Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
Zoe could taste salt in the back of her throat as she stepped out of the car.
The beach stretched long and narrow, hemmed in by jagged driftwood and dark, windswept pines that loomed just beyond the sand. Water slapped against the shore, churning up foam and seaweed. There was no sun, just flat, filtered daylight.
“Ugh, I don’t even know what time it is.” She scrunched up her nose at the sky, stepping out. “What’s wrong with this state? Why is it always so dark?”
Aiden was next to her, his eyes closed and head tipped up, like he was savoring the wind through his hair and flicking over his skin. Zoe rarely saw him like this—relaxed, in the moment, and not busy dissecting anyone.
A smile spilled over the corners of his lips. “Quit staring, Storm.”
“Shut up.” She frowned. “So Ed is here?”
“Ethan said that Ed comes for a jog here.”
“How did he find out?”
“Friend of a friend of a deputy knows Ed. Perks of a small town.”
The wind came in restless bursts, cold and damp, whipping Zoe’s hair into her face and sending her body slightly wayward from the force.
Sand pricked her eyes. She was rubbing it off when Aiden’s warm hand came to her face, gently brushing her hair away.
She froze, her skin buzzing, and everything inside her became hot.
When she opened her eyes, he was so focused on untangling her hair that she wondered what he had been like with his late wife, how he’d mourned her, how she’d died.
Just as quickly, he withdrew his hand and cleared his throat, looking around. “Luckily, the beach is practically empty. Oh! There he is!”
In the distance, Zoe saw Ed jogging toward them—in perfect shape, sweat coating his skin.
“Well, Ethan sent us his background check.” Aiden said, reading from his phone. “Former Army. Served in a recon unit out of Fort Lewis. Marksman certification, high placement in advanced rifle courses. He was one of those guys who could hit a moving target at six hundred yards without blinking.”
“Sounds like someone who would do just as well with darts. Could he be Spector ? Any criminal history?”
“Got a dishonorable discharge in 2009. Something about disobeying orders. Two years later, he shoots a man outside a bar in Spokane. Claimed self-defense. Jury didn’t buy it, but they gave him a light sentence—two years. Probably because of the PTSD angle.”
“He was involved in the original massacre investigation.” Zoe connected the dots, her eyes glued to Ed, who was doing laps in the distance.
“That’s how he and Jackie must have known each other.
She was obsessed with it, probably reached out to him.
And then when she and Annabelle planned the theft, Annabelle didn’t know that her partner in crime was an obsessed psychopath who planned to hunt her down. ”
“His history is textbook: early conditioning in precision, control, high-stakes decision-making. All funneled into a military identity that collapsed when he was discharged under dishonorable terms.” Aiden studied him.
“Given his PTSD, Jackie’s actions triggered him. And so he could have hunted her down.”
“And enjoyed it so much that he took Amy, whom he would have known about through Jackie.”
As they got closer, Ed noticed them and he slowed down. But something about their faces must have revealed their intention. Suddenly, he broke into a run and Zoe shot off after him.
The wind came at her sideways, slapping strands of wet hair across her cheek. Her soles slapped hard against the firm, damp sand, just inches from where the surf licked the shore.
Ahead of her, Ed stumbled. His knees buckled slightly—he was fit but older and already worn out from his jog.
“FBI! Ed! Stop!” she shouted through ragged breaths.
Ed didn’t respond or slow down. Gulls screamed overhead.
Frustrated, Zoe ditched her boots, which were sinking in the dunes.
She pushed herself harder, her thighs burning, her breath tearing at her lungs.
From the corner of her eye she saw Aiden was trying to cut him off by heading in the other direction.
But Aiden wasn’t designed for fieldwork and he wasn’t nearly as fast as she was.
Ed veered toward the rocks ahead. A jagged heap of barnacle-crusted stone that jutted from the beach like the ribs of a shipwreck.
“Shit,” Zoe muttered.
He tried to climb. What an idiot, Zoe thought. His foot slipped, arms windmilled, and he dropped onto all fours. Zoe reached him just as he was trying to scramble up again.
