Chapter 2
Jackson County Courthouse — Monday Morning
Morning light filtered through the tall leaded-glass windows, falling in angled strips across the polished wood floor.
The carved oak paneling caught the glow—warm and honeyed against the pale spring sky.
Jackson County had held court in this room for more than a century, and it showed in the worn benches, the polished rail, the quiet weight of decisions made and lived with.
Judge Harlan adjusted his reading glasses and peered over the bench. Silver hair neatly parted. Robe straight. A man who never needed to raise his voice to make a room behave.
At the clerk’s desk, April Whitaker shuffled files with the expression of a woman trying very hard to remember she was a professional.
Eleanor stood at the defense table, one hand resting lightly on her legal pad.
Deck occupied the last row, as if he owned the courthouse and had only reluctantly agreed to let the county use it.
Broad through the shoulders, silver hair refusing to fully surrender, he sat with an expression one inconvenience away from mutiny.
Everyone in Sylva knew him as the private investigator who didn’t suffer fools, but to Eleanor, he was the only piece of home she had left.
He’d been her father’s lead homicide investigator in Charleston for twenty years—Larry Harper’s right hand and the man who’d promised to look after Eleanor long before the world in South Carolina turned upside down.
Across the aisle, District Attorney Reid Calloway rose.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Mid-thirties and offensively handsome—the kind of man who wore a suit like it had been cut around him and knew exactly what that did to a room. Dark hair. Clean lines. Calm confidence.
He stepped toward the witness stand.
“Mrs. McIntyre,” he said, voice smooth and easy, “you testified that on the afternoon of March twelfth, the defendant was in your home repairing the back porch steps?”
Edith McIntyre, silver curls perfectly set and lipstick still intact at ten-thirty on a Monday morning, straightened in the witness chair.
“He was.”
“And later that evening, you realized cash was missing from the blue envelope you kept in the kitchen drawer?”
“Yes.”
Reid nodded, patient and attentive, like there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be than listening to Edith McIntyre explain her kitchen drawer.
“And that envelope contained?”
“Eight hundred dollars.”
A soft murmur moved through the gallery.
Reid glanced down at the exhibit photo, then back up. “That was not a kitchen drawer a person could miss by accident, was it?”
“No, sir.”
“It was the one beside the refrigerator?”
“Yes.”
“The one with the coupons, the scissors, and”—he lifted the photo a little—“what appears to be three separate packs of butterscotch candy.”
The courtroom chuckled.
Mrs. McIntyre brightened. “Those are for my bridge club.”
“Of course they are,” Reid said gravely.
Even Judge Harlan’s mouth threatened movement.
At the defense table, Eleanor looked down at her notes so no one would see the corner of her mouth.
Reid went on.
“You trusted the defendant enough to let him work in your home alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you had no issue with him until the money disappeared?”
“That’s right.”
He stepped a little closer—not crowding, just drawing the room with him.
“When you discovered the cash was gone, who had been inside your home that day?”
Mrs. McIntyre hesitated. “Nolan.”
“And anyone else?”
“My niece dropped off soup.”
“Anyone else?”
She frowned. “The cleaning lady came that morning.”
“And your neighbor?”
“Well, yes, Mavis came by, but Mavis doesn’t count.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the benches.
“No?” Reid asked mildly.
“No,” Mrs. McIntyre said with complete certainty. “Mavis only steals gossip.”
The courtroom laughed outright.
Reid smiled, slow and warm, exactly the kind of smile that made people forget they were under oath.
April glanced at Eleanor with that look.
See?
Eleanor gave her a flat stare that said she was not dignifying any of this with a response.
Reid knew exactly where both women were looking. His eyes flicked briefly to Eleanor.
And he winked.
Quick. Infuriating. Barely there.
April nearly choked.
Eleanor clicked her pen once.
Hard.
Reid turned back to the witness. “Mrs. McIntyre, did you personally see Mr. Pike take the envelope?”
“No.”
“But you believe he did.”
“I do.”
“Because he was there.”
“Yes.”
“And because he was the only one you didn’t fully trust.”
Mrs. McIntyre’s mouth tightened.
“Yes.”
Reid nodded once, then stepped back.
“No further questions.”
He returned to counsel table looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Judge Harlan shifted his attention. “Ms. Harper?”
Eleanor rose.
“Defense calls Declan O’Rourke.”
Deck pushed to his feet with the expression of a man attending a funeral he had specifically declined to attend.
As he passed Eleanor, he muttered, “This had better be worth missin’ second breakfast.”
“It is,” she murmured back.
He took the stand, settled in, and seemed faintly insulted by the entire concept of swearing to tell the truth when he had already gotten dressed for court.
