticed the fire alarm. And maybe they hadn’t. Chase didn’t know how these sorts of things worked in hospitals but she suspected that a loud siren and blinking lights weren’t conducive to a successful surgery.

“Chase?”

“Yeah?”

Frost was indicating a fire alarm on the wall. The plastic cap had been lifted and remained that way—the red switch was down.

Chase’s eyes roamed the hallway. The restricted area ended in an emergency exit door, which had a sign on it saying that an alarm will sound if the door was opened.

Considering that there was already a siren blaring, there was no way to tell if had been used.

It was possible that Amanda had a card or something that gave her access from outside. She could have come in, pulled the fire alarm and then, in the ensuing panic, grabbed Noah and Maxine and left again with no one the wiser.

“There’s a camera,” Frost informed her.

Chase followed her finger in the upper corner of the room.

“See if you can find the feed. I’m going to look for Amanda.”

Chapter 35

The emergency exit led to the backside of the hospital and a separate lot—one Chase didn’t even know existed. She didn’t see the minivan from the images that Linus had sent her and there was no sign of any of the people she was searching for, either.

She did note that the door could be opened by a card from the other side, as she’d suspected.

Chase slowly made her way around the hospital to the front, her eyes always moving.

The fire trucks had arrived as had several Baltimore PD squad cars.

A crowd of people had gathered across the street, mostly families with their sick kids, but she also noted a group of elderly patients in wheelchairs or gripping metal dollies carrying IV bags.

A fireman jumped down from his truck and Chase followed him with his eyes. Monty called him over.

“Monty!” Chase said.

The man said something to the fireman then looked over.

“It’s not a fire—someone just pulled the alarm.”

The fireman cocked his head.

“That’s Chase Adams, FBI,” Monty offered.

If an FBI agent at the hospital surprised the fireman, it didn’t show.

“We still have to go in.”

Chase was initially annoyed by this, but then thought that perhaps it might be a blessing in disguise.

“What’s the protocol here?”

“We have to do a clean sweep even if there are no signs of fire.”

“Okay, we’re looking for three people: a nurse named Amanda Beecher, a boy with blond hair named Noah, and a girl with curly blond hair named Maxine. Can you tell your men to be on the lookout for them?”

She half-expected the man to say something along the lines of, That’s not our job, but was pleasantly surprised when he said, “Of course. You have photos?”

“Of the boy, yes,” Monty said. He held out his phone and the fireman used his to take a picture.

“What about the boy? The nurse?”

“Don’t have—“

“I have Amanda’s photo from her hospital ID.”

Chase was surprised to see Frost coming toward them a stack of papers in her hands.

“This is FBI Agent Frost,” Chase said this time.

The fireman nodded and took a picture of Amanda Beecher.

“Okay, we’ll let you know.”

He let out a sharp whistle and waved a hand at several of his men.

“I couldn’t contain them,” Monty said. “I tried, but there were just too many.”

He waved a hand toward the crowd of people standing in what Chase presumed was a designated location. It was nearly midnight now, but the hospital’s bright lights illuminated their faces.

Chase was pissed but understood. What the hell was Monty supposed to do? Order them back into a potentially burning hospital?

What was she supposed to do when the guard pulled his gun on her and told her to lie on her stomach?

Shoot them?

She roughly rubbed her forehead.

“This is fucked up. Frost, any luck on that security footage?”

“No. Got one of those dickhead guards to take me to security but they wouldn’t hand it over.”

“They were still in there? They didn’t leave with the alarm?”

Frost shook her head.

“No. They said they stay no matter what.”

“Why wouldn’t they give it over?”

“Said because it was part of HIPPA, won’t let us see anything without a court order or warrant.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“You think Amanda came back?” Monty asked.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense right now. You didn’t see her van?”

“No. It wasn’t here.”

“There’s a lot around back with a separate entrance for staff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just walked through it. She could have come in that way,” Chase said.

“We need to check logs, see if she used her card to gain access,” Monty said.

“Except, they’re not going to give us shit—HIPPA again. I’m sick and tired of all this red tape. If—”

“Hold on.” Monty answered his phone. “Yeah—great. Okay. For the entire home? Awesome, thanks.” He hung up.

“Who was that?” Chase asked.

“The DA. Warrant just came through for Amanda’s home.”

“Ok, let’s go. We’re taking my car.”

“You don’t want me to hang around here? Make sure Amanda doesn’t turn up?” Frost asked.

Chase’s eyes drifted back to the crowd of patients.

“No, she’s long gone.”

On the way to her car, Chase asked Monty, “Think you can ask the judge to extend the warrant to the hospital? Amanda’s place of work? We need that footage.”

“I can try?” Monty sounded doubtful.

“Might be easier if we go through Quantico,” Frost suggested. She got into the front seat, Monty in the back. “Stitts might be able to get a warrant sooner. Especially if we only want security footage and access information not patient files.”

“Okay, ask Linus to try to push it through.”

Chase pulled out of the lot.

“Monty, how many people are out looking for Amanda?”

“The BOLO and APB went out to every officer in Baltimore. If she pops up, someone will recognize her.”

“Good. But we have to assume that she knows we’re looking for her now.”

They’d spoken about how they’d tipped Dr. Fontaine off by visiting him at the hospital and showing him the pictures of the dead kids, but they hadn’t thought about someone else, like a nurse, also being present. And Amanda had been there, she’d seen Chase. Had she overheard?

Probably.

But then she’d… come back? Why? Why risk coming back today? Did she not put the pieces together until Chase and Frost had shown up and asked for her by name?

“Frost, was Amanda working today?”

“She was scheduled to work but didn’t show up. Left early yesterday, too; claimed she was sick.”

Why did she come back? Chase wondered again.

“Monty, can you push the BOLO and APB statewide?”

“On it.”

“Frost, make that call to Linus.”

Chapter 36

“Hey, Linus. I need—”

“Oh, hi, Alex. How are you?”

“Fine. I need your help with something.”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I need a warrant.”

“For?”

“Amanda Beecher’s place of work—Ascension St. Agnes Hospital here in Baltimore. Only need security footage from the pediatric ward and information about the use of her access card in the hospital.”

Linus cleared his throat.

“That’s going to be difficult.”

“I know, but we don’t want hospital records, we just want security—“

“It’s not that—the problem is that Amanda Beecher doesn’t exist.”

Frost’s neck shot forward.

“What do you mean?”

“I looked into that nursing certificate from the University of Maryland you sent me. Nobody by the name of Amanda Beecher graduated in the last thirty years.”

Frost was amazed at how quickly the man worked. She’d sent the photos, what, fifteen minutes ago? If that?

“Hold on.” Frost pressed the phone to her chest. “Amanda Beecher’s not her name.”

Frost relayed what Linus had said to Monty and Chase.

“Did she change her name?” Chase asked.

Frost posed the question to Linus.

“Not officially. But I found a nursing certificate for an Amanda Baum—the dates line up. Looked up a yearbook photo—it’s the same person as in the hospital ID.”

“Did you find out anything else about Amanda Baum?”

“Not yet but I can keep looking. You want me to do that or work on the warrant?”

“One sec.”

Frost asked the question to Chase.

“Warrant.”

“I heard—on it. I’ll talk to Stitts, see if he can push this through ASAP.”

“Thanks.”

Chase turned a corner and slowed. They were in a seedy part of town, more like Connor Byrd’s neighborhood than the Holsteaders and Tressfields.

“I’ll amend the APB to Amanda Beecher and Amanda Baum,” Monty said.

Chase slowed as they reached the house and then parked behind an unmarked police vehicle. They waited for Monty to finish his call before all three of them got out.

Monty did the talking to the undercover officers stationed in the other vehicle.

“Daniels, Pyrzynski, these are FBI Agents Frost and Adams. What’ve we got?”

“Not much,” the cop with the thick mustache said. “No movement from inside. Pyrzynski went to the door but there was no answer.”

Frost looked to the house.

It wasn’t quite as bad as the Byrd house, but it was neglected. There was a large front window with blinds, which were closed, but some of slats were broken and missing.

“Warrant came through. There might be kids inside so we need to be careful.”

“Got it.”

Having learned their lesson from what happened at Connor Byrd’s, Chase told Monty that she and Frost would go around back while they went in through the front.

There was no fence this time, just a worn patch of lawn.

Not furniture in the backyard, either.

Frost drew her gun as Chase approached the door. It was worn, pitted, and the door handle looked weak.

As one of the officer shouted out front—Baltimore PD, we have a warrant—Chase inspected the frame. Ran her fingers along the warped wood.

“Last chance, open the door or we’re coming in!”

“Good enough for me,” Chase muttered. “Frost, watch my back.”

Chase tried the handle first, found it locked, then rammed her shoulder against the wood. Something cracked in the frame, but the door held. Chase leaned back and kicked the door.

This time, the frame splintered. Another push, and it opened.

Chase moved out of the way and Frost entered the home first.

It was dark inside, smelled stale.

“FBI! Search warrant!”

The front door slammed open and Frost saw the two Baltimore cops enter with Monty close behind.

She signaled at them, indicated that she would search the back while they searched the front.

The kitchen wasn’t filthy, but it wasn’t exactly clean, either. There were fast food containers on the counter and empty glasses in the sink. Four wooden chairs sat around a round table. Unlike the crime scenes they’d visited, this table was not pristinely set.

“All clear in front!” One of the cops yelled.

Chase opened the nearest door, a bathroom, and Frost flinched a little, remembering the mess they’d found in Connor Byrd’s tub.

But it was empty. Frost opened the door beside the bathroom next.

It as a bedroom. Plain, with three mattresses on the floor. Two of them had blue sheets, one pink.

The one with the pink sheet had a stuffed animal, a Dalmatian, resting on the pillow. A plastic Marvel toy lay on one of the mattress with the blue sheets.

“Chase? I think I found something.”

“What is it?”

Chase came up from behind.

“Shit—she was keeping them here, the kids.”

“Yeah,” Frost said dryly.

