Chapter Seventeen
House Guest
Blake
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, my eyes flicking between the manila folder in my lap and the well maintained brick home down the road.
A week of sitting in this rental car for hours has left me impatient, with a stiff neck, and drowning in a pile of fast food wrappers.
The coffee in my travel mug went cold hours ago, but I take a sip anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"Come on, Voss. Leave the house for once. Go for a damn grocery run or something," I mutter to myself, adjusting my position to ease the cramping in my lower back.
I flip to the next page. This folder holds everything I've compiled during my investigation, both on and off the books, and it's extensive.
This isn't just notes and evidence I've collected over the last few months, I've been gathering the information in this file for years.
Some of the pages are dog-eared, some marked with coffee stains, others with my hurried notes scrawled in the margins.
It started out as a side project, but also the sole reason I joined the bureau.
My little brother, Ryan, was taken from right in front of our home when he was just six years old.
I was older, eighteen at the time, and it was my responsibility to watch him that day while our parents were at work.
He fell off his bike and scraped his elbow.
I already knew Mom would be mad at me for not making him wear his pads and helmet, so I wanted to get him cleaned up before she got home from work.
I left him sitting on the sidewalk to run inside and grab the first aid kit.
I was inside the house for less than a minute.
When I walked back out the front door, he was gone.
The bike was still there, tipped over with one wheel slowly spinning.
I called his name, thinking he might have wandered to a neighbor's yard, but the street remained eerily silent.
That moment, that horrible, gut-wrenching realization that he was gone, is burned into my memory like a brand.
One minute of carelessness cost my family everything.
The neighborhood search parties, the police interviews, my parents' pleading for their child's safe return during press conferences, none of it brought Ryan back.
Fifteen years later, I still wake up in the middle of the night from a dead sleep thinking I hear him calling for me from the sidewalk.
That's why every case file on my desk isn't just work; it's personal.
I couldn't save my family from that pain, but maybe I can save someone else's.
We never found out what happened. Never knowing where Ryan was, if he was okay…
It's a heartbreak that never goes away and sure as hell never gets any easier.
The hollow ache in my chest has only calcified over time, hardening into something I carry with me everywhere I go.
There were no witnesses, no evidence, no leads to follow.
At least that's what we were told by local police with their forced sympathetic faces and empty promises.
We lived near this area, but a few towns away in a place where people kept their doors unlocked and kids played outside until the streetlights came on.
But after what happened to Ryan, there were whispers and rumors circulating about something sinister happening.
It wasn't just kids going missing, women were disappearing too, especially sex workers who operated on the fringes of society where their absence wouldn't immediately raise alarms. Names would appear in the local paper, then fade away without resolution, becoming forgotten statistics rather than people with families who grieved them .
It was just rumors though passed by patrons at diners and gas stations, whispered warnings shared between mothers at PTA meetings. Nothing concrete enough to be taken seriously by local police, who'd dismiss concerns with patronizing smiles and assurances that "these things happen sometimes."
So, I joined the F.B.I. with a vow made only to myself, do anything within my power so no family would ever have to endure the torture of living in the unknown like mine has.
The sleepless nights, the jumping at every phone call, the way my mother's eyes still dart hopefully toward the door whenever the hinges creak.
If I could save just one family from being stuck in that dark place where you are alive but not living, just merely going through the motions while suffering under the weight of gnawing uncertainty, then it was worth it.
If there were answers to be found, I would find them, no matter how deep I had to dig.
My first month on the job, while colleagues were focusing on making good impressions, I started quietly mining databases after hours, cross-referencing those whispered rumors that had circulated through the rural area in Ohio where I'd grown up.
What began as subtle inquiries evolved into a quiet, under the radar, one man investigation spanning the past two years.
I've meticulously uncovered a labyrinthine web of lies and systematic coverups that begin at local sheriff departments and police precincts all across the country, then snake their way upward through corrupt chains of command.
The roots may begin at the local level, but the branches reach into politicians' offices, judges' chambers, governors' mansions, and the plush corner offices of Fortune 500 CEOs.
The network spreads like a cancer, with each new name I uncover revealing three more connections, each more powerful and untouchable than the last.
What shocked me even more than mapping this nationwide trafficking network was the pattern that emerged specifically in my home region.
I began noticing peculiar murders or strategic disappearances of individuals I could connect—either directly or through careful degrees of separation—to key players in this network.
These weren't random acts of violence; they were calculated eliminations.
Not only did these assholes turn up dead, but the calling card of the White Reaper was left behind at each scene.
The killer's meticulous handiwork has inadvertently become my greatest investigative asset.
Not only was this unknown killer taking out the proverbial trash, but he's also unknowingly helping me connect the dots between previously isolated members of this network, allowing me to unravel connections I might never have discovered otherwise.
My first problem? I started this investigation for personal reasons, not professional ones.
If I bring this information to the bureau and disclose I've been using F.B.I.
resources for years without permission or clearance, I'm fired and I'll never get another job in law enforcement again, and everything I've uncovered so far will be for nothing.
The career I've spent my entire adult life building would collapse overnight.
When the opportunity came up for someone to come work on the Reaper case, I jumped on it.
Thankfully no one else wanted to be sent to Nowhere, Ohio for an undetermined amount of time.
Most agents with families or actual social lives avoided this assignment like the plague.
Their reluctance was my salvation. Now I have the opportunity to investigate the White Reaper legitimately and 'accidentally' stumble across all the other information I've uncovered.
I can present my findings as though they emerged organically from this sanctioned investigation. It's the perfect cover.
Every Reaper victim has been someone who, on paper, has been model citizens and productive members of their community.
Only the White Reaper and I seem to know the truth.
They are all wolves in sheep's clothing hiding in plain sight. They don’t appear to be the child molesters, abusers, rapists they actually are, who have slipped through the cracks undetected.
My eyes scan the profile I've built on the Reaper .
-Subject demonstrates extensive knowledge of history, particularly methods of punishment and execution.
-Methodical and likely highly intelligent, possibly in law enforcement or an adjacent field with access to case information and crime scene details.
-Shows intimate familiarity with investigative procedures, knows exactly what evidence to eliminate or obscure.
-Extremely organized, leaving no trace evidence despite the complex nature of the killings. Crime scenes are pristine except for deliberately staged elements. Nothing accidental or impulsive.
-Follows a strict moral code that will make perfect sense to him but likely not what society traditionally views as right and wrong.
-Victims aren't random. They will be selected according to a set of criteria he has developed.
-Has experienced significant trauma, possibly at the hands of an authority figure such as a parent, teacher, or religious leader who has escaped conventional justice.
This trauma likely serves as the catalyst for his behavior, creating a psychological need to right perceived wrongs made by individuals who remind him of his own abuser.
Someone exactly like Silas Voss.
I glance up quickly in the direction of the house, still no movement.
Physical evidence connecting Voss is nonexistent.
Everything else is circumstantial at best, but my gut screams he's our guy.
The pieces fit too perfectly to ignore. His professional position gives him access, knowledge, and the perfect cover.
His demeanor, that carefully constructed persona of competence and casual charm, it's all a masterfully crafted mask.
It's hard to explain logically to someone who hasn't witnessed it firsthand, but you can see it in his eyes, he is hiding something dark inside of him .