Eleanor stepped forward.
“State your name for the record.”
“Declan O’Rourke.”
“Occupation?”
Deck looked at her over folded hands. “Professional disappointment.”
A laugh broke from the gallery.
Judge Harlan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr. O’Rourke.”
“Aye, Your Honor. Private investigator.”
Eleanor kept her face straight.
Barely.
“How long have you worked for Harper & Associates?”
“Since before she came to her senses and left Charleston.”
“That was not my question.”
“Three years.”
“Did I ask you to investigate the timeline in this case?”
“You did.”
“And what did you do?”
“I reviewed the hardware store surveillance from Dillsboro, the fuel receipt from the Shell station off 74, and the timestamp from the lumber order Mr. Pike picked up that afternoon.”
“And what did you determine?”
“That Mr. Pike was on camera in Dillsboro at four twelve.” Deck lifted a hand slightly. “Mrs. McIntyre reported discovering the cash missing at four fifteen.”
A faint shift moved through the room.
Eleanor nodded. “How far is Dillsboro from Mrs. McIntyre’s house?”
“Far enough that unless the lad has mastered teleportation, he wasn’t stealin’ her envelope and buyin’ deck screws at the same time.”
The gallery laughed again.
Judge Harlan gave the bench a single tap. “Let’s remain in one county, Mr. O’Rourke.”
Deck inclined his head. “Doing my best, Your Honor.”
Eleanor continued.
“In the course of your investigation, did you also identify other people with access to Mrs. McIntyre’s home that day?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Her niece. Her cleaning lady. Her friend Mavis, who apparently steals only gossip.” He glanced toward the witness stand. “A convenient specialty.”
Even Mrs. McIntyre looked faintly offended.
Eleanor folded her hands. “No further questions.”
Judge Harlan looked across the room. “Mr. Calloway.”
Reid rose slowly, buttoning his jacket as he approached the stand. Not hurried. Not casual. Just controlled enough to make half the women in the room sit up straighter.
April looked at Eleanor again.
Eleanor ignored her with the discipline of a saint.
Reid stopped a few feet from the witness stand.
“Mr. O’Rourke.”
“That’s the one.”
“You care about Ms. Harper.”
“Deeply unfortunate, but true.”
The courtroom laughed.
Reid’s mouth twitched.
“So you might be inclined to see things in a way that benefits her case.”
“Son,” Deck said, settling back in the witness chair, “I’ve known Eleanor Harper long enough to know she doesn’t need me helpin’ her win an argument.”
Another ripple of amusement moved through the benches. Even Judge Harlan’s mouth twitched.
Deck gave a small shrug. “Retired Charleston homicide before this. Thirty years. And no, I do not skew things anyone’s way.”
That landed.
Not with laughter this time.
With weight.
Reid nodded once.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Smart man.”
Reid slipped one hand into his pocket. “You don’t approve of me much, do you, Mr. O’Rourke?”
Deck looked him up and down with open consideration.
“Oh, I think you’re very pretty.”
The courtroom lost all dignity.
April made a strangled sound into her hand.
Judge Harlan removed his glasses and looked briefly skyward.
Reid grinned. “Pretty.”
“Aye,” Deck said. “Like a fox in a three-piece suit.”
Reid’s gaze flicked briefly to Eleanor.
Eleanor folded her arms.
Reid turned back to the witness. “And yet here you are, testifying under oath on her behalf.”
“I’d testify under oath for the devil if the facts backed him.”
“So your loyalty does have limits.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Deck’s brows lifted. “You’ll know if you find them.”
A low laugh rippled through the room.
Reid gave up a little smile. “No further questions.”
Deck stepped down from the stand and passed Eleanor on the way back to the gallery.
“Pretty,” he muttered under his breath.
“Be nice,” Eleanor murmured.
“I am being nice.”
Judge Harlan made a final note. “I’ll review the exhibits and issue a ruling this afternoon.”
The gavel cracked once.
Court recessed.
Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped. Monday moved forward.
April rose from the clerk’s desk to hand off a file, but not before looking straight at Eleanor and widening her eyes in shameless delight.
Eleanor gave her a warning look.
April only smiled more.
Eleanor gathered her papers and handed her client a reassuring nod.
“We’ll wait on Judge Harlan,” she said quietly.
Her client nodded, looking far less miserable than he had an hour ago.
Deck reached her first and relieved her of her briefcase with the air of a man taking possession of something that should never have been in amateur hands to begin with.
Reid fell into step a moment later.
“Counselor.”
Eleanor kept walking.
“Counselor,” he repeated, closer this time.
She stopped and handed Deck her legal pad. “This won’t take long.”