“What’ve you got?” Officer Pryzynski asked. He looked for himself. “Oh.”

Chase exhaled, backed out of the room.

“There’s no one here. Fuck. There’s no one here.”

While Chase started speaking with Monty, Frost decided to enter the bedroom. She moved slowly, looked around. It was a sad empty room. Nothing like the bedroom that Patty and Noah lived in. No posters on the walls, no books, nothing. Just the mattresses and those two toys.

Without thinking about, Frost knelt next to one of the mattresses and picked up the plastic Marvel toy. She held it in her hand, her thoughts turning to Noah.

And Never.

Do you hold this while you fall asleep at night? Do you—

“What are you doin’?”

Frost’s eyes snapped open. Officer Pyrzynski was standing in the doorway, his lips pulled downward into a frown.

Frost felt her face redden.

“Nothing.”

She quickly put the toy back down and stood up.

“Pyrzynski?” Monty said from outside the room.

The man gave Frost one more curious look before leaving.

Alone again, Frost herself to concentrate.

She lifted the blue sheet, peered beneath. There was a large stain on the mattress.

Pee, most likely.

Poor Noah, so scared—no, stop it. Focus.

It took seconds to clear the room, there just wasn’t anything in it.

Satisfied, Frost inspected the door knob. It was a simple, classic, plastic painted gold. It didn’t have lock.

Nor was there a slide bolt lock on either side.

“Frost?”

It was Chase.

“Yeah?” Frost’s voice sounded weak, even to herself.

She took one final look back at Noah’s bed then met the others in the kitchen.

“I’m going to call Charles Ipsis in,” Monty said. “See if he can pull prints or find anything of value.”

The look on Chase’s face said it all: Charles was good, but he couldn’t find something that simply wasn’t here. He’d managed to isolate prints on the tape used at both the Holsteaders and the Tressfields but they didn’t match any sets in federal or state databases.

“Pyrzynski and Daniels,” Monty continued, “I want you to hang around here. Stay out of sight. I don’t think that Amanda is going to come back, but just in case, I want you to be ready.”

Neither cop seemed pleased by this, but they seemed to respect Monty enough not to complain.

“When Charles gets here—“ Monty’s radio suddenly exploded. The sound was so loud and unexpected that Frost nearly cried out.

“We’ve got a hit! Monty, we’ve found the car with the tag from the APB.”

Frost tensed.

“Where?”

“We’re, uhh, about six miles from the hospital. Heading east on Wilkens Boulevard. Do you want us to engage?”

“No, just follow. Keep the radio open, we’re coming to you.”

Chapter 37

“They’ve stopped for gas.”

“Where?”

“The car went north. Edmondson Crown, corner of Edmondson and Harlem.”

“Okay,” Monty said. Because he knew the area better than either Chase or Frost, he’d taken the wheel. “Are they getting out? How many in the car?”

“One, that I can see.”

Monty sped up.

“Female. She’s… she’s getting out now.”

“Okay, stay with her. I’m a minute out.”

Chase drew her gun in the passenger seat. Instructed Frost to do the same.

“That’s the station. See the squad car?”

Chase saw it. Didn’t see a van, though.

“Where’s the minivan?”

“I don’t know,” Monty said.

“She’s done pumping,” the cop on the radio said. “Getting back in.”

“Where? We’re pulling up now, east entrance.”

“I’m right behind her!”

“Where?” Monty was shouting now. “Fuck it—put on your lights.”

The cop cars lights flicked on and Monty jumped the curb, stopping perpendicular to a hatchback.

“It’s not a fucking minivan,” Chase said. But even as she spoke, she got out.

The cops in the squad car followed her lead.

“Get out of the car!” Chase yelled. She aimed her gun at the driver’s side window. “Get out of the car with your hands up.”

The door opened.

“Oh my God, what’s happening!” A woman screeched.

“Put your fucking hands in the air!”

“Please, don’t shoot! I don’t know what’s happening!”

Pale hands shot into the air.

“Please…”

A woman exited the car and one of the cops rushed forward.

He pushed her to the ground and she screeched.

While he pinned her down, Chase ran forward. She wrenched open the hatchbacks passenger door, looked into the back.

The car was empty.

“It’s not her,” she heard Frost say. “It’s not Amanda.”

Chase went back to the other side of the car, saw the woman’s face. Half of it, anyway—she was still being pinned down by the cop.

Frost was right, it wasn’t her.

“Where’s Amanda?” Chase demanded.

“Wh-who? I don’t know any Amanda. Please.”

“Let her up,” Monty said.

“Sir?”

“Let her up.”

The cop took his knee out of the woman’s spine and helped her to her feet.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s not a fucking minivan,” Chase cursed, working her way to the back of the car. She eyed the tag.

It was same tag as in the footage that Linus had sent her. But it was the wrong car.

“I dunno,” the aggressive cop was saying. “I didn’t hear nothin’ about no minivan. Just the tag—it’s the same fucking tag.”

“What’s your name?” Monty asked the woman.

“Ava—m-my name’s Ava. I don’t understand—“

“Ava, do you work at the hospital?” Chase said, coming back around.

“H-hospital?”

“I need you to focus. Listen to what I’m asking you.” Chase felt bad yelling at the terrified woman, but they didn’t have time to spare feelings. “Do you work at the hospital? At Ascension St. Agnes?”

“N-no. I’m a teacher. B-but I was there. My son was sick and—“

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What’s your tag number?”

“7AB9—I—I don’t know the rest.”

“Amanda switched the plates.” Chase cursed again and holstered her weapon.

“We need to get your tag number, Ava.”

“7AB9… I…” The woman started to cry.

“Check her glovebox,” Monty told the other cop, the one who hadn’t decided to strong arm a defenseless woman. “Get the tag number and add it to the APB.”

“If Amanda switched the plates ones, then she’s already done it again. She knew we were on to her. She probably swapped them three or four times already,” Chase said, dejected.

“Do it anyway,” Monty told the cop. Then he turned to the woman and started to apologize.

Chase, seething now, walked to the back of the car again and stared at the plate.

“It’s not a fucking minivan,” she said between clenched teeth. “Not a fucking minivan.” Then she looked skyward and yelled.

“Fuck!”

“Hey,” aggressive cop said, “you wanna to take it easy?”

Chase glowered at the man.

“You want to do your fucking job? This isn’t a minivan. The APB was for a fucking minivan you tool!”

The man stepped forward and Monty immediately got in front of him.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” the cop warned.

“Stand down, officer,” Monty said.

“I’ll talk to you any fucking way I want,” Chase said.

It looked like the cop wanted to say something else, but Monty dissuaded him.

He threw up his hand and walked back to his car, muttering under his breath.

“We should go,” Frost suggested.

Go where? This was our only fucking lead.

Chase bit her tongue.

Frost was right, they needed to get the hell out of here before she did something stupid.

Chapter 38

They found themselves back in Monty’s office, staring at the board again. Monty had brewed a pot of coffee and they all drank greedily.

The board had some new additions, including Amanda Baum’s yearbook photo from her nursing graduation class.

There was no question in any of their minds that Amanda Baum and Amanda Beecher were the same person.

She was a mousy woman, with stringy, dark hair and oversized ears. On the thin side.

“Again,” Chase said. “Go over it again.”

Frost was exhausted—physically and emotionally. It was just past midnight, but it felt much later.

“Amanda Baum gets her nursing degree just under three years ago and applies for a job at Ascension, only she decides to use a pseudonym, Amanda Beecher,” Frost began. This was her third runthrough and she had no idea what Chase expected to uncover this time around. Any of the times, really. “Then—”

“How does she do that?” Monty said unexpectedly. He’d barely spoken since Chase’s blow up at the gas station.

“What do you mean?” Chase asked.

“Well, we’ve all seen the nursing certificate in Amanda’s file from the hospital. It says Beecher, so she must have doctored it. Wouldn’t the hospital look into her credentials?”

“They’re understaffed,” Frost offered. “Probably meant to check up on her but either forgot or just looked the other way.”

“They’re all about the rules,” Chase added sourly, “won’t give out any information to us but don’t even bother looking into their damn employees to see if they have legitimate nursing degrees.”

Frost stared at her for a moment, but when there was nothing else more forthcoming, she continued.

“Then, one day, Maxine Drovel comes into the hospital and is seen by Dr. Fontaine and nurse Baum—“

“We think,” Monty corrected. Without the hospital records to back up their points, they were working on a number of assumptions. Some fairly large ones.

“Sure, we think Maxine is seen by them,” Frost corrected. She was annoyed that Monty was only now just deciding to speak up. “According to the dates that Linus pulled from the insurance forms, she’s the first of the people on this board. Amanda notices signs of child abuse on little Maxine and probably lets Dr. Fontaine know of her suspicions. He either disagrees or decides that they don’t have enough evidence to do anything about it.”

Frost paused here.

They knew nothing of Maxine Drovel, other than the fact that she was supposed to have been sent to BYRC after her foster parents and older step-brother died. But she never made it there. Without the paperwork, they had no idea where she’d been before that.

“Either way, she doesn’t ever make it to the BYRC. Based on these dates,” Frost pointed at cards on the board, “Maxine is seen at the hospital about a week before her family ODs. We’re assuming that Amanda treated Maxine so it follows that she somehow intercepts the girl before she makes it back to the orphanage. Does an, uhh, informal adoption.”

“You think that the Drovels is where this all starts?” Monty asked. “Think that maybe the hot dose that Charlotte, Andrew, and Nick receive is somehow Amanda’s doing?”

Frost had considered this.

The problem was, the police report on the Drovel’s deaths was slim. They were known addicts who died from an overdose of their drug of choice. No one suspected foul play.

“Maybe,” Chase said.

Now, at least, Frost thought she understood why Chase had insisted on her doing this whole charade again. The caffeine had caused them to perk up a little.

She continued, “Two months later, Arthur Blassman comes into the picture. Also abused.”

“We’re assuming he was abused,” Monty interupted.

