Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
EVERETT
I push myself extra hard the next morning on my pre-dawn run, but it doesn’t quell the frustration that kept me up most of the night.
Vivian’s ex is a cop?
That might explain why she turns into a pincushion around me.
She denied being hurt, but I saw right through that lie.
He just let you walk out of his life.
Why is that so hard to believe?
That she asked this so casually makes me want to punch something.
He didn’t fight for her. Or Mateo. He let them move across four states and doesn’t even call to check on them?
But that’s not the worst of it, somehow, Vivian thinks she’s not worth fighting for.
This crushes me.
Nobody should be made to feel disposable.
On top of that, I’m more convinced than ever that Vivian is hiding something. How am I supposed to keep her safe if I don’t know the whole story ?
My thoughts return to the question I haven’t been able to answer. Is Vivian in trouble? Or is she the trouble?
I jump in the shower, then roust a sleepy Logan. His dark room has that faint scent of dirty laundry and the deodorant he’s started using. I make a note to get him to change his sheets later.
“Dad,” he groans, trying to tug the covers back up.
“I gotta drop you at Uncle Lind’s on my way, remember?”
He releases a heavy sigh. “Right.”
I watch him a moment longer. When he was little, he always asked me to snuggle with him in the mornings. Him not asking in a while simply represents another milestone of his development and not some sign he loves me less. Vivian’s warmth and dedication to her son weaves through my thoughts, softening the tiny note of grief hiding behind my heart.
What would it be like to share these kinds of feelings with someone else? Someone who’s living them too?
“You want a fried egg with toast?”
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Yum. Thanks, Dad.”
I turn away and head for the kitchen.
I get out the cast iron pan, the eggs, and the loaf of Mom’s sourdough she sent home with me last night. While the pan heats, I pour a cup of coffee from the pot I brewed before hopping in the shower. On the small round table, Logan’s schoolwork is still spread out, so I gather it up and put it on the bench by the door. He’s not going to get any homework done today, but when I get back tonight, we can tackle it together.
I’m just serving up our breakfast when Logan comes down the stairs in a hoody and jeans and mismatched socks. I pour him a glass of milk and settle across from him with my second cup of coffee.
“Sleep okay?” I ask him.
Logan cuts a bite with his fork. “Yeah. I was beat.”
“Should I tell Uncle Linden to go easy on you?” I tease.
He gives me a look. “Don’t. He’d only work me harder. ”
“Probably right.” I take a long sip of coffee.
“Is the school gonna email me what I’m missing? Or do we need to like, ask?”
I swallow my bite. This is another thing I’m adjusting to regarding middle school—trying to communicate with multiple teachers, each with slightly different policies. “Might be best to ask.”
He nods. “Maybe… um, I can email them.”
“Need my help?”
He takes a sip of milk. “What do I say?”
“Have you ever emailed someone before?”
His eyes stay on his plate. “Can you help me?”
“You bet.” I have a vague recollection of the communication policy from when I signed those classroom handouts at 6th-grade orientation back in August.
“I have a project in health,” he says with a heavy sigh. “My group’s gonna be mad I’m not there.”
It’s painful to watch the weight of his actions dragging him down, but this lesson is best learned without me meddling.
“We’ll get it sorted, okay?” I offer him my fist.
With a heavy sigh, he bumps it. “Okay.”
Linden’s place is down in the Lakeside neighborhood, a fixer-upper one block from the shore that he bought when he and Kelly split. It was originally a summer home for one of Finn River’s founders, then handed down through generations until it fell into disrepair. To say it’s a work in progress would be a major understatement, but Linden needs to stay busy or he has a tendency to self-destruct.
When we pull up in front of the two-story A-frame, Linden’s pacing on the deck that faces the lake, one hand thrust into his hair. A bag from Glory Holes, a giant travel mug of what I’m sure is coffee, and a to-go cup that’s most likely hot chocolate for Logan rest on the picnic table he uses more than the formal table and chairs inside .
“The answer’s no,” he snaps, then ends the call, shaking his head as we round the corner. “Hey, guys,” he says to us, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his work jeans and pushing the bag toward Logan. “They had those vanilla chai ones fresh out of the oven.”
“Thanks, Uncle Linden.”
Linden ruffles his hair. “I’m not such a grump I forgot the donut holes.”
“You’re not a grump,” Logan says, diving into the bag.
“Everything okay?” I ask my brother, keeping my tone low.
He releases a heavy sigh and squints at the lake, which is a bright mirror of glass in the early sunshine. “Kelly’s trying to rewrite our co-parenting plan now that I’m back on shift. It’s stressing me out.”
“Anything I can do?”
He shakes his head.
“Thanks again for keeping him busy today.”
Linden cracks his knuckles and flashes me a wicked smile. “The pleasure’s gonna be all mine.”
“How’s the shoulder?” I ask.