She lunged at him.
He turned too late. Her shoulder slammed into his ribs and they went down hard onto the pebbles and wet sand.
Ed wheezed. Zoe rolled off him, panting, and then straddled his chest before he could move.
He flinched. “Please!”
“Why did you run, Ed? If you did nothing wrong?”
His mouth moved soundlessly. There was blood on his lower lip. Zoe grabbed his jacket collar and hauled him up enough to look directly into his face.
Aiden caught up, panting. “Jesus, how fast are you, Storm?”
“I’m actually not the fastest runner,” she mumbled. “Ed, why did you run?”
His frantic eyes bounced between them. “Because I broke into Annabelle’s house. When I was leaving, I cut myself on the window ledge. You got my DNA, didn’t you?”
“You’re smart,” Aiden remarked. “Now tell us what the hell you were doing there.”
“The massacre has haunted me,” he admitted, a blush creeping up his face.
“I saw in the news that woman was found dead but then you guys showed up and started asking questions about the massacre and the arson… I realized that it must be connected somehow. I always knew there was a cover-up. It wasn’t an accident. ”
“You thought that someone wanted justice for what happened?” Aiden asked.
He shrugged, sweat plopping down his face.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured the connection was.
Justice denied back then and some vigilante shit happening today.
That’s why I broke into that lady’s house.
I wanted to know if she had a connection to any of the victims or someone from the investigative team. On my way out, I was careless.”
Zoe had been wondering the same thing—a connection forged from injustice years ago, how teenagers had died in a fire that stemmed from arson, not mechanical failure.
She thought Jackie was pissed and was seeking revenge, which is why she’d sent Michael’s hair to her.
And whoever had killed Jackie had another motive—something to do with Harrington Group, the ones responsible for the conspiracy for hiding the truth about that night.
Ed wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Why didn’t you just come to us?” Zoe said. “It’s a small town. We can always use volunteers.”
He blew a frustrated breath. “Yeah, I know what kind of work volunteers do. Combing the woods, looking into anonymous tips. I wanted to help in a significant way. You don’t understand, Agent Storm.
That massacre is the identity of this town.
Pineview Falls lives and breathes that tragedy.
It would be an honor to contribute to that legacy. ”
Zoe rolled her eyes. Clearly Adam wasn’t the only one willing to exploit pain—he did it for his career and Ed did it for his ego.
“Did you find anything?” Aiden cocked an eyebrow. “Annabelle’s husband reported that the room was a mess.”
He bit his lip, hesitating. “I might have…”
Zoe’s spine straightened. “What?”
Ed pulled out a folded picture from the pocket of his shorts. Reluctantly, he handed it to them. “This was tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer. As if Annabelle didn’t want anyone to find it.”
Zoe unfolded it. Her fingers grazed the aged, weathered picture. Annabelle and a man standing in front of a waterfall. Their arms around each other, beaming at the camera. The ease, the intimacy, and the unsettling fact that this man was not her husband.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out, but I don’t have access to any databases or fancy technology.”
“Storm, what do you want to do?” Aiden side-eyed Ed.
Zoe got in Ed’s face. He wilted and for a second she felt bad for the man. “Thank you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This was very helpful. We appreciate it.” She shook his hand. “But we have your DNA on file and you are under surveillance. You can go now, sir.”
He swallowed hard and gave a jerky nod before jogging away.
“That was… kind of you.” Aiden frowned. “So who is the guy in the picture?”
She pulled out her phone and began browsing.
Something about this man rang a bell. A faint glimmer of recognition.
She had spent a long time digging through Annabelle’s social media—Jackie didn’t have one and Amy’s was essentially just LinkedIn.
As she began scrolling, she found an old post, dated fifteen years ago of them holding hands.
Ian Monroe.
“Ex-boyfriend,” Aiden declared. “She was hanging on to the picture of them. Hiding it in the drawer. That’s telling.”
“Something tells me this was the reason Annabelle and her husband were fighting.”