“Fuck, alright assuming. I’m not going to do this if I have to say allegedly or assuming every second word,” Frost snapped.

Monty sighed.

“Sorry, I’m tired.”

“We all are,” Chase said. “Just keep going.”

“Okay, we assume that Arthur is abused. A week later, a mysterious electrical fire happens while the father is passed out drunk in his home. Both Arthur and his father are presumed dead, but only the father’s body is found. But Arthur isn’t dead. Amanda takes him into her growing little family.

“Next, Michael Mann. Parents die of a murder suicide and the kid is never found. Just vanishes. Somehow, he also ends up under Amanda’s charge. Then, the Tressfields come into the picture. This time, there’s no fire, no overdose, no murder suicide. Amanda kills the entire family… except she takes James II, sits Michael Mann at the table in his place. Two days later, the Holsteaders.” Aside from the interruptions, to this point in her retelling of events, Frost managed to keep a straight face and a steady hand. This thin veneer cracked when she came to Noah’s photo.

Little Noah.

“Frost?” Chase probed.

Frost cleared her throat.

“Same thing with the Holsteaders,” she said quickly. “Leaves Arthur, takes Noah.”

Frost exhaled loudly, averted her eyes from the board.

Neither Monty nor Chase spoke for a good minute.

“If the first deaths weren’t an accident,” Chase said at last, “then this can all be viewed as a progression, escalation. Amanda is upset at the abuse that the kids are enduring and nobody is doing anything about it. She decides to take out the family members who are responsible, makes it look like an accident. When this no longer satiates her need, she decides to up the stakes. Stages the scene. Her work becomes more brutal and leaves no questions behind about what happened to the family.”

Monty was nodding.

“I agree. These are some sort of bastardized revenge killings.” Allegedly, Frost thought sourly. “But why kill the kids? Dr. Cobb told us that Nina was also abused, but Amanda killed her and took James II instead.”

“I don’t know,” Chase admitted.

“And she takes Arthur, only to kill him later and leave him dead at the Holsteaders. Same with Michael at the Tressfields,” Monty added.

“I don’t know that either.”

“Well, there’s a practical element at play here. Amanda worked long hours at the hospital,” Frost began, “she can’t just collect a dozen kids. Maybe three is her limit.”

“But according to you timeline, Maxine was taken first. Wouldn’t she be the logical one to leave at the Tressfields?” Monty asked.

Nobody answered this query.

There was something special about Maxine—was it because she was the first? As far as they knew, Maxine was the only one that Amanda brought to the hospital with her.

Or it could just be that Arthur was fourteen and Michael was twelve, slightly older than her.

Or it could be that they were boys.

Frost didn’t know.

“Chase, what did Maxine say to you at the hospital?” Frost asked.

Chase shrugged.

“She was terrified. Said that Amanda made her do things—told her to set the table. She said she’d didn’t know what happened to the families.”

Something was off about this, but Frost was too tired to pinpoint the inconsistency. Pushed it to the back of her mind completely when Chase added, “Amanda told her that the family deserved it—whatever it was to her—just like her foster parents. That sound like grooming to you?”

“Maybe.”

“Did she say anything else?” Monty said.

Chase shrugged.

“No—Noah started to come into the room and I went after him. That’s when the fire alarm went off and Maxine was gone.”

What Chase said sounded reasonable to Frost. It also sounded negligent. If Chase hadn’t left that room, they would have Maxine in their care. She’d be safe.

Then Frost thought about what she would have done if she’d seen Noah. Little Noah who had endured such disgusting acts at the hands of his mother.

No, Frost concluded. It wasn’t negligent. I would have done the exact same thing.

“Okay, okay.” Monty tapped his chin as his eyes roamed the board. “Do you guys have any idea how many patients Dr. Fontaine sees a day?”

“He said twenty-ish.”

“So, we can assume that Amanda, as a nurse saw about the same number?”

Frost shrugged, not sure where the big man was going with this.

“I suppose. Maybe more.”

“Either way, they’re all kids with injuries that sent them to the ER.”

“A lot of them just had colds,” Chase said.

Frost recalled all the sniffling and coughing in the triage area.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“But some had injuries consistent with abuse, right? Broken arms? Burnt hands, I dunno.”

“Yeah,” Frost said again.

“And I think we can all agree that Dr. Fontaine is clean? That he had nothing to do with this?”

Chase squirmed but Frost interpreted this as a defense mechanism. Her partner been all in with the idea that Dr. Fontaine was the one behind the murders and they’d wasted valuable time seeking him out.

That ship had sailed.

“By all accounts, he isn’t just clean, but he cares about kids. Takes orphans to the damn movies,” Frost said.

“Right, that’s what I’m thinking, too. So how does he not report these cases of abuse?”

“Too busy or doesn’t see the signs,” Frost said. They’d already been over this.

“But Amanda did? How?”

Chase replied instantly.

“Because she was abused.”

Frost and Monty both looked at her.

“Amanda knew the signs better than the doctor because she’d been abused as a child. And that’s why she wants revenge. It’s not just about the kids, it’s about her past, too.”

More silence. This time the dead air stretched on for longer than a minute.

Eventually, Monty said, “One more thing is bugging me.”

Just one?

Frost raised an eyebrow.

“Look, I don’t know much about escalation or child abuse, but I’m thinking that more than just the Tressfields and Holsteaders were guilty of abusing their child and brought them to Ascension for treatment.”

“Nationwide stats have the abuse of a child by a parent at just over half a percent in any given year,” Chase said.

Frost was surprised that she knew this detail, but then reminded herself that the CVU was Chase’s life work.

“Okay. Well, I was never good at math, but Amanda worked at the hospital for nearly three years, right? She must have seen plenty of kids that she suspected were abused.”

“What are you getting at?” Chase asked.

“Well,” Monty had grown self-conscious and he hiked up his pants, “why did she select these families to target?”

“Could be the nature of the abuse,” Frost said. “A trigger for her.”

“Except Noah was sexually assaulted while Nina, and probably James, were beaten,” Chase said.

Frost scratched her head.

Something occurred to her.

“Maybe the type of family matters. The Holsteaders and Tressfields were both nuclear families with one boy and one girl.”

“Except Arthur’s mother was already dead and he had no siblings, Maxine was adopted into a family with an older brother, and Michael had no siblings, either,” Chase said, pointing at the board with the mention of each name.

“Yeah, but they weren’t staged,” Frost countered.

“Okay, let’s go with that,” Monty said. “How does Amanda know about the makeup of the family? We’re assuming that these are abusive parents, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t get the impression that the entire family would come to the hospital, especially with one parent being the abuser.”

“In these cases, kids are only brought to the hospital as a last resort. The parents also coach them in what to say—broken arm? Tell the doctor you fell down the stairs. Say anything different, and you’ll be sorry, that sort of thing,” Chase offered.

“Right, that’s what I was thinking, too. And you wouldn’t bring the other kid along for the ride—too risky that they might slip up.”

“You think maybe she did research? Followed the family after her shift ended?” Frost asked.

“Seems like a lot of work, especially when you’re working long hours and have three kidnapped kids at your house,” Monty said.

“It has to be more simple than that. There has to be—” Frost’s phone started to ring, cutting her off mid sentence. It was Linus.

She answered.

“Hey, did you manage to get the warrant?”

“Stitts put the request through, but we’re still waiting on the judge to get back to us. But I’ve got something else for you, something better. Frost, you might want to sit down for this.”

Chapter 39

“Linus, I’ve got you on speaker, go ahead.”

“I found Amanda Baum’s father.”

Chase straightened and leaned closer to Frost’s phone. Anything they could learn about the first victim in this case might shed light on the case.

“Where?”

“Maryland State Prison,” Linus said, a tinge of pride in his voice.

“What?” Chase gasped.

“Yep, Kennedy Baum was serving a twelve-year sentence for First Degree Felony Assault.”

“On his daughter?” Frost blurted.

“No—his wife.”

Chase waited for Linus to continue but in typical Linus style, the man stayed mum.

“Linus,” she said, annoyed, “Tell us what happened.”

“I’m going to send you the police report and all the photos. According to Baltimore PD, the three of them, Kennedy, Amanda, and her mother Betty, were sitting down to have dinner when Kennedy decided to use Betty’s face as a punching bag. Broke her orbital bone and nose. She also suffered a detached retina.”

“Jesus,” Monty said.

“Yep, pretty brutal. The photos are nasty, too.”

“When did this happen?” Chase asked.

“’06.”

“So, he should be out soon, or maybe he’s already out,” she said.

“Well, not quite. Remember how I said that Kennedy was serving twelve years?”

“He’s dead?” Chase said. She couldn’t stand how Linus refused to just give them the information they needed.

“No, he’s alive. Alive and well.”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” Chase was way too tired for Linus’ games.

“Just under a year ago, Kennedy got angry again. This time, he beat a fellow prisoner nearly to death. Got fifteen years tacked onto his sentence.”

Chase closed her eyes as she processed all of this new information.

Could this be the inciting incident that had set Amanda on this path? Her abusive father about to be let of prison?

No, that didn’t make sense.

If—and it was a big if—Amanda Baum had been a law abiding citizen up until about a year ago, she would have felt safe with her father behind bars. Him getting out might be potential trigger but him getting fifteen more years… wouldn’t that make her happy?

“What about her mother?” Frost asked. “Where is she now?”

“Long dead,” Linus said flatly. “Accidental overdose on prescription pain pills. A bottle was found next to her hand—the opioids were prescribed to her after the beating Kennedy laid upon her.”

Chase flinched.

“Okay, send us the photos. When the warrant comes in, look at the hospital footage, see if you can locate Amanda in the hospital when the fire alarm went off.

Linus chuckled at this.

“Will do, boss. Talk soon.”

Father beats mother, goes to prison. Mother is prescribed pills to help with the pain, accidentally overdoses. Father is almost out of prison when he beats another inmate nearly to death. This sets Amanda off and she starts her killing spree, first staging accidental deaths and taking the abused kids, then when that doesn’t scratch her itch, she decides to make things more obvious.