Deck snorted. “Aye. I’ve heard that before.”
She turned.
Reid stood a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, expression relaxed in that maddening way that suggested the entire courthouse was just another stage he knew how to work.
“You brought in your attack Irishman,” he said. “That hardly seems fair.”
“You recovered.”
“Barely. Mr. O’Rourke wounded my pride.”
“Then he showed restraint.”
A quiet laugh.
“I could make dinner public,” he said casually. “Seven o’clock. Catch My Draft. Safe venue for opposing counsel.”
“No.”
A brow lifted.
“I don’t date opposing counsel.”
“That sounds less like a rule and more like an excuse.”
“It’s a rule.”
“Rules change.”
“Not this one.”
He stepped a fraction closer. Not enough to crowd. Enough to matter.
“Reid.”
The voice came from down the hall.
Sloane Gentry crossed toward them, copper-red hair bright against the pale blue sheath dress she wore. She smiled directly at Reid.
“Daddy wanted me to tell you tomorrow’s chambers conference moved to nine.” As she spoke, she reached out, her fingers lingering as she smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on Reid’s lapel.
“Thanks,” Reid said.
“And you still owe me that drink,” she added lightly.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Eleanor—pleasant, polished, assessing—before she turned and continued down the hall.
Eleanor watched her go. Then looked back at Reid.
“I think you have about all the attention you need—or want—don’t you?”
One dark brow lifted.
Her gaze flicked toward the hallway Sloane had just disappeared down.
“And besides,” she added, gathering her files, “I don’t date opposing counsel. But all is not lost, Calloway.”
“No?”
“Judge Gentry’s daughter does.”
For one beat, he just looked at her.
Then that slow, delicious smile spread across his face—the one she hated because it always looked like he knew what she was thinking.
“Jealous, Harper?”
She rolled her eyes.
“You are wildly overestimating your appeal, Calloway.”
He fell into step beside her again.
“We don’t have to call it a date,” he said lightly. “Dinner. Public place. No scandal. No courtroom objection.”
She looked straight ahead.
“Still no.”
“Pity,” he said, that slow smile still in his voice. “I was starting to think I was making progress.”
As they reached the courthouse doors, April called from the clerk’s desk, “You two are exhausting.”
“I heard that,” Reid called back.
The Ambush
The heavy doors swung open.
Sound hit first—traffic, voices, the metallic hum of an amplifier. Sunlight spilled across the marble steps.
And cameras faced them.
Tripods. Boom mics. Phones lifted high.
A banner stretched between two stands:
VANISHED IN THE VALLEY
Eleanor stopped mid-step.
Reid stopped just behind her.
Deck muttered under his breath. “Ah, Christ.”
A poised woman in a fitted blazer turned toward them.
“Eleanor Harper?”
Eleanor did not move.
“I’m Lila Grant,” the woman said smoothly. “Host of Vanished in the Valley. We’re covering the recent disappearances here in Sylva.”
The name meant nothing.
The scale of the production, however, was terrifying.
Eleanor’s mind stuttered.
She had just spent the morning debating a fuel receipt and an eight-hundred-dollar envelope of cash.
There were no cameras for petty theft. There was no livestream for Mavis and her bridge club gossip.
So why was a national-grade podcast crew camped on the courthouse steps like they were waiting for a verdict at The Hague?
“You were present when one of the key witnesses was questioned,” Lila continued. “Do you think your role in that interview influenced the investigation?”
Her role?
The confusion was a cold weight in her chest.
That had been an accommodation. A courtesy for a nervous professor who didn't want to talk to the police alone. She hadn’t advised a suspect. She hadn’t signed a retainer. She didn’t even have a file in her drawer with a name on it.
To her, it had been a footnote on a Tuesday afternoon.
To Lila Grant, it was a lead.
“You previously represented a Charleston businessman accused of murdering his wife,” Lila said, her voice sharpening just enough to cut. “A man acquitted despite significant circumstantial evidence. Now there are missing women here. Does that pattern concern you?”
There it was.
Charleston.
Pattern.
The word hit like a blow to the solar plexus. Eleanor’s hand tightened on her briefcase until the leather groaned. She hadn’t heard that case spoken aloud in three years.
Not here.
Not in this life.
There was no connection between a South Carolina boardroom and a mountain greenway. There was no bridge between her past and these missing women—unless this woman was building one out of thin air.
No.
No, no, no.
There was something in Lila’s eyes when she said Charleston that didn’t read like curiosity.
It looked like recognition. Like satisfaction. Like Lila Grant hadn’t just found a lead—she’d finally found her leading lady, and Eleanor Harper had been turned into a story.