21. Maverick
MAVERICK
FOR THIS YOU WERE BORN
Clara’s uneasy. It’s in the stiffness of her movements as she lifts her coffee to her lips, in the way her eyes dart across the backyard, searching for an intruder who isn’t there.
Navigating new fears after the trauma that fucker put her through isn’t easy, but her will to heal and move forward continues to amaze me.
I saw her strength back in the hospital, and I admired her then, but now?
Her determination calls to me like a tide to the shore—pulled by an unseen force in her direction, inevitable and unrelenting.
This morning, while I was making breakfast, she walked into the kitchen and asked if we could eat outside. Said it was something on her list—something she needed to do.
Now, her plate sits untouched, and she hasn’t stopped stroking Juno’s head in her lap.
“Clara,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We don’t have to eat out here. We can go back inside.”
“Nope. I’m doing this, Maverick.” She sounds so sure, but her expression betrays her.
“Then you better eat, woman.” I give her a hard look. I’d bet good money she’s lost weight since the abduction, and I don’t fucking like it.
“Grr. Fine.”
“Did you growl at me, sunshine?”
She ignores me, suddenly interested in her food. Lifting a forkful of eggs to her mouth, she pretends not to hear the question. I shake my head and let it slide, turning my focus to my own breakfast before I have to head into the office.
“Maverick,” Spencer greets me as soon as I walk into the conference room. “Brenner isn’t able to make it from Quantico, but he sent over the criminal profile report.”
“Good. Let’s pull it up,” I say as I take a seat, eager to hunt this guy down.
“Riley set up the profile board so we can fill it in as we go.” He nods toward the second whiteboard positioned next to the evidence map. Right now, it’s mostly blank, except for the “What?” column.
An arrow, courtesy of Riley, connects this column to the main investigation board. The “What” consists of eight rapes, seven murders—each victim buried alive—and one attempted murder, leaving the only known witness to the unsub’s face: Clara.
I guess Riley figured it spoke for itself.
“Given the evidence and additional information from Clara Santos,” Spencer begins, “Brenner says our unsub is a white man in his late forties. He’s someone we wouldn’t expect. Someone who has a high-profile position, possibly in politics.”
“Well, that’s just fucking dandy,” Jesse says with an exaggerated sigh.
I don’t disagree. If our unsub is in a high-profile position, that presents an enormous fucking hurdle for the team.
“According to Brenner, the violent nature of the crimes suggests a history of abuse—likely maternal. It’s possible his father abandoned him at a young age.”
Rapping my knuckles three times on the table, I straighten and lean forward.
“That makes sense. Remember how Clara said he’d punish her if she didn’t use proper manners?
He could be enacting similar punishments that were done to him.
And, historically, it’s the mother—or maternal figure—that enforces proper etiquette. ”
“And,” Riley chimes in, “that matches Brenner’s description of a high-profile position. That would mean our guy came from a family with money, especially considering a political background.”
“So, etiquette lessons gone bad.” Evie rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair. “This fucking guy is unreal. He strikes me as a narcissist. He knows he’s smart. He dresses well. And he’s a cocky son of a bitch.”
“Brenner thinks the same. He said a psychological evaluation would show a history of social camouflaging and narcissism. We’re dealing with a guy who understands that he has to wear a different face in public to conceal the ‘true’ side of himself.
” Spencer clears his throat and lifts the report.
“Brenner wrote, and I quote, ‘He’s meticulous. When you find him, you’ll likely find detailed journal entries.
He reads these during his ‘off’ weeks when he’s gotten rid of one victim and is waiting for the right time to abduct another. He uses this to relive the fantasy.’”
Arlo lifts a finger, waiting until Spencer finishes before he speaks.
“I ran the timeline through our program. He travels far but always keeps his victims in the same city where he stalks them. Catherine Bennett was an anomaly—she was taken across state lines, unlike the others. There was something about Clara that made him act sooner.”
A loud ringing cuts through our conversation. I pull out my phone, Cruz’s name flashing on the screen. “Rhodes.”
“We think we found the warehouse.”
“Hold on,” I say with urgency, immediately tapping the phone. “I’m putting you on speaker. What’s going on?”
“Officer Martinez radioed in a few minutes ago. They were sweeping the warehouse district and found an office space in a warehouse about three miles in. He said it looks like a prison cell. I’m headed there now.”
“Did he touch anything?” Evie and Jessie ask simultaneously, their voices rising like a synchronized echo.
