Chapter Three
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Colt stepped through the front door first, weapon up, his steps halting just shy of the dark smears on the hardwood floor. The coppery tang of blood thickened in his throat as Harlan came in behind him, Brenna right beside him.
All three had their guns drawn.
“Clear left,” Harlan murmured, sweeping toward the dining room.
Colt eased forward. The entry opened into a wide living space. Open concept, clean lines, a scattering of toppled furniture breaking the otherwise tidy setup. A lamp lay smashed beside the couch, and throw pillows were scattered like someone had tried to claw their way out.
No sign of Leah.
“When I stopped by earlier, I looked through that front window,” Brenna said quietly. “It didn’t look like this.”
She raised her voice a little. “Leah? It’s Brenna. Are you here?”
No answer.
Colt’s eyes moved over the space. Pale gray walls, tall windows framed by floor-length curtains. Bookshelves lined the far wall, half their contents spilled across the floor. A coffee mug lay shattered in the kitchen pass-through, still leaking tea onto the tile.
Careful not to disturb the blood trail or anything else, he moved forward, gliding around the edge of the smear.
“Hallway’s ahead,” he said. “We go slow. Stay sharp.”
They pressed on, one room at a time. The place felt like it was holding its breath.
The hallway narrowed as they reached the last door at the end. Colt glanced back at Harlan and Brenna, then turned the knob and pushed it open.
The main bedroom was still. No sign of Leah. Just the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and a strange rustling of paper.
Then Colt saw the wall.
Photos. Taped in neat rows on the pale blue paint. Eight in total.
He stepped closer, pulse ticking harder with every step. “Shit. It’s the Timberline victims.”
At least the first five were. Every damn one of them. Their faces staring out at them. And below those faces were typed out index cards.
Zachary Grayson’s image was first. Young. Smiling. Probably a school ID photo. Beneath it was his so-called crime in bold, typed letters: Cyberbullying. Directly contributed to the suicide of his peer. Protected by his family.
Colt’s stomach turned. The words were cold, clinical. A sentence handed down after death.
Next was Jennifer Kemp. Her caption read: Inappropriate sexual relationship with a student. Protected by district transfer. Never charged.
Teddy Delgado. Ran a rehab center accused of abuse and medical neglect. Two patients died under suspicious circumstances. No charges filed.
Nora Leung. Falsely accused a rival of assault. Rival later died by suicide. Protected by media family ties.
Adriana Serrano. Helped to traffic pills through a university club. Protected by her sister who destroyed evidence to prevent Adriana from being charged.
Colt’s chest tightened as he reached the last three photos. His own face stared back at him. So did Harlan’s. And then Brenna’s.
No captions. No typed out crimes. Only one line beneath each.
You stood in the way of justice.
Colt heard Brenna’s sharp exhale behind him. Harlan’s quiet curse followed. The air felt colder in this room, the weight of judgment pressing down from every photo.
Harlan let out a low curse, stepping closer to the wall of photos. “This is it,” he said. “This is the motive. This is why the hostages at Timberline were killed.”
They hadn’t known that for sure until now. Some of the info had surfaced later during the investigation. Background checks flagged a few things. But none of it was enough. Not to justify what had been done to them. Kidnapped, tortured.
Murdered.
Colt’s gaze landed on Zachary Grayson’s picture again. “It was vigilante justice. Someone decided those people didn’t deserve a trial. That they only deserved punishment.”
“And according to that list. Some of their families are next,” Harlan said, voice grim.
Brenna nodded, her expression hard. “Because to whoever’s doing this, protecting them is just as bad as committing the crimes they committed.”
Colt turned away from the wall and looked toward the bedroom doorway, his instincts shifting. This was no longer about defense. This was a hunt. And they were already behind.
“Leah’s not here,” Colt said, his voice low.
“No,” Brenna murmured. “But someone else obviously was, and they took their time, getting this all right for us to see.”
And they had made their message clear.
Colt turned away from the wall of photos, unease burning a hole through his gut.
“Where the hell is Leah?” he muttered, scanning the bedroom again. “If the killer had her, why not leave a message? A taunt? Something?”