“Better. Sepp’s strengthening stuff helped a lot.” He swings his arm around, rubbing along his collarbone. “Hey, I heard the cabin’s got new tenants. Some friend of Sepp’s and her kid, right?”
The Rumsey family grapevine is alive and well. “Yeah.”
“They okay?”
I don’t know how much Sepp or Mom shared about the break-in, so I keep it simple. “Uh, yeah.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Wanna talk about it?”
Linden always been able to read me, but I’m not in the mood for one of his pep talks. “No.”
He gives me a nod. Linz isn’t a hugger, so we bump fists, then I give Logan a quick hug goodbye and head to the station. During the quiet drive, I review my to-do list. First, I want to make sure Vivian’s ex isn’t in Finn River. But I need to tread carefully.
Sharing information with cops in different regions is part of my job, but the kind of inquiry I want to make isn’t the collaborative kind. I don’t know anything about Vivian’s ex besides his name and unit: Kent Hyek, LAPD vice squad, and the last thing I want to do is stir up trouble.
Vivian is convinced he wasn’t behind the break in. So, who was it?
Because what if they didn’t find what they were looking for, and they decide to try again?
When I enter the sheriff building’s through the back entrance, a voice I haven’t heard in months draws me to Sheriff’s Olson’s office.
“Come in, Rumsey,” Sheriff Olson says just as his guest turns in his seat.
My gut churns when I realize who it is.
“Special Agent Luke Ballard,” I say, reaching to shake his outstretched hand. “Good to see you.”
Though I have a feeling I’m not going to like the reason.
Luke gives me a grim nod. He’s slightly shorter than me and broad shouldered but with the lean build of a runner. The only reason I know he’s a former pararescue operative for the Air Force is through Hutch, who used to fly missions with Luke. After a failed op got him sidelined with PTSD, Luke was recruited by the behavioral sciences unit of the FBI.
Last year, Ava Greely, Hutch’s best friend and now his wife, was being targeted by a stalker and we had been in a race against time to rescue her. Luke’s expertise helped us put the asshole behind bars for life.
During that same time, Ballard was helping us with Marin Lambert’s murder investigation. He had strong evidence that her death was the work of a serial murderer who had been operating in the corridor between central California and southwest Montana. He’d identified three other victims that fit the M.O.: Michelle Swanson from Cascade, Idaho, Jane Beasley from Nevada, and Nichole-Renée Page from San Francisco.
The behavior of Ava Greely’s stalker, a local mall security guard, and the M.O. of this killer shared enough similarities that for a time, we thought that our stalker and the killer could be one and the same. However, the evidence told a different story.
In the end, the prosecutor who took the stalking case decided not to pursue the murder angle in favor of focusing on the charges she knew would stick. It worked—Jeremy Fisher will never walk free again—but it left us with a very unsatisfying resolution to the murders.
Murders we’ve continued to work.
“Have a seat,” Sheriff Olson says, his weathered face tense.
I lower myself into the empty chair to Luke’s right.
“A week ago, I got an alert,” Luke says. “Murdered girl found in a mine.”
My pulse pops into my throat. “Where?”
“Outside of Big Pine, Wyoming.”
It’s near Yellowstone National Park, in the northwest corner of the state. “And?” I ask because there’s gotta be more or he wouldn’t be here.
Luke’s mouth tightens and he huffs a hard breath through his nose. “There are similarities to the others. I’m looking into it.”
Others . I flex and relax my fists.
“Have there been any other murders that fit the pattern?” I ask.
Luke shakes his head. “Nothing that landed on my desk, but I’m going to look again, make sure we haven’t missed any.”
Shit. I don’t like the sound of this one bit. “What do you need from us?”
“Any updates on Marin and Michelle’s cases.”
Luke knows that even though we’re on a combined task force, I’ve continued to work these cases on my own too, but we haven’t touched base since August. “I’ll email you as soon as we’re finished here.”
Sheriff Olson locks eyes with me. “Until we have conclusive proof that those cases need to be reopened, we’ll keep this between us. ”
“Zach needs in,” I say, glancing at Luke. “He knows Marin’s case inside out.” Plus, I’m not doing this alone.
“All right,” Sheriff Olson says. “But let’s keep it from Troy.”
Troy Robinson is our newest hire and though he’s young, he’s proving himself quickly. However, he and Marin Lambert were tight. Her murder motivated him to choose a career in law enforcement, and the only reason I’ll pour salt on those wounds is if we are one hundred percent sure Ballard’s new case is related.
“Understood,” I say, my tone heavy.
Fuck. If this new victim does in fact tie to the others, I’m going to need to tell Marin’s family. It’s been hard enough keeping them up to date on our lack of progress this past year. I know secretly they think Fisher is Marin’s killer and we just haven’t proved it yet, and we haven’t given them good reason to think otherwise.
That’s all about to change if Luke is right.
If we’d succeeded in putting Marin’s killer behind bars, would this new victim still be alive?