The narrative didn’t make sense.

“Chase? I think you should see this.”

Chase finally opened her eyes and shook her head to clear her jumbled thoughts.

Frost came over, phone in hand.

The first image was brutal. Betty Baum’s face was a mess, her eye barely in the socket, the left side of her face sunken. The next was of Kennedy, who looked furious in the mugshot. Then his hands, which were covered in tattoos, the knuckles red and raw.

The fourth photo was the most benign, but it struck Chase harder than the others combined.

According to the caption, the kitchen was where the incident had taken place.

The scene was familiar to Chase.

It showed a perfectly set kitchen table with a flower centerpiece. There were multiple forks and knifes, fancy plates set on a chargers.

“Monty,” Chase said, an odd tone to her voice. “You know anybody at Maryland State Prison? We have to get in to see Kennedy Baum.”

***

Only Monty slept that night, and even then, it had been just curling up on the couch for an hour or two.

Frost and Chase continued to discuss the case and down coffee after coffee. Their interest was mainly on Kennedy Baum now, and the time the man spent in prison.

Hugo Antrum, too.

At around seven, the call came in.

At eleven, when visitor hours opened, they were admitted into the Maryland State Prison.

“We don’t normally do this on such short notice, but Monty is a good guy,” the Maryland State Prison guard told Chase and Frost as they walked down the echoing hallway.

The building was ancient, all stone walls and lacquered concrete floors.

“Thank you,” Frost said.

“What do you want with Kennedy, anyway? Monty didn’t say much on the phone.” The guard unlocked a metal door with a key from a ring on his belt.

“We are looking at cold cases, think he might have some information about a stabbing that happened over a decade ago,” Chase lied.

“Ah, not surprised. He’s a fucking piece of work.”

“What happened between him and the other prisoner?” Chase asked. She’d read the file but she knew that sometimes what happened in prison when the cell doors were locked and the lights clicked off was mysteriously omitted from the police reports.

“Kennedy walked up to a prisoner during lunch hour, hit him on the head with his tray. Nearly knocked the man out. Then continued to beat him. It took six guards to finally pull Kennedy off the guy.”

“They have a history?”

The guard stopped for a moment.

“No. We looked at security footage but couldn’t find more than a handful of quick, and non-violent, interactions between the two of them.”

“The report said that he just snapped.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I’m no expert here, but a man who has been behind bars for over a decade and is set to be released doesn’t just throw away his freedom for no reason. Unless he can’t stand the idea of living on the outside.”

Chase knew that adjusting to the strict protocols and schedules of prison life was difficult to most. But spend enough time behind bars and you get used to it. Spend a lot of time behind bars and the idea of not having a schedule could be overwhelming.

Also, in prison there was a defined hierarchy. On the outside, not so much. There was also responsibilities, jobs, housing, families to worry about. Debts needing to be repaid to the State.

This inability to cope with freedom, impending or realized, led to more recidivism than law makers cared to admit and most civilians were completely ignorant of.

“Naw, Kennedy wanted to get out.”

The guard stopped in front of an interview room door.

“Then why?”

The man looked at Chase, then Frost.

“Off the record? I’m not looking to make waves about a prison beating,” Chase said.

The guard frowned.

“Off the record? Kennedy is a violent man. But the man he beat? That guy was a real piece of work.”

“How so?”

Chase had seen the images of inmate 998107, Hugo Antrup, post-beating. Betty Baum’s face had been bad, Hugo’s was unrecognizable.

“Let’s just say that he went to the hole pretty much every other week.”

“Violent?”

“In a way.”

It was clear that the guard had said all that he would on the matter but that was fine.

Chase understood, read between the lines.

“You’ve got half an hour.”

He unlocked the door and Chase and Frost came face-to-face with Kennedy Baum.

Chapter 40

“Who the fuck are you guys?” Kennedy said with a snarl.

In a lot of ways, Kennedy reminded Chase of Connor Byrd. Shaved head, dark eyes. Kennedy had more tattoos than Connor—both of his arms and hands were inked up—but there didn’t appear to be linked to a neo-Nazi group.

“FBI Agents Frost and Adams,” Chase said.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Just to ask you a few questions.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about Hugo. That piece of shit got what he deserved.”

“Why did he deserve the beating?”

“I ain’t talkin’ about Hugo,” Kennedy repeated.

The man’s dark eyes narrowed and Chase saw his hands, which were bound together at the wrists and attached to the table, ball into his fists.

“Okay, what about Betty Baum, your wife? What can you tell me about her?”

“She’s dead.”

“I know she’s dead. I want to know about her before she died. I want to know what pissed you off so bad that you decided to cave her face in.”

Kennedy’s look remained hard then it unexpectedly softened and he smiled.

“Y’all are wasting your time here. I ain’t got nothin’ to say about Hugo or Betty.”

“Mr. Baum, we came a long way to see you today. Pulled some strings to get in quick.”

“Then you’ll have a long way back home, too.”

“The guard gave us half an hour.”

Kennedy shrugged.

“I can sit here for half an hour.”

“So can I.” To prove her point, Chase, who had been standing, took a seat. “But if we are going to sit here, I might as well talk. Tell you what I think really happened with Betty and Hugo. Feel free to chime in at anytime. That okay by you, Mr. Baum?”

The man kept his mouth shut.

“Okay. Well, why don’t I start with the evening you beat your wife. I think you came home from a long day at work on the construction site and were tired. Your wife and daughter were going to surprise you with a fancy dinner. Amanda set the table, Betty cooked.”

Kennedy had a slight reaction to the mention of his daughter’s name. A minor twitch.

“But something went wrong. Maybe Amanda put a fork or knife in the wrong spot. Maybe used the wrong plates. And this pissed Betty off. What did she do, Kennedy? Did she yell at Amanda?”

No reaction. Chase had missed the mark with this one. She was close, though, she could sense it.

“No, I don’t think so. Betty didn’t yell at her daughter, did she? She hit her, right? Slapped Amanda?”

Another twitch. Despite Kennedy staying true to his word and not speaking, his subtle facial expressions and micromovements spoke volumes.

“Yeah, she slapped her. Hard. Obviously, that’s not right. But no normal husband would beat their wife for that. Yell at her, maybe, tell her never to do that again. Maybe grab her wrist, make sure she knows you’re serious.”

Kennedy’s jaw worked.

Chase knew she was on the right track. She was seeing the scene play out before her, which was startling. Not because she wasn’t used to such a thing—hell, she’d experienced it when touching Frank Holsteader and James Tressfield—but because her voodoo usually only applied when she touched a corpse. Sure, it had happened when coming into contact with a living person, but that was rare.

But she hadn’t touched Kennedy at all.

Either way, now was not the time to start analyzing herself. Chase also knew to trust these visions, irrespective of origin.

She continued, this time with more gusto.

“A normal man wouldn’t do that but you’re not a normal man, are you, Kennedy? No, you’re not. Because you were abused by your mother, right?”

“Fuck you.”

Bingo.

“Classic cycle of abuse, right?” Chase continued. “You snapped because you were reminded of what your mother did to you as a kid and, even though Amanda was older, you couldn’t stand the idea of her going through that.”

“You don’t know shit.”
“Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.” Chase waited. “No? Okay. So, after you beat your wife, she gets on pain pills. And without you in the picture anymore, things escalate between her and your daughter. The abuse escalates. Amanda—“

“Stop talking about Amanda. Stop—“

“You had your chance, Mr. Baum and you didn’t want to talk. So, you’re just going to sit there and listen. The abuse continued and, one day, Amanda can’t take it anymore. She grinds a few pills, slips them into her mother’s drink. Or maybe she just forces mom to take them. I saw photos of Betty, she was an addict, wasting away.”

“Amanda didn’t do shit. She’s a good kid.”

Chase pictured the Holsteaders and Tressfields around their kitchen tables, their throats slit.

No, Amanda is definitely not a ‘good kid’.

“She got her violent streak from you, though, that’s for sure. And, I think, for a while, killing her mom was enough. Fast-forward ten years or so later, and you’re about to be released. Bet she planned to reunite. In the meantime, Amanda turned her life around, became a nurse. Theeeen,” Chase drew out the word, “Hugo happened.”

Having shifted focus from Amanda, Kennedy leaned back, relaxed a tad.

“And you beat him. Got another fifteen years what you did was so bad. So, this got me thinking… based on what I know about you, about your past, what would make Kennedy Baum completely snap? Ah, abuse. Hugo was in prison because he beat his kids—I read his file—but you probably knew that. It pissed you off, sure, but you stayed away. For years, you didn’t go near the man. Just did your time. But then Hugo abused someone in the prison. Raped him, probably. A friend of yours? Maybe. I guess it doesn’t have to be a friend, maybe just someone you knew. And just like with Betty, you lost it.”

“Hugo got what deserved.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Hmph.”

“I checked the visitor logs… Amanda used to visit you all the time, at least after her mom died. And then when you plead guilty to beating Hugo, she stopped coming. I bet you’re curious what happened to her?”

Kennedy bared his teeth.

“I don’t think it’s fair to blame a parent for the actions of their child but I can’t ignore the influence of a person’s past and upbringing on their behavior. After you were convicted again, Amanda went rogue. She—“

“Stop talking about my daughter.”

“—she was angry, decided that killing her mother wasn’t—“

“Stop!”

“—enough. She started targeting others. Parents who abused their kids. People who—“

“Stop talking about Amanda or I swear to god I’ll—“

Chase matched the man’s intensity.

“You’ll what, Kennedy? Beat me? Beat me like you did Hugo? Like Betty? Naw, I don’t think you will. You only hit people who abuse others, right? That’s your kink?”

Kennedy was seething, his entire face and even his head, a deep red.

But Chase’s point was proven when the man made no effort to get at her, as useless as this would have been considering his restraints.

Chase waited for another beat, then stood.

“Time’s up, Kennedy. I’ll tell Amanda I say hi for you when I finally catch her.”