“Just the doorknob. He said he backed out when he opened the door and saw the bed.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s the old milk processing plant off Broadway and 5 th .”
“We’re on our way.”
Tires screech against the cracked asphalt as the SUV comes to a sudden halt. The vibration of the vehicle stopping barely registers before I’m already out and heading toward the entrance, Spencer and Arlo right behind me.
“Jesus. You’re not allowed to drive anymore, Rhodes,” Arlo chides.
“Next time, ride in the van. I drive how I drive.”
I watch as said van sharply turns into the parking lot. As soon as it stops, Riley, Evie, and Jesse leap out and head straight for us.
Police tape cordons off every entry point, surrounding the milk factory like a warning. The weathered brick of the building stands stark against the chaos, its surface bathed in the flickering red and blue lights from several police vehicles.
“Rhodes!” I hear Cruz before I see him. He cuts through the throng of officers, brushing past our small group as he ducks under the tape. “It’s been cleared.”
He doesn’t need to tell us to follow him. Without a word, we instinctively turn on our heels and fall in line.
The double doors leading into the building are heavy, requiring effort to push open.
Inside, the space is vast and open—an eerie emptiness hanging in the air.
A small office is oddly placed in the middle of the room.
I glance around, taking in the sealed windows, industrial equipment piled in front of another set of doors, and an alcove that likely leads deeper into the factory.
This place hasn’t seen use in years. Rochester’s Warehouse District is a mix of new, unfinished buildings and old, dilapidated structures that desperately need to be gutted.
The milk processing plant falls squarely into the latter category.
Dust coats the concrete floor, disturbed only by a series of footprints leading from the entrance to the office.
“We’ll get started here,” Evie says, stopping to survey the floor. “Try not to make any new footprints, please.” Without glancing at us, she and Jesse begin unpacking their equipment.
Leaving them to do what they do best, the rest of us cross the space toward the interior office, carefully stepping in the old prints.
The office door has a deadbolt on the outside. Next to the doorframe, a small, rectangular window catches my eye—the same one Clara described. I roll my shoulders and straighten my spine, then step into the room to face Clara’s prison.
A bed, stripped down to the bare mattress, is shoved against the far wall.
An iron ankle cuff lies haphazardly on the ground, attached to a chain welded to the metal bedpost. The room is small, lacking any dust from the main area.
The scent of cleaning supplies is strong and lingers in the air—bleach and pine. It’s been scrubbed clean.
We canvass the space in silence. I linger in front of the barren shower stall, imagining Clara, terrified, showering while the bastard waited right here, his eyes locked on her every move.
“Hey, Mav.” I breathe deeply and turn toward Arlo. He’s standing by the door, inspecting the wooden doorframe. “I found something.”
“What is it?”
“See this hole in the frame?”
My brows furrow as I walk over, leaning in to examine the spot he pointed out. The hole is small, barely noticeable unless you know where to look. It’s wide enough to conceal a tiny lens, the edges sharp and clean.
“Fuck. I see it. Camera?”
“Yes. I noticed the same holes—all barely noticeable—around the room. There’s one in the windowsill over there,” he says, pointing to the window next to the door. “Another in the wall facing the toilet and shower, and then this one—right by the bed. The cameras are gone.”
“Didn’t you say the photo Samson left in Clara’s apartment looked like it came from a video still?” Cruz asks, glancing between Arlo and Spencer.
“Yes, and I’d say it came from the camera embedded in the door.”
“We know he travels far to find his victims, and he doesn’t bring them to Rochester,” Spencer muses aloud, pacing between the spots Arlo identified.
“He’s not a man who can come and go freely—not if he has a high-profile career.
So he sets up the cameras where he keeps his victims. He watches them from his house, on his phone whenever he can’t be there in person. ”
“To relive the fantasy,” I murmur, recalling Brenner’s criminal profile report. We may not have found journals here—though that doesn’t mean they don’t exist—but the videos are another memento, providing him with the same twisted pleasure at the expense of his victims.
My hands tense at my sides, fingers curling into fists to stop them from trembling.
The weight of Clara’s imprisonment hits me harder than I expected.
The thought of the unsub watching those videos of her, replaying his sick fantasy again and again, gnaws at my insides.
A cold sweat pricks at the back of my neck.
I try to steady myself, but the fear sinks deeper—a familiar knot tightening in my chest.
And I know, without a doubt, that I’m going to fail Clara the same way I failed Heather.