CHAPTER SEVEN
The harsh afternoon sun beat down on the roadside where Amanda Lindeen had vanished. In her mind’s eye, Riley kept seeing Amanda—young, capable—transformed in an instant from delivery driver to victim. The evidence told a clear story: a vehicle pulled alongside, a struggle ensued, and then nothing.
Riley joined Ann Marie as she approached Captain Hodge and Chief Rawley. “I’ve been wondering,” Ann Marie said, “how did the unsub know when to intercept Amanda here? This spot seems specifically chosen.”
Rawley’s face was grim beneath her department cap. “Amanda was a creature of habit. Always took the same route home after finishing her deliveries—straight down Miller Road, then this county access road as a shortcut. Been doing it for years, according to her coworkers.”
“Predictable,” Riley murmured.
“Exactly,” Rawley said. “Anyone who wanted to track her movements wouldn’t have had much trouble. Follow her once or twice, and you’d know her pattern.”
“Of course, he could have known her schedule some other way,” Captain Hodge suggested. “NPX routes aren’t exactly state secrets. Could’ve called the depot posing as a customer, asked when his package might arrive—people give out information without thinking twice.”
“That wasn’t the case this time,” Rawley said. “I checked in with her supervisor, and they had a detailed record of phone calls. Nothing unusual there.”
Riley felt a familiar chill. Predators thrived on patterns, on the comfortable routines that made victims feel safe right up until the moment safety was ripped away.
“You said you’ve already spoken with the person Amanda made her last delivery to,” Riley said to Rawley.
“Myrtle Sprouse,” Rawley confirmed. She lives about three miles from here with her husband, Milton. We interviewed her earlier, but she couldn’t tell me much—said the delivery was routine, Amanda seemed normal.”
Riley turned back to face the group. “I’d like to talk with her again. Sometimes people remember details after the shock wears off.”
“Worth a try,” Rawley agreed. “Captain Hodge and I will lead the way if you want to follow in your vehicle.”
Moments later, Riley was behind the wheel with Ann Marie beside her, following the gleam of the police SUV as it wound through the rolling countryside.
Fields of tall grass waved in the summer breeze, occasionally giving way to patches of dense woodland.
The pastoral beauty of the landscape seemed to mock the ugliness of what they were investigating.
“So,” Ann Marie said, breaking the contemplative silence, “did you get any of your... feelings back there? About the unsub?” Her question was careful, respectful of the boundaries Riley maintained around her intuitive process.
Riley’s throat suddenly felt dry. “Amanda’s dead,” she said flatly. “I can’t prove it, can’t explain how I know, but she is.”
She glanced at Ann Marie, expecting skepticism, but found only attentive concern.
“What makes you so certain?” Ann Marie asked.
Riley struggled to articulate what felt like a certainty to her. “It’s the precision of it all. The location, the timing—this wasn’t opportunistic. He planned it meticulously, and men who plan like that...” She let the sentence hang.
“Don’t leave their targets alive,” Ann Marie finished quietly. “Unless they have some other use for them.”
“Something like that.” Riley followed Hodge’s car around a sharp bend in the road.
“I guess this means that the other driver, Cable Morris, met the same fate.”
“That’s my guess, too. But I can’t tell Hodge or Rawley that I think they’re both dead. Not yet. They need evidence, not my gut feeling.”
“I understand. Until we find a body—if we find it—they’ll keep treating this as a missing persons case.”
“Which brings us to our other dilemma,” Riley said, voicing the thought that had been circling in her mind since their arrival. “I’m almost certain we’re working a serial case. The method, the victim profile—it all points that way, and that’s also what my intuitions tell me.”
“But we’re the only ones who know it, besides the killer himself,” Ann Marie observed.
“And we can’t announce that at this point,” Riley added. “We’re just not ready.”
They drove in silence for a moment.