Chapter 41

“How did you know all that?” Frost asked as they drove back toward Monty’s precinct. “I mean, some of it was obvious, some was in the police reports, but not all of it. Not even close. How did you know that Betty was abusing Amanda and not Kennedy?”

Frost was impressed and would have never gone that route.

“Like I said, it’s a cycle of abuse.”

There was more to it, Frost was certain of this fact. Something more personal for Chase Adams.

She didn’t press.

Frost was exhausted. She hadn’t slept in two days. Could barely close her eyes without seeing images of Noah as Never.

Reliving what the boy had gone through.

Chase looked even more spent. The woman could barely keep her eyes open.

This was similar to how she’d looked after she’d seen Chase touch James Tressfield’s corpse at the kitchen table.

“Why didn’t you ask Kennedy where his daughter might be? If she had a hideout or something? A secondary apartment. I read the file, too, I know that she used to visit him on a weekly basis. They had to talk about something. If she planned all this, she might have—”

“Kennedy will do anything to protect his daughter. Nothing I could say or do in there would have convinced him to give up anything that might be used against her,” Chase said matter-of-factly.

Frost stared at Chase for several moments.

“Can I ask you something else?”

Chase nodded.

“It’s personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“I saw you touch James Tressfield. Saw you go into something like a trance. It was similar to the way that you were in the room back there with Kennedy but more… I dunno, deep, I guess. What happened? What were you doing?”

Chase set her jaw as she pulled into the Baltimore PD precinct parking lot.

“I…” she hesitated. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Frost. A lot. And I know that you think you want to be like me, but you don’t. Trust me, you don’t want to be like me. You’re a good agent, Frost. You’re also a good person.”

“I—“

“No, I know you are. I also know that some real bad shit happened to you down in Mexico. Shit you are having a hard time processing.”

Once again, Chase had hit the nail right on the head. She’d also deftly changed the subject, but Frost wouldn’t realize this until later.

“I don’t know how you deal with it. All of this… the murder of kids. Abuse, rape. Jesus…” she trailed off.

“And that’s exactly why I do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do it, because no one else can.”

They found Monty back in his office, dozing when they entered.

Frost gently nudged him awake.

“Sorry—tired.”

For the next hour, Frost explained what they’d discovered and confirmed by visiting Kennedy Baum in prison. Monty did his thing, putting up new cards on the board, rearranging strings to link them.

When he was done, they had a much clearer picture of all of the major players and the timeline. And everything fit according to Chase’s theory.

Betty hit Amanda, Kennedy hit her. Betty dies from an overdose, accidental or not, and Amanda turns her life around.

Then Kennedy gets another fifteen years and Amanda losses it.

It made sense… only it didn’t.

Frost couldn’t help thinking that they were missing one vital piece. Amanda might have primed to do something after hearing about her father’s second conviction but, to Frost, it didn’t seem like the trigger. More like laying of the fuse.

There was something about Maxine that had caused the initial spark.

But what?

The problem was, none of this helped them find Amanda Baum. Or Noah. Or Maxine or James II.

Monty saw this, too.

“Should we get your buddy at Quantico to look into more insurance claims? Maybe Amanda is already stalking her next victims.”

Frost considered this.

“She knows we’re on to her. I don’t think she’s going to strike anytime soon. Her focus is to hide.”

“What do you think, Chase?” Monty asked.

“I think Frost is right,” Chase agreed. “She’s in hiding.”

Even though this would make catching Amanda more difficult, a prolonged cooling off period was a good thing when it came to limiting the number of victims. Except, in this case, there were three victims who were still unaccounted for.

Amanda had already shown herself capable of murdering children. How long would it be before she decided to trim the fat and leave the three kids dead at the side of the road?

“Then what do we do?” Monty asked. “I’ve got the entire state out looking for Amanda, her van, the kids.”

“What about another press conference? We can get more cameras to come out, broadcast Amanda’s picture nationwide.”

Frost looked to Chase for guidance following her suggestion, knowing that her partner hated being in the spotlight. But Chase surprised her.

“Let’s do it. Monty, how long will it take to set this up?”

Monty looked at his phone.

“It’s almost one… maybe an hour? Unless you just want to go the Channel 10 route again, which I can—“

“No,” Chase said. Frost knew that her partner was thinking about Larry the fat cameraman and Lexxie, the big-haired newswoman. “We need to go bigger. The more cameras the better.”

***

Like with their initial call to the public to help locate James Tressfield II, Chase took a back seat, allowing Monty and Frost to lead the press conference.

There were nearly two dozen cameras in their faces. Bigger hair, redder lips.

God, how she hated the press. Fucking rats.

But it was a necessary evil.

Even though she hadn’t said two words, all of the attention drained Chase.

“That went well,” Monty said when all of the vans had packed up and left. Seeing her defeated expression, he added, “I mean, this is the best chance we’ve got at finding Amanda.”

“Yeah,” Chase agreed dryly.

Her phone buzzed, not a call, but a text.

“Chase?” Frost said.

“Yeah?” Her brow furrowed as she read the message.

“What’s next?”

Chase wanted to get in her car, drive around the city. Visit Amanda Baum’s old home, look into Betty’s past.

Go back to Monty’s stupid board, have Frost run through it all again, try to find the one nugget that she knew they were missing.

That’s what she wanted to do.

But it wasn’t what she was going to do.

“I’ve got something personal I need to take care of back home.” She sighed so long and loud that it was almost cartoonish in nature. “Amanda won’t risk another attack today. Too much heat.”

Chase was wrong about that.

Dead wrong.

Chapter 42

After Chase dropped Frost off, with a promise to pick her up early in the morning to head back to Baltimore, she went home.

Tate had texted her, told her that he’d just arrived and wondered where she was. With everything that had happened with the case, Chase had again forgotten about Georgina’s birthday and her plan to surprise the girl with a home cooked meal. Rachel was coming in from Virginia Tech and was staying with them for the weekend. Tate was flying in from Orange County and she was supposed to be excited to see him.

She was also supposed to be looking forward to spending time with all of them and celebrating Georgina.

In reality, she couldn’t stop thinking about the case.

About the victims.

Fuck—about everything.

Chase in her driveway for several minutes, regretting the decision not to stop along the way to grab a coffee.

She was tired—not just from the lack of sleep or the emotionally draining case, but because of Frost. Frost with her questions, Frost not missing anything.

She’d meant what she’d said about the woman being an excellent agent and a good person. And if there had been any question in Chase’s mind about Frost missing the detail of Connor Byrd’s watch switching wrists, it was dashed now.

Chase had also meant it when she’d told Frost that she didn’t want to be like Chase. The woman had a lot to learn from her experience, and was eager to do so.

But be like her?

No fucking way.

Chase didn’t want that for anyone.

After rubbing her eyes and shaking out her hands, Chase figured she was as awake and ready as she’d ever be.

She put her phone on silent and started toward her house, trying twice to force a smile onto her face.

Third time’s a charm, as they say.

Wanting to surprise everyone who, by this point, were all already present, Chase didn’t knock before entering.

The moment she stepped through the door, her leaden legs felt lighter. The smile on her face seemed normal, too, borderline genuine.

As much as she loathed the idea of leaving during the middle of a case, something she wouldn’t have even considered doing before Orange County, Chase thought this break might actually be good for her.

Some space might help her understand Amanda’s next move.

No. Stop it. No thinking about the case. Not tonight.

A voice she hadn’t heard in a long time piped up next.

Live in the present, Chase.

It was Dr. Matteo.

Chase chuckled to herself as her thoughts turned to the bald man with the glasses.

Maybe it’s time for another session. Maybe—

The moment Chase rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, she stopped cold.

***

Frost knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Maybe never again.

Never… Never…

Never by Noah Holsteader.

She brewed herself a strong pot of coffee and curled up on her chair. Frost still had Noah’s book—for some reason, none of the cops had thought to ask her to submit it into evidence—and she read it again.

It was just as heartbreaking the third—or was it fourth?—time around, but with what they knew now about Amanda and her life, her motivations, Frost read it in a slightly different light.

The first half was devastating. Noah wrote Never as a direct account, lacking much, if not all, emotion. But towards the end, Frost noticed something new. Hidden within the broken English and the misspelled words was a layer of anger. Not toward his mother, the perpetrator of the sexual abuse, but directed at his sister and his father.

And the questions.

They hurt bad.

Why didn’t they help me?

Why didn’t they tell anyone?

Why didn’t they do something?

Frost’s eyes began to water and she wiped her tears away.

Her phone began to ring and she set the book down.

It was Linus.

Frost sniffed, cleared her throat, and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Frost? You okay?”

“Just tired. What’s up?”

“Warrant came through about an hour ago. Once I forwarded it to the hospital, they immediately sent me the footage. Key card access data, too. You’re not going to believe what I found.”

A final surge of adrenaline from her taxed adrenals flooded her system and Frost sat up straight.

“Amanda was there?”

“Uhh, no.”

Unlike Chase, who made her dislike for Linus’ ‘Guess What’ games plainly obvious, Frost didn’t mind them so much. Clearly, Linus was doing what he had to do, bringing a little levity to a dark situation. It was his coping mechanism.

But now, perhaps, wasn’t the best time.

“What then?”

“Amanda wasn’t at the hospital. Like, at all. But her card was used to gain access to the building through the back entrance about five minutes before the alarm went off.”

“Who used it?”

“Noah.”

Frost sputtered.

“What?”

“Noah—he’s the blond kid, right? Noah Holsteader?”

“Y-yes.” Frost’s eyes flicked to the book. “That’s Noah.”

“Well, it was him then. Have him on camera entering the hospital on his own.”

“Amanda wasn’t with him?”

“No, I scanned all the footage from the hospital. She wasn’t there.”

What the hell?

“Who pulled the fire alarm?”

“Also, Noah. The thing is, he walked right by it the first time, ducked into a room, then quickly ran off. Only pulled it the second time around.”

“The room… that must have been the one that Chase was in with Maxine.”

