Forest
Back at the cabin, Fraiser was on the phone with every contact he had in law enforcement, pulling favors like a man going broke at the poker table.
I was flipping through a folder we found on Jarod’s table—photos, maps, receipts—trying to see if there was a pattern.
Fraiser hung up. “No one spotted him near the carnival,” he said.
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,” I muttered.
Fraiser rubbed his temples. “You think he’s playing with them?”
“I think he’s too smart to waste his time on rides and funnel cake,” I said flatly. “He’s planning something bigger. He’s moving them where he wants them.”
Fraiser frowned. “And Liam doesn’t know it yet.”
“Not yet,” I said, closing the folder. “But he will.”
Because men like Jarod Kennedy didn’t hunt blind.
They herded.