Chapter 22
What. A. Day.
For years, all Alex could think about was becoming an FBI agent. And during all that time, she pictured her first day going a myriad of ways, some good, some not so good.
But not once did she ever picture a clusterfuck of a day like today.
Her esteemed partner was half in the bag for most of it, she’d essentially just watched movies by herself, and, in the grand finale, Con had tried to kiss her.
All Alex could do was laugh.
Laugh and laugh and laugh until tears squeezed out of her eyes.
Good thing she was alone in her hotel room otherwise, Alex wouldn’t have been surprised if she was suddenly ‘randomly selected’ for a psych eval.
But even as she continued to chuckle, Alex knew that what had happened could have potentially been something serious.
The last time a colleague—a unit supervisor, no less—had come on to her, things had ended very differently. She’d turned him down, but this wasn’t the type of man who was used to rejection.
He’d put his hands on her, grabbed her shoulders.
Alex had driven her knee into his scrotum.
The man was reassigned the very next day.
But this… this wasn’t like that .
Con hadn’t been aggressive in the least. Nor had he been intimidating. He just… was .
What he’d done clearly crossed the line and despite the look she’d seen in his dark eyes—not lust, but just the empty stare of a broken man—it was inappropriate.
Once more, she recalled what Marcus Allen had told her.
Would the Special Agent in Charge let Con go because of his actions?
Maybe.
She reconsidered.
Probably.
Con didn’t deserve that.
Still, Alex promised herself that if Con tried anything again, she would report him, regardless of what it meant for either of their careers.
She spent the next half hour unpacking her things, putting her clothes away in the faux wood dresser.
Then she got ready for bed. Instead of turning on the TV or doom-scrolling on her phone, Alex grabbed the gold rush book she’d purchased from the bookstore on Lewis Street.
While waiting for Con to pick her up, she’d read the first few chapters. It was dry, like the Mojave Desert that Con was convinced the settlers had selected first.
This bothered her. Not the location—she had zero interest in the Gold Rush, and, odd as it was, Con seemed to share this indifference—but the fact that she’d gotten a detail wrong.
She’d thought the first major migration had been to Yerba Beuna, not the Mojave. In fact, she couldn’t recall anything but a passing mention of the desert.
Alex prided herself not only on her ability to notice minor facts but to retain this information. She’d honed this skill over decades, starting all the way back when she’d been just a little girl, following her dad to important political gatherings.
He would ask her about the people later, inquire about their expressions, their attitudes. Mannerisms.
Alex scanned the first few chapters again and then, on page 41, she found what she was looking for.
The page did indeed confirm her side of the story—it was Yerba Beuna, not the Mojave.
Alex knew instantly why this seemingly unimportant difference bothered her. It was because Con struck her as someone who also knew the importance and value of even the smallest detail.
She chalked this up to the man being intoxicated and closed the book.
When sleep didn’t come right away, Alex grabbed her phone and called Tori back, for no other reason than to hear a familiar voice in this unfamiliar landscape.
***
Con waited until Alex Frost was safely in her Uber—she’d dropped him and his car off at home first—before heading back outside. He was mortified by what he’d done. She was too young for him. He was her boss. His wife had just left him. It was coming up on the anniversary of his sister’s disappearance.
It was almost time to send his annual email to Matthew Nelson Neil again.
Con took out his keys and got behind the wheel. His encounter with Alex had sobered him up completely and even though he should be exhausted, Con was anything but tired.
He needed to drive.
With all the windows down, Con slowly cruised through the Orange County streets, heading east. He passed Villa Park and eventually found himself on North Windes Drive.
Moments later, Con drove by the Santiago Oaks Regional Park sign. The park was technically closed, but it wasn’t difficult to get around the yellow and black striped barricade. From there, he headed southeast before eventually ending up near Santiago Canyon.
Con parked and got out of the car. He shivered as the cool night air enveloped him.
A decade ago, most of the entire park and the surrounding area had been roped off. Reporters had been everywhere, all trying to gain access, all trying to get that photo that would put their names on the map. Some were bold enough to risk obstruction charges by ducking the crime scene tape.
Now, especially at night, the place was quiet.
Con walked down the embankment toward a sandy area. It was impossible to tell that back then the entire place had been dug up. Grass, patchy as it was, had long since grown back.
Holes had been filled in.
Nature had reclaimed what they’d stripped from it.
But Con could picture the scene as if it was yesterday.
Large, industrial backhoes struggling to get down the slope, foremen screaming at them to take it slow. Tate, standing beside him, watching, hands on his hips.
CSU techs donning their typical white uniforms, brandishing shovels.
Dozens of OC cops speaking to each other in hushed voices. That one asshole with the long hair from the California Bureau of Investigation who walked around as if he owned the place.
It was where they’d found Matthew’s first victim, Marcy Long.
Con and Tate were only advisers back then—it wasn’t until Deborah Long’s body was discovered in Antelope Valley that they took over.
But, standing on that hill next to his partner, Con had had a bad feeling in his gut, an inkling that this wasn’t an isolated incident, that there would be more victims.
It was one of the few times he hoped he was wrong.
He wasn’t.
“I miss you, Valerie,” Con said to the night air.
In the distance, a coyote howled.
Con hiked back to his car and drove home. Once there, he ran his arm across the kitchen table, sending all of his documents flying to the floor.
Photos of the victims, of his sister, of the crime scenes. Even the map that he’d meticulously notated over the years.
A copy of the transcript from The Sandman’s confession.
Then, without hesitating, he scooped everything up and threw it in a contractor garbage bag.
Body or not, it was time for Constantine Striker to move on.