“Yeah, I saw Chase follow her in. The weird thing is—I mean, the weirder thing—he looked in all the rooms first. All the ones before the one that, like you said, Chase and Maxine were in.”

“Why?”

“He was looking for them.”

Frost shut her eyes.

“They were alone? Really? Why didn’t they tell someone? Tell a nurse or doctor what Amanda was making them do? If she wasn’t there, why didn’t they just grab the security guard and tell them that they’d been kidnapped?”

Frost was just running her mouth but Linus didn’t take it that way.

He said, “If I had to guess? Amanda still had James II. Maybe she threatened them? Told Noah and Maxine if they said anything she’d kill James?”

It was a decent guess, especially for someone who knew only half the details Frost did.

Except…

“But they don’t even know each other—didn’t, I mean. Couldn’t find a link between the kids.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, but—“

Frost’s phone beeped.

“Hold on, I’m getting another call. I’ll be right back.” She switched lines. “Hello?”

“Agent Frost?”

“Yes—who’s this?”

“Charles Ipsis with the Baltimore Crime Lab. I’ve been trying to get a hold of your partner but Agent Adams isn’t answering. Got your number from Monty. Listen, I managed to pull a print off the stuffed Dalmatian from the Baum house.”

“Okay… wait—how? It was plushy made of fur.”

Frost was no fingerprint expert but they were required to take a basic fingerprinting course at the Academy. Soft, irregular surfaces were notoriously, if not impossible, to fingerprint.

“Not the fur, but the tag. Anyways, we got a match.”

“To whom?”

“Not in a database,” Charles clarified. “But from the other crime scene; the Holsteaders. I put the print from the tag into the system but it came up blank. But I crossed it with the ones I lifted from the other crime scenes. It matched two prints; one on the tape on Frank Holsteader’s mouth, the other on the tape on Patty’s wrists.”

“But you still don’t know whose it is?”

Frost fatigued mind didn’t immediately grasp the significance of what the tech was telling her.

“Can’t help you there. Probably Amanda’s—”

“No,” Frost said sharply. The Dalmatian had been on Maxine’s bed—it was her stuffed animal. She probably held it every night, played with it. The print on the tag was hers. It had to be. “Thanks, Charles. I have to go.”

Things came into crystal clear focus now.

The kids at the hospital without Amanda being there, the lack of locks on the bedroom door at the Baum home, the bloody partial child-sized footprint.

Maxine’s fingerprints on the tape.

The anger in Noah’s story. Anger directed toward everyone who let these horrible things happen and continue to happen to him.

Chase had suggested that the kids might be involved somehow, that Amanda was forcing them to do things. Tie up the parents, maybe.

But as far as Frost knew, none of them had thought of them as willing participants.

Until now.

What if they were?

What if, during Noah and James II’s multiple hospital visits, Amanda was actually grooming them? That was the word that Chase had used, wasn’t it?

Frost could picture it now: Dr. Fontaine rushing from room to room, spending just a few seconds with each patient. Nurse Beecher remaining behind, comforting them.

Talking to them about the abuse they endured. Telling them that they have the power to make it stop.

To end it.

If they listened to her—

“Frost? You back?” Linus said.

Frost hadn’t realized that she didn’t hang up on Charles, she’d just switched back to the other line.

“Yeah, I’m back.”

“Good. Because there’s one more thing. Maxine… she’s Amanda’s daughter.”

“I know, she intercepted her before she could get to the BY—”

“No, I mean, Maxine is Amanda’s daughter.”

“What are you saying?”

“About ten years ago, Amanda Baum gave birth to a baby girl. Right around when her father went to prison. She put her up for adoption. I mean, I don’t blame her, not with her dad going away and her mom beaten…”

Frost didn’t hear another word that Linus said.

She was absolutely floored.

If her thoughts had been crystal clear before, they were all lined up now, like light through a prism.

Amanda working in the hospital. Her father getting fifteen more years. A girl walks in, maybe she recognizes her, maybe not.

She’d been abused.

Amanda realizes that Maxine is her child.

She follows Maxine home. The family is high as fuck.

There’s a little bit of heroin left, just laying out. Enough for tomorrow.

Amanda injects them all.

Is Maxine with her?

Oh, yeah, she is.

She sees what Amanda does, doesn’t flinch.

Got that mean streak in her, that violent rage passed down from Kennedy.

Amanda likes it. Likes the rush.

So does Maxine.

Grooming is so much easier when you know the person. Grooming is so much easier when you can make the victim of abuse feel comfortable. Not a difficult task when one is a nurse, the other a cute kid like you.

That’s why Amanda brought Maxine to work with her.

To help her.

That’s why Maxine never ran, never told anybody.

She’d lied to Chase about not seeing what happened to the Tressfields and the Hoslteaders. It had been Maxine’s bloody footprint. If she’d been sequestered to the other room, how had she gotten blood on her shoe?

Frost felt dizzy.

And the reason why Maxine was at the hospital when Amanda was nowhere near the place? It had been a fishing expedition. Amanda and Maxine had seen Chase there earlier in the day, knew that the FBI were coming close.

Only, they didn’t know who Chase was. Maxine was there for information and Noah was the back up. The distraction.

The weird thing is—I mean, the weirder thing—he looked in all the rooms first. All the ones before the one that, like you said, Chase and Maxine were in.

It had all been planned out.

Although she hadn’t been in the room with Maxine and Chase, Frost was almost certain that Chase would have tried to comfort the girl.

The easiest way to do that was to say, “You’re safe now. I’m Chase, I’m with the FBI. I’m going to keep you safe”.

“Linus?” Frost’s mouth was so dry that it had become painful to swallow. “I think—I think Chase is in trouble.”

Chapter 43

The first thought that went through Chase’s head was that this was a deplorable prank. Somehow her family had found out about the Holsteaders and Tressfields and had decided to reenact the crime scenes.

This made zero sense, so another idea came to mind.

She’d fallen sleep in the car. This wasn’t real.

But it was.

Tate was seated at the table, tied up, his head hanging low. Tape covered his mouth. Rachel was there, too. But unlike her father, she was awake, eyes wide. Her tape puffed with every heavy breath.

So was Georgina.

Chase’s heart kicked into high gear.

Only Georgina was struggling, wriggling her arms, trying to break free.

Because she’d been intending to surprise every one, nobody noticed Chase step into the room. Her hand went to her gun but when she saw someone else, she stopped.

Maxine appeared from around the corner, two glasses in one hand, a stack of knives in the other. She was setting the table, just like she said she’d done at the other houses.

“Maxine.” Chase hadn’t meant to say anything—the name had just slipped out of her mouth. “Where’s Amanda?”

Everyone noticed her now and the glasses slipped from Maxine’s hand and smashed to the floor.

“Maxine!”

“Her name is Mary,” a new voice said. A woman’s voice.

Amanda Baum stepped from the shadows and appeared directly behind Georgina.

Chase reached for her gun again.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Amanda warned, bringing a knife to Georgina’s throat. The girl’s breathing matched Rachel’s now, with the latter attempting a scream that was swallowed by the tape over her mouth.

Grab your gun.

Shoot her.

Shoot her.

Chase remembered what she told Frost about how if someone came into her house, she’d fight.

“Put your gun on the floor,” Amanda ordered.

She’s only telling you what to do that will help her—do the opposite! her mind screamed. Shoot her!

Chase clutched the butt of her gun and Amanda hunkered behind Georgina.

Blood started to trickle from where the knife touched her flesh.

“Drop the gun or I kill Georgina.”

Don’t listen. Just shoot.

Chase pulled her gun and placed it on the floor. She raised her hands.

“Please.”

Chase knew this was a mistake, had warned against doing this very thing. But it was easy to say you’d fight when your loved one wasn’t about to die.

“Good.” Amanda smiled. “Now, Mary, continue setting the table, please.”

Why is she calling Maxine Mary?

“Where are the others? Where are James and Noah?” Chase asked, stalling for time. She felt like she was going to have a heart attack.

“You mean Paul and John?”

Chase didn’t understand, and then she did.

Her father, before he’d taken his own life, had been a religious man.

Paul, John, Mary… they were all from the bible.

Amanda must have seen the understanding that crossed over her face.

“Yes, this is the Last Supper, Chase. Just like the Last Supper I had with my family before everything went to shit.”

Maxine, seemingly unaffected by Chase’s presence now, placed the knifes in their appropriate spots beside the plates.

“That was before your mother hit you, right? And then your father hit her.”

Amanda, surprised by Chase’s comment, snarled.

“My father is a good man. My mother…? Not so much.”

“I know—she abused you, right?”

Keep talking. And think. Think.

The hand holding the knife started to tremble. Chase had struck a nerve. She wanted to continue along this path but had to tread carefully.

One slip of the blade and it was all over for Georgina.

Chase changed tactics.

“I don’t care about what you did to James and Tracy Tressfield. James was beating his kids and Tracy let it happen. And the shit that Jessica Holsteader was doing to Noah? She deserved what she got. Frank, too, for turning a blind eye. But the kids? Why the kids, Amanda?”

Amanda shrugged.

“Patty knew what was happening to Noah—I saw her at the hospital. She knew. And Nina knew that their father was beating her brother.”

What Chase said next made her stomach curdle.

“Then they deserved it, too.” They absolutely did not. “But Micheal and Arthur?”

“Matthew and Simon.”

More biblical references.

“Okay, Matthew and Simon. You saved them, then you killed them. Why?”

“I didn’t kill them. As for why, well, Matthew was a Judas and Simon just didn’t have what it takes to make those who hurt him pay.”

Georgina stopped squirming now. Rachel was still huffing, and Maxine finished setting the table.

“They all deserved it. Including Betty and Hugo. But why are you here? At my house? I’ve done nothing wrong. Your dad wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t abuse others.”

“He taught me how to deal with people like my mom.” Amanda almost seemed proud of this fact.

“Then—”

“Don’t patronize me, Agent Adams.”

Chase shook her head. This was her only chance—to appeal to Amanda’s misplaced sense of morality.