“These murders cross jurisdictions,” Ann Marie finally said. “If there’s a pattern here that isn’t about a particular company or any personal connections between the victims—”
“Then Amanda won’t be his last victim,” Riley finished grimly. “And we’re racing a clock that’s already counting down to the next abduction.”
The road ahead curved through a stand of ancient oak trees. Riley watched Rawley’s brake lights flare as her car slowed for the turn. She followed suit, her mind already preparing for the interview ahead.
As they emerged from the trees, Riley caught sight of a house in the near distance, a tidy farmstead with fields stretching behind it. Rawley’s car was already pulling into the gravel drive.
The split-level house sat nestled against a backdrop of rolling pastures, its gray clapboard exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun.
As Riley and Ann Marie stepped from their vehicle, Riley noted the careful maintenance of the property—flower beds weeded, lawn precisely trimmed, a row of tomato plants staked in military precision along the side of the house.
The place spoke of order and routine, of lives built around predictability.
She wondered what Myrtle Sprouse might have noticed about Amanda Lindeen’s final delivery that she hadn’t yet recognized as important.
Captain Hodge and Chief Rawley had already reached the front porch. Before they could knock, the door swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin and thinning gray hair. His expression hardened as he took in the four visitors.
“You were here just this morning, Chief,” the man said, his voice gruff with irritation. “My wife told you everything she knows, which isn’t much. She’s upset enough as it is about Amanda.”
Riley stepped forward. “Mr. Sprouse, I’m Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI.
This is my colleague, Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer, and this is Captain Hodge of the State Police.
We understand your wife has already been interviewed, but sometimes people remember additional details after they’ve had time to process events. ”
Milton crossed his arms. “And what good has all this questioning done so far? Have you found Amanda?”
“Not yet,” Riley admitted, “but every piece of information helps us build a clearer picture. Your wife was the last person to see Amanda before she disappeared. That makes her perspective invaluable.”
Milton hesitated, his jaw working as he considered his options. Behind him, a woman’s voice called out.
“Who is it, Milton?”
“It’s Chief Rawley again,” he called back. “And she’s got a State Police captain and a couple of FBI agents with this time.”
“Let them in,” the voice replied.
Milton’s posture remained rigid, but he stepped aside, reluctantly gesturing them. “My wife’s in the living room. Try not to upset her more than she already is.”
They followed him through a neat entryway into a living room decorated with family photos and crocheted throws.
Myrtle Sprouse sat in a floral armchair, her hands twisting a tissue into knots.
She was a small woman with silver-streaked brown hair pulled back in a practical bun.
Her eyes darted immediately to Riley’s face.
“Have you found her? Is Amanda okay?” The hope in her voice was painful to hear.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sprouse. We haven’t found her yet,” Riley said gently. “But we’re doing everything we can.”
Myrtle’s face fell. She blinked rapidly. “Of course. I understand. But what can I possibly tell you that I didn’t tell the chief earlier?”
Riley sat on the edge of the sofa across from her while Ann Marie took a nearby chair. Milton remained standing, positioning himself just behind his wife’s chair like a sentry.
“Could you walk us through Amanda’s delivery yesterday?” Riley asked. “Every detail you can remember, even if it seems insignificant.”
“It was just before dinnertime. Milton had gone into town for some tractor parts.” She glanced up at her husband. “The NPX truck pulled up, and Amanda hopped out with my package—some gardening supplies I’d ordered online.”
“Did she seem normal? Anxious about anything?” Ann Marie asked.
“She seemed fine. Same as always—efficient, polite.” Myrtle’s eyes grew distant with memory. “I asked how her mother was getting along. She said about the same.”
“How long did the delivery take?” Riley asked.
“Not long. Five minutes, maybe? I signed for the package, and she went back to her truck. Last I saw, she was driving toward the main road.” Myrtle’s voice wavered slightly. “If I’d known it might be the last time...”
Milton placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known, Myrtle.”