I wish I could blame Luke or the federal agents working alongside us, but the Finn River Sheriff’s Department played a role, too. The evidence linking Fisher to Lost River Canyon and that lookout where Marin is believed to have been killed has been a thorn in my side. A red herring. A distraction.
“There’s one other thing, and I’ve already talked to Hutch about it,” Luke says. “He’s going back down into York Springs Mine to look for a piece of evidence that may have been overlooked, or that may have fallen deeper into that shaft.”
I close my eyes and coax in a slow breath to slow my racing heart because I know where this is going. “Something specific.”
Luke slips his phone from his pocket and pulls up a photo, then hands it to me. The image shows a delicate gold chain with a small key pendant tucked inside a plastic evidence bag. “The Big Pine victim was wearing this.”
“Looks just like the one we found around Marin’s neck.”
Two murder victims found hundreds of miles apart, in two different states, both wearing a similar piece of jewelry isn’t conclusive that they’re connected… but it’s pretty fucking spooky.
And if we find one just like it at the bottom of York Springs Mine, where we found Michelle? It means something much more than that.
“I’ll coordinate the search,” I say because Hutch isn’t law enforcement, so he’ll need me or Zach to run point on any evidence collection. I just wish it wasn’t down some dark, dank mine shaft.
I return Luke’s phone. “Are you sticking around?”
He shakes his head. “I took a few days of leave to climb Liberty Spires with Hutch, but I’m flying out this afternoon.”
Sheriff Olson outlines several details of our plan, including how Luke, Zach and I will share information, then I walk Luke out. “Were either Nichole-Renée or Jane Beasley wearing a necklace?” I ask him in a low tone.
“No,” he replies.
Big Pine is well outside where the killer disposed of his other victims. “Wyoming is pretty far east, isn’t it?”
“You’re right. If it’s him, he’s changed his pattern.”
I’m no profiler, but this seems like a big leap for a perp who’s grown accustomed to working in a certain area. But maybe it’s a sign we are getting closer to him, forcing him to make changes.
I grasp at the hope that this will make him easier to nab.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say to Luke. Once we’re in the hallway, I ask in a low tone, “I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
He gives me a thoughtful glance. “Sure.”
“Do you have any contacts in the L.A. FBI field office?”
“Yeah, actually. I’ve helped with a few cases out there. Why?”
“I’m working a local case. It might be linked to a LAPD vice cop named Kent Hyek.”
Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. “Like he’s hanging around Finn River?”
“I don’t know yet.” I’d like to think a big-city cop in small town Finn River would stand out like a sore thumb, but vice cops are often experienced in undercover work. I can’t discount the possibility that he’s found a way to blend in.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Discreet, though, yeah?”
“Understood.”
“Thanks.”
At the door, Luke and I shake hands, then he pushes through the double glass doors. I return the way I came and head into the bullpen. Most of the cubicles are empty, but Zach’s typing away at his.
Troy is off today, but other deputies are working within earshot. I decide to head out on patrol and call Zach for a quick meet up later. But first, I type an email to Luke detailing the recent leads I’ve worked and the questions I haven’t found answers for, plus a link to the digital versions of both Marin’s and Michelle’s updated case files. Then I call up our crime scene tech, Walker Feldman.
“Feldman,” he answers.
“Hey, it’s Rumsey. Any chance you’ve processed that Taurus yet?”
He snorts. “You had it towed in, what yesterday?”
“Pretty please?” I’m not above begging.
“I’ll see what I can do. Not sure it’s worth my time, though. My initial sweep turned up exactly nada.”
I frown. “Like it’s been wiped down?”
“Looks that way.”
In the footage Nate shared, the driver didn’t appear to be wearing gloves, but the image was grainy, and his hands weren’t clearly visible. If he wiped down the car, when did he have the time to do it? Certainly not at the boat ramp. So, before? Which would mean he knew he was going to ditch the Taurus ahead of time.
“Hey, the owner, Woody McGowan, called back,” Walker says. “You weren’t in yet, so I talked to him. Apparently, the clothes in those bags? They were donations for Goodwill. He hadn’t gotten around to dropping them off.”
“Huh.” Could this case get any weirder?
“I’ll send you what I have so far, so you can run with it.”
“Thanks.” I tap the eraser end of my pencil on my desk. “Any chance you’ve got anything from the break in yesterday at the Meadows?”
“You’ve got a real bee in your bonnet today, don’t you?”
I rub my forehead. “A fingerprint would make my century.”
“I haven’t even broken the seals yet.”
Right. It’s too soon. My cases aren’t his only cases, etcetera.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he sings.
I decide to pay another visit to The Meadows and follow up with the rest of the neighbors. As I head to my vehicle, I think about the softness of Vivian’s hand in mine last night at the dinner table. Coupled with what I learned about her ex and how he treated her, it’s a wonder I’ve been able to focus this morning.
I now have even more reasons to keep her at a distance, yet when I think about kissing her, every cell in my body snaps to attention.