Only hurt those who hurt you.

An eye for an eye.

That was biblical, wasn’t it?

“I’m not. I get why you chose the Tressfields and Holsteaders but why me?” Chase indicated her family sitting at the table. “Why them? Is it because I was close? Because I came to the hospital? Kennedy wouldn’t do that.”

Amanda laughed.

“You know, I thought you were smart. When Mary told me your name, I looked into you, Chase Adams.” Amanda changed her voice, lowered it. “Chase Adams, big tough FBI agent. Stops at nothing to catch the bad guy. But you’re not smart. You’re stupid, just like Betty.”

“I didn’t abuse anyone.”

Well, not a member of my family.

“No?” Chase didn’t like the way that Amanda said this. “What about at Georgina’s school? You didn’t just let those kids abuse her, did you?”

Oh, fuck.

“I didn’t—“

“You can find out a lot about a person with just their name. You can find out even more if you have access to medical records, like I do.”

“I did what I could to help her.”

“At the school? Maybe. Maybe you didn’t know. What about when Georgina was being held captive in a cult? Huh? Did you do everything then to save her?”

“I did.” Chase felt tears coming. “I did.”

“I don’t know about that.” Chase didn’t start to cry, but Georgina did. “If I had more time, I bet I could find dozens of examples of you neglecting and abusing your family. And that’s just with Georgina. As for Rachel…”

“Please.”

I should have never put down my gun.

“You see, people—people like you—think that if they don’t hit someone or diddle them then you aren’t abusing others. But we both know that staying quiet, not saying anything, not doing anything, is worse.”

“Just take me. I did those things, sure. I admit it. Kill me. Let them go.”

“Let them go? Let Tate go?”

Chase didn’t like where this was headed.

Shadows moved across the table. Noah and James had come from the living room. Their eyes were down.

Run—run you stupid fucking kids. Run!

“Why would I let Tate go?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Chase said softly.

“But he did. He lied to his own daughter.”

Rachel pushed back so far in her chair that it nearly toppled.

“No,” Chase moaned.

How did she find out? How could Amanda possibly find out about the accident?

Georgina was trying to say something. Desperately trying.

With the knife still to her throat, Amanda peeled off one side of the tape.

“You have something to say?”

“I hate you, Chase.” Tears streamed down the girl’s face. “I hate you. You’re always working… work is more important to you than anything. Than me, Tate, Rachel. Even your own sister.”

The words stung. It had to be a ploy but they sounded so genuine.

And they were true.

Everything that Amanda and Georgina had said was true.

“You even forgot about my birthday. Couldn’t come to my dinner.” The last word was uttered as a gasp.

“I’m here, Georgina,” Chase whimpered. “I’m right here.”

“Too late. You’re always too late.”

“Oh, looks like we might have another Mary on our hands.”

Amanda reapplied the tape to Georgina’s mouth despite her protests.

“Let’s talk about Tate now. Let’s talk about how he lied to his own daughter for years.”

“Don’t,” Chase warned.

“What? You afraid of the truth, Chase? I learned the truth from my mother. You know what she did when she found out about my pregnancy? She hit me.”

Pregnancy?

“And then she tricked me into hosting this special dinner—a celebration. Only to—“

“Please.”

“Yeah, enough about that. Enough about me. I want to talk about Tate. Tate and Rachel.” She paused. “And Robin.”

“Amanda—“

“Rachel’s mother wasn’t driving the car that night, was she? When that kid died?”

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But, of course, Chase knew.

She’d even tried to convince Tate to tell Rachel what had really happened. How Rachel was driving the car because Robyn had had too much to drink. How the roads had been wet, how she’d spun out of control.

After the fatal accident, Robyn had called Tate and together they’d decided that rather than Rachel, who had amnesia from the accident and lost all function of her legs, take the fall, Robyn would claim to be the one driving.

As painful as the truth was, the longer a lie was allowed to simmer, the more damage it did when the truth actually came it, which it always did.

But it was never supposed to happen like this.

“Tate did a good job of covering things up, and when Robyn copped to driving, no one looked into it too hard. They all felt bad for little Rachel, the cripple. But I managed to get my hands on the hospital records and saw a photo in the police report of the car.”

Rachel was bucking wildly now, and Georgina’s wet eyes shot to her step-sister. It was almost as if she was silently trying to tell her that what Amanda was saying was all lies.

“The only way that Rachel could have suffered those injuries is if she was driving the car, not Robyn.”

This did it. Rachel drove her weak legs into the floor with enough strength to finally force her chair backward.

She fell and landed hard on her back. Surprised, Amanda finally removed the knife from Georgina’s throat.

Once she did, the redheaded ball of fire sprang into action.

Chapter 44

Chase went for her gun. During her prolonged conversation with Amanda—one way as it was—Georgina had somehow managed to work her hands free, even with the woman standing directly behind her.

Instead of moving away from the woman, however, Georgina actually scrambled toward her. Apparently having been pressed for time, Amanda and her apostles hadn’t bound Chase’s family’s legs as they’d done with the Tressfields and Holsteaders.

“Georgina!”

Amanda turned just as Georgina leaped on her.

If Chase hadn’t been prepared to shoot Amanda when the woman had a knife pressed to her niece’s throat, then she wasn’t going to risk shooting her now, when the two of them rolled on the ground.

Chase was forced to run around the table to reach them, but Maxine was closer.

“Maxine?”

What the fuck was she doing?

“Maxine, no!”

When Maxine lunged, a knife in her hand, Chase had no choice but to take aim.

She still couldn’t do it.

“Fuck!”

She ran. Maxine stabbed.

Blood spurted.

Someone screamed.

Chase grabbed Maxine and wrenched her backward. The kid was small and it took little effort to send her scattering to the floor.

“There is no other Mary,” Maxine said quietly. “And you putting me up for adoption… that was abuse.”

Georgina and Amanda were wrapped in a ball. Blood was still spraying, but it was impossible to tell who had been stabbed.

Chase dropped to her knees and grabbed a stray arm. Pulled.

It was Amanda’s, and when Chase yanked again the woman managed to flip on top of Georgina.

Somehow they grew even more entangled. The floor was slick with blood.

“Let go of her!” Chase shouted. Her words were directed at Amanda but she quickly realized that Georgina was the problem.

Her hands were wrapped around Amanda’s throat.

And she was squeezing.

The girl’s freckled face was turning purple with the effort.

Chase still didn’t know where the blood was coming from.

“Georgina, stop!”

But Georgina wouldn’t stop.

Chase made an executive decision and let go of Amanda’s arm. Georgina rolled over and mounted Amanda, her hands still around her throat.

Blood was everywhere.

“Georgina!”

Chase hooked an arm around her niece’s waist and pulled. Georgina wouldn’t let go.

“Nobody fucks with my family!” the girl screamed.

“Georgina! Let the fuck go!”

One final tug and, finally, Georgina released her hold on Amanda.

This only made things worse.

Blood, a hot, thick geyser, erupted from a gash in the side of Amanda’s neck.

The woman collapsed onto her back, struggling for air.

She coughed. A mist of blood came forth only to land back on her face, giving her a set of artificial freckles. Georgina finally relaxed and relaxed into Chase’s arms.

“I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean those things, Chase. I didn’t—“

Chase hushed her.

“It’s okay. I know.”

Amanda coughed again. Weaker this time.

Chase felt no remorse for the dying woman. Felt nothing at all.

Rachel groaned, drawing her attention. When she’d fallen she’d probably knocked herself out. Either that or—

“Chase!”

Chase’s eyes shot to the front of her house.

It was Frost.

“Jesus Christ!” Frost shouted as she took in the scene. “Are you okay?”

“We’re okay.” Chase’s voice hitched. Throughout the entire ordeal, neither Noah or James II had so much as moved. They were standing there, heads down, as if locked in a stupor. “Amanda’s dying.”

No, Amanda was dead.

She’d stopped breathing.

Frost’s gaze flicked from Tate—still unconscious—to a now writhing Rachel, to frozen Noah and James, and finally to Amanda’s corpse.

“Where’s the other one? Where’s Maxine?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Frost’s eyes suddenly widened as she took a step forward.

“Maxine is Amanda’s daughter! She was helping her—”

Maxine came from Frost’s left.

The kid was fast.

“Frost!” Chase screamed.

Frost saw her coming at the last moment and spun. Chase saw the flash of a knife blade and Frost screamed.

The strike, combined with the spin, sent Frost dreidling to the ground.

Chase let go of Georgina, tried to stand, to get to her partner while Maxine kept running, heading for the front door.

The floor was too slippery and Chase failed to get up. Georgina, smaller, more agile, had no such problem.

She was on her feet before Chase could even get to her knees.

“Georgina! Wait!”

But Chase’s niece was like her; stubborn.

Determined.

The front door was still open from when Frost had entered and Maxine bolted outside.

Georgina was right behind her.

By the time Chase managed to get up—slipping in Amanda’s blood a second and third time—she couldn’t see either of them.

“Frost?” Chase said as she ran by her partner. Frost was struggling to get to her feet.

“I’m okay, just a… a flesh wound, I think.”

Chase continued, stepped into the night.

She looked left first, saw nothing, then right.

Georgina had somehow made it about a half a block away. She was standing still.

Chase sprinted toward her.

“Georgina!”

She made to her niece’s side and then stopped.

Maxine was lying on the sidewalk, the knife she’d been carrying buried to the hilt in her side.

The girl’s tiny mouth was popping and it sounded as if she was breathing under water.

“She… she fell. Maxine fell.” A shudder rippled throughout Georgina’s entire body. “I—I touched her, Chase,” she whispered so softly that Chase barely heard. “She did those things. She killed those—“

“Call 9-1-1!” Chase said. She straddled Maxine and tried to assess the girl’s injuries. She immediately determined that the knife had punctured the girl’s lung and the organ was starting to fill with blood. Maxine was drowning.

Georgina was still just standing there.

“Georgina, go!”

The girl left.