Brenna moved toward the closet, checking it with quick, practiced efficiency. Empty.
Harlan lifted the bed skirt, crouched, then straightened. “Nothing. Not a drop of blood in here either. Just the display.”
Colt’s mind ran circles. Was the plan to take Leah somewhere? To gather all the family members in one place like the original Timberline hostages? Maybe even gather Colt, Brenna, and Harlan, too? And then what… execute them together?
He didn’t have the answers. Not yet.
But he knew Leah Grayson was in danger. That much was clear.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick, clipped message to Noah: Leah Grayson’s missing. Could you get local cops you trust on this?
The screen lit up with Noah’s typing bubble, but Colt didn’t wait to read it. He turned back to the others.
“Let’s do a full perimeter search,” he said. “Front and back.”
They moved fast but carefully, retracing their steps through the kitchen. Colt’s gaze swept the windows, the corners, every inch of shadow as they passed through.
He pushed open the back door, stepping out first. His boot crunched over something sharp. He paused, tilted the light from his phone down, and frowned.
Broken glass.
Colt shifted his foot and saw the source. The light above the door had been shattered. Not by accident.
“This door was jimmied,” Harlan said, crouching to inspect the splintered edge near the deadbolt.
“I didn’t come around back,” Brenna muttered, and he could hear the regret in her every word. “I should have. If I’d seen this—”
“Whoever did this probably wasn’t here when you dropped by,” Colt interrupted. “If they had been, there likely would have been signs of a struggle.”
She made a sound that made him think she didn’t believe that. So, he added more detail.
“If the perp was here, he would have come after you, too,” Colt spelled out.
That put a flash of alarm in her eyes. But it worked to tone down some of the second-guessing stuff.
Brenna nodded and fanned around her own flashlight beam, catching a few more drops of blood trailing across the stone pavers.
They followed it out into the backyard.
It was wide and deep, the lot bigger than it had looked from the front. Tall oaks and thick landscaping ringed the yard, the kind of space that gave plenty of privacy. And plenty of places to hide. Shrubs had been neatly trimmed, but the darkness made everything look wild and dangerous.
Colt swept the light across the lawn. It looked peaceful at first glance, but he knew better.
Moving ahead, with his light steady, he scanned the shadows between the trees. Every leaf rustle sounded louder than it should. The air had that tight, loaded feeling, like a storm waiting to break.
He didn’t think they were at risk of being gunned down. Not here. Not now. But he kept watch anyway, his grip firm on his weapon, just in case.
No, this didn’t feel like a sniper waiting in the dark. It felt like something worse.
This killer, whoever the hell they were, wanted more than a body count. They wanted a performance. A sort of punishment on display. Colt had seen enough scenes at Timberline to know the difference.
A quick kill shot wouldn’t satisfy someone like this. That was too clean, too final. This kind of predator wanted time. They wanted fear. They wanted to turn justice into a show.
He glanced back to make sure Brenna and Harlan were still close, then turned toward a dense thicket near the back fence. His flashlight caught another small trail of blood, drops leading into the trees.
“This way,” he said. His voice came out rough. “Keep your eyes up. And stay close.”
Colt pushed deeper into the trees, the blood trail faint now but still there. The brush thinned out near the back of the yard, opening into a small clearing near the fence line.
Then a light flared.
It snapped on, harsh and white, pouring from a portable work light perched on a tripod. The beam cut straight through the darkness, fixed on a figure on the ground.
Leah.
She was posed with deliberate care. Arms stretched out. Knees bent at precise angles. Head tilted gently to the left. Her eyes were open, unseeing. Her body looked untouched, but the positioning was anything but peaceful.
Brenna stopped beside him, her breath catching.
Colt stared at the scene, every muscle wound tight. This was a ritual. It echoed everything they had seen at Timberline. The same cold precision. The same need to control the story.
A sheet of paper had been tucked under Leah’s open palm. Colt crouched, heart pounding in his ears, a sick twist tightening in his gut. He didn’t touch the paper. Didn’t have to. The bold letters were clear, the words sharp enough to cut.
Just two words.
Justice Served.
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