Riley leaned forward. “You mentioned Amanda’s mother. You know the family well?”
“Our daughter Mary and Amanda grew up together. They played soccer on the same team, though they weren’t exactly friends—more like rivals. Amanda’s mother Ida and I were on the PTA together years ago, before Curt passed.”
“Curt was Amanda’s father?” Ann Marie clarified.
“Yes. Died suddenly three years back—heart attack. Ida hasn’t been the same since.” Myrtle shook her head sadly. “She barely leaves the house anymore. Amanda moved back home to take care of her.”
Milton huffed. “I told Curt before he died that delivery driving wasn’t a proper job for a girl like Amanda. She was bright, could have done better for herself. But she never did have good sense about things like that.”
Riley noticed Myrtle’s slight wince at her husband’s words but kept her expression neutral. “What kind of person was Amanda, from your perspective?”
“Independent,” Myrtle said firmly, before Milton could answer. “Always was, even as a child. Preferred climbing trees to playing with dolls. Grew up to be responsible, though. Especially after her father died.”
“She bore a lot,” Milton admitted grudgingly. “Taking care of Ida isn’t easy. That woman’s been fading for years, and Amanda was the only lifeline she had.”
Myrtle’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “That’s what worries me so much. What will happen to Ida now? She can barely function with Amanda there to help. Without her...” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.
Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, whose expression remained composed but whose eyes reflected understanding. The ripple effects of Amanda’s disappearance were already spreading outward, claiming secondary victims.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Riley asked. “Did Amanda mention meeting anyone, or did she seem concerned about anything in particular recently?”
Myrtle shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. She seemed... normal. The same as always. Cheerful even,”
“And you didn’t notice anyone else around at that time?”
“No, there was nothing…” Myrtle came to a halt, as trying to remember something. “Wait, I think maybe …” Then she gave a brief laugh and said, “No, that can’t be important,”
Riley gave Ann Marie a quick glance, encouraging her to pick up the questioning.
“But you just remembered something,” Ann Marie said gently. “Please tell us whatever that was.”
“Just a car that passed by really slowly when Amanda was making her delivery. Probably nothing.”
“Thank you for mentioning that,” Ann Marie said. “We never know what matters until later. Can you also tell us why you noticed that car in particular?”
“Well, I didn’t recognize it,” Myrtle replied slowly, her gaze drifting toward the window as if seeing it again. “But it was going so slowly—like a prowling cat— it did make me wonder…”
“What did it look like?”
“Oh, just an old sedan, probably a Ford,” Myrtle said, frowning in concentration. ““dark blue or maybe black under all that dust.”
After a few more questions yielded no more information, Riley thanked the Sprouses for their time. As they walked back to their vehicles, Rawley and Hodge fell into step beside Riley and Ann Marie.
“I assume you’ll want to talk to Ida Lindeen next,” Rawley said.
“Yes,” Riley confirmed. “We need to understand Amanda’s life, her routines, anyone who might have been watching her.”
“I should warn you,” Rawley replied, “Ida’s not going to be easy to talk to. When I visited earlier, she barely acknowledged my presence. Her mind is really slipping, I’m afraid. She doesn’t really know what’s going on.”
“We’ll head over there now,” Riley said. “You two lead the way.”
As Rawley and Hodge walked away toward their SUV, Ann Marie turned to Riley. “Do you think that car means anything?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s not going to be easy, talking with Amanda’s mother. She sounds like the kind of person you communicate with better than I do. I think you should take the lead with that.”
“I’m ready,” Ann Marie said.
Riley was glad to hear it. She hoped that Ida Lindeen held keys to this case that she herself didn’t even recognize. Ann Marie’s upbringing in a funeral home gave her exceptional skills for this kind of situation.
At this moment, Riley had nothing else that she thought might break this case open. Her gut instinct—that unnamed alarm bell that had saved lives before—told her somewhere out there another potential victim could be moving unwittingly through their final hours.