Chase applied pressure around the wound, leaving the knife in place, worried that if she removed it, it would cause a massive hemorrhage and only accelerate her death.

“Stay with me, Maxine. Breathe shallow.”

It was unlikely that the girl heard her—her eyes had rolled back. Like Amanda inside, Maxine’s lips were coated with red.

“I’m going to try to sit you up.”

Chase gently started to pull her to a seated position but Maxine’s eyes rolled forward and she screamed.

The sound was horrific.

But even above this shriek, Chase heard a terrible tearing noise.

This was followed by what sounded like a waterfall.

Chase had no choice but tilt Maxine on her side. Blood poured from around the blade.

Too much of it.

Too much.

“Stay with me,” Chase urged. “Please, stay with me.”

But when Chase heard sirens far away she knew it was too late.

Maxine gasped once, twice, then stopped breathing.

Chase attempted mouth to mouth, only ended up breathing the girl’s blood.

She spat it out.

Coughed.

“Chase?”

Still cradling Maxine, Chase looked over her shoulder.

Frost was standing beside Georgina.

“She’s gone,” Chase said, fighting back tears. “Maxine’s gone.”

Georgina stared at her blankly.

And even though the girl didn’t say a word, Chase heard the lie loud and clear inside her head.

She fell. Maxine fell.

Epilogue

Maxine was dead. Amanda was dead.

But there was still Noah and James II to deal with.

Knowing that there was nothing that she could do for the girl, Chase left Maxine on the sidewalk and went back inside.

At some point, likely when Georgina had returned to fetch her cell phone and call the cops, Frost had handcuffed both Noah and James. Judging by their blank expressions, Chase was doubtful that this had been necessary.

Chase wouldn’t have ever considered the boys suspects if Maxine hadn’t stabbed first Amanda and then Frost, which, incidentally, had just resulted in a small gash above her right hip.

But now…

“Maxine was Amanda’s daughter?” she asked Frost.

“Yeah. She was helping her groom the kids. She killed those people, Chase. Maxine did. Amanda, too and maybe…” Frost’s eyes fell on Noah and James II.

It was too much—overwhelming.

There would be time to process all of this, but that time was not now.

“Call Monty,” Chase said.

While Frost called the Baltimore PD, Chase removed the tape on Rachel’s wrists first, then mouth.

“Are you okay?”

Rachel seemed fazed but not seriously injured.

The girl nodded.

She stood on shaky legs, rolled out her wrists that were red from the tape.

Had she heard? Had she understood what Amanda had said about the accident?

“Come here.”

Chase hugged Rachel tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Chase whispered in her ear.

She let go, saw that she’d smeared blood all over Rachel’s shirt.

A nice shirt.

A fancy shirt.

A shirt befitting of the Last Supper.

“Georgina?”

Georgina replaced Chase in Rachel’s arms.

Chase hurried over to Tate and removed the tape from his face. His mustache tore and Chase winced.

“Tate?” she said. “Wake up.”

He groaned and Chase gently slapped his cheek.

His eyelids fluttered.

“Tate?”

He gasped and his eyes opened.

“Wha—what happened?” Tate noticed Amanda’s body, all the blood—Jesus, there was so much of it—and he panicked. “What the fuck? What the—“

“We’re okay.”

“But—“

“We’re okay,” Chase said more forcefully.

Tate winced and brought a hand to the back of his head.

“Are you hurt?”

“I… a girl came to the door, said she was lost. I let her in and then… there were two more kids. I don’t know, Chase. I think maybe someone hit me with something in the back of the head.” Tate was looking down as he spoke but now his eyes shot up. “Who the hell are they?”

“It’s a long story.”

The sirens were loud now and Chase heard cars stopping outside. Doors opening.

Frost had slipped out again and moments later, she returned with two police officers.

A paramedic followed closely behind.

Frost pointed at them, said something to the cop closest to her that Chase couldn’t pick up.

The cop then relayed this to the paramedic.

The paramedic went to Amanda first, checked her pulse, then moved onto Tate.

Chase backed off, wanting to say something to Georgina, but she was still locked in an embrace with Rachel.

She went to Frost instead.

“Monty’s on his way,” she informed him. “Should be here in just over an hour. This is… one hell of a mess.”

“I know.”

“I told the cops about the case in Baltimore and explained that we’re FBI. The captain placed a call to Stitts. He should be here soon, too. Still this is…” Frost looked skyward. “This is going to be difficult to explain.”

It would be. Especially Maxine’s body outside.

But Chase had done it before.

She’d covered for Georgina after the school shooting.

Would do it again, too. Chase would protect Georgina no matter what.

“I’ll take care of it,” Chase said.

“I know you will.”

They walked outside together for fresh air. Cops were everywhere now.

Lots of shouting.

Cops loved to shout.

“How’s your hip?” Chase asked.

Frost looked down. It was as if she’d forgotten about her injury.

“I’ll be fine. Been through worse.”

“Excuse me.”

Chase stepped out of the way as one the cops exited the house, Noah and James II, both still cuffed, in front of him.

Chase saw Frost frown when she saw Noah.

The woman took a shuddering breath.

“For what it’s worth, I think I know how Maxine and Amanda chose their victims. The stickers on the car… those goddamn stick figures of the family.”

“Remind me never to put those on my windshield.”

They went quiet.

Frost shivered again.

Chase thought she knew what was coming next and didn’t blame Frost.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Chase, but I’m… I’m not ready for this. For the CVU. This case…”

“I know.”

“It just…”

“I know.”

“Maybe one day.”

Frost left it at that.

“Goddamn it—Chase, can you tell this guy I don’t need to go to the damn hospital?” Tate complained, joining them on the porch. “For Christ’s sake, I need to be here with my family. I need to know what the fuck is going on.”

The curse reminded Chase of Amanda’s Last Supper.

How the fuck could Amanda go from being abused by her mother to this?

It wasn’t a descent into madness. It was a drop off a fucking cliff into Hell itself.

“More than likely, you have a concussion, Mr. Abernathy. It’s best if we take you to the hospital for an MRI—“

“He’s got a hard head,” Chase said.

“This is serious,” the paramedic argued.

“I’ll keep an eye on him. If he says anything more stupid than usual, I’ll bring him in myself.”

The paramedic wasn’t happy about this, but he knew that no matter what he said, there was no changing their minds.

“Cops,” he muttered as he walked off.

“Rachel?” Tate hollered. He grunted and closed one eye. He’d more than just banged his head. “Rachel?

A car suddenly pulled up, parked just behind a squad car with flashing lights.

It was a… taxi?

Did Stitts have car trouble and arrive in a taxi?

Did I hit my fucking head, too?

Chase was surprised when Stitts didn’t get out of the back seat, but a woman. She was pretty. Dark hair. Thin build.

“Who the—“

“Robyn?” Tate gasped.

Chase felt a chill.

It couldn’t be. Tate’s ex-wife was still in prison.

“Am I fucking seeing shit?” Tate muttered. “Do I need to go to the—“

“Tate? What’s happening?” The woman rushed forward. “Why are these cops here? Is Rachel okay?”

“Robyn, what are you doing here?”

“I got paroled. I—“

Someone approaching from behind.

“Rachel!” Robyn exclaimed.

Rachel came onto the porch.

“You’re—you’re walking!”

Rachel squeezed past them, made it onto the street.

Robyn sobbed, held her arms wide.

“I’ve missed you, Rach. I’ve—“

Instead of hugging her mother, Rachel reared back and slapped her across the face.

Robyn shouted, clutched her cheek. Chase immediately reached for the girl when it looked like she wanted to hit her mother again—Betty, this is Betty slapping Amanda—but Rachel

shook free.

“You lied to me!” Rachel screamed. She pointed a finger in her mother’s face. “You fucking lied to me!”

END

Author’s Note

Hey #thrillogans!

Another Chase Adams comes to an end. I hope you enjoyed the ride. I had a fantastic time linking Chase and Frost together. They make an incredible team, but it looks like they’re going their separate ways.

Maybe one day they’ll reunite.

Want to see them back together again? You can always encourage this team up by writing a review on Amazon.

These are greatly appreciated.

Thanks again for joining me on this insane ride that is Chase Adams.

And it’s nowhere near over yet.

You can pre-order the 19th book in the best-selling Chase Adams series, Static Echo, now.

As always, you keep reading, I’ll keep writing.

Best,

Pat

Montreal, 2024

Other Books by Patrick Logan

Detective Damien Drake

Butterfly Kisses

Cause of Death

Download Murder

Skeleton King

Human Traffic

Drug Lord: Part I

Drug Lord: Part II

Prized Fight

Almost Infamous

Straw Man

Dangerous Company

Happy Face

Chase Adams FBI Thrillers

Frozen Stiff

Shadow Suspect

Drawing Dead

Amber Alert

Georgina’s Story

Dirty Money

Devil’s Den

Painted Ladies

Adverse Effects

Already Dead

Direct Evidence

Filthy Secrets

Tainted Blood

Deadly Cargo

Active Shooter

Frost Bite

Grim Harvest

Tidal Bones

Last Supper

Striker and Frost FBI Thrillers

Tell Me Where the Sandman Sleeps

Tell Me Where She’s Buried

Tell Me What You’ve Done

Tell Me Where They’ve Gone

Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner

Bitter End

Organ Donor

Injecting Faith

Surgical Precision

Do Not Resuscitate

Extracting Evil

Residence Evil (AKA Beckett’s First Kill)

Tommy Wilde Thrillers

One Wilde Night

Two Wilde Weeks

Three Wilde Months

Four Wilde Families

Veronica Shade Thrillers

The Color of Murder

The Scent of Murder

The Sound of Murder

The Touch of Murder

The Taste of Murder

Don’t forget to drop by my Facebook group and say hi! https://www.facebook.com/groups/LogansInsatiableReaders/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents in this book are either entirely imaginary or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or of places, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Patrick Logan 2024

Interior design: © Patrick Logan 2024

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, cannot be reproduced, scanned, or disseminated in any print or electronic form.

First Edition: March 2025