Chapter 17
Riley
“Franklin Prescott.” I tapped my pen on my desk, the rhythm matching the hum of the computer fan as I scrolled through yet another useless search result. “Why does this name lead absolutely nowhere?”
Dungar stood behind me, leaning over my shoulder to study the screen. His scent, pine and leather with something uniquely him, wrapped around me.
“Nothing in the employee records?” His breath tickled my ear, sending a pleasant shiver across my skin.
“Nope.” I gestured at the personnel files we’d pulled for everyone associated with Lonesome Creek Ranch. “I’ve checked full-time staff, part-time employees, contractors, even the vendors who supply the gift shop. No Franklin Prescott anywhere.”
“And online?”
I snorted. “Too many Franklin Prescotts to count. Lawyers, doctors, retired teachers, college students.” I clicked through a few more search results. “Wait, here’s something. A Franklin Prescott in Silver Ridge, about thirty miles east of here.”
“Retired gynecologist.”
I doubted it was anything, but I bookmarked the page and stood, my back brushing against Dungar’s chest. He didn’t step away, and for a moment we remained like that, close enough that I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade.
“I should interview some of the tourists who’ve taken luminook tours recently,” I said, reluctantly creating space between us.
Dungar nodded, moving back to his desk where he’d been organizing evidence photos. “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find out anything about Franklin from Aunt Inla, who sorts our mail.”
I gathered my notebook and pen, pausing at the door to watch him work.
His hands moved with surprising delicacy as he scrolled through his computer, taking careful notes on a piece of paper lying parallel to his mousepad.
Where others might have seen obsession, I saw dedication, the careful attention to detail that made him exceptional at his job and, increasingly, essential to my sense of safety.
“I’ll be back soon,” I said.
He looked up, his dark eyes softening. “Be careful, breela.”
The orc endearment warmed me from the inside out. “Always.”
The afternoon sun beat down on Main Street as I made my way through clusters of tourists toward the luminook viewing area.
A tour had just finished, and a group of people were filtering out from the path leading to the pens and the demonstration area, many still snapping photos of the glowing creatures.
I approached a father with the teenage daughter I’d seen the first day I arrived. They wore matching Lonesome Creek t-shirts, the daughter sporting braided hair adorned with luminook-inspired clips that winked pale pink.
“Excuse me.” I showed my badge. “I’m Riley Smith, Lonesome Creek deputy. Could I ask you a few questions about your luminook tour experience?”
The father frowned while the daughter perked up, clearly finding the idea of being interviewed by law enforcement exciting.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Just routine. We’re gathering feedback on visitor experiences.”
This was a white lie, but I needed information without causing alarm. The last thing we needed was tourists panicking about luminook thieves.
The teenager stepped forward. “I’ve done the tour twice this week. It was different each time.”
That caught my attention. “Different how?”
“Well, the first time, we watched them from beyond the outer gate. But yesterday, one of the staff members was doing health checks. She even picked one up and was, like, brushing its spine with a metal tool.”
“A health check?” I kept my voice casual while my pulse quickened. “Was this an orc?” Could’ve been Aunt Inla, I suppose.
“No, it was a human.”
“That sounds interesting. Could you describe her for me?”
She shrugged. “She wasn’t wearing the usual ranch uniform. She was wearing a baseball cap, plus jeans and one of those smock aprons everyone wears in the Pottery Barn when they’re taking a class. She was kneeling with her back to us.”
“But you know it was a woman.”
“She had long hair. I suppose guys do too, but she just looked feminine to me.” The girl shrugged. “I’m Jamie, by the way. Jamie Morgan. This is my dad, Bill Morgan.”
“Nice to meet you both. When the woman was working with the luminook, did it seem distressed?”
“Kind of. It was making this weird humming sound. But the woman said that was normal. I asked because I was worried about the baby.”
“She didn’t turn around when you spoke with her?”
Jamie shook her head. “She seemed busy, and I didn’t want to mess with that.”
I wrote down the details, keeping my expression neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head. “What time was this?”
“Around three. We did the pottery class in the morning, then had lunch, then the luminook tour.”
After a few more questions that yielded little additional information, I thanked her and continued interviewing other tourists. No one else had noticed anything unusual.
By late afternoon, I’d spoken with twelve groups of tourists and gathered a concerning picture.
Someone was handling the luminooks directly, using specialized tools, and doing so in a way that distressed the creatures.
The teenager’s observation matched what a few others said and fit what we already suspected, that someone could be collecting biological material from the luminooks.
And a few tourists identified what appeared to be either Joyce, Mary, or Ava at one time or another, all within the vicinity of the luminook pens.
When I returned to the sheriff’s office, Dungar had transformed the back wall into an evidence board. Photos, maps, and timeline entries had been arranged in a grid, color-coded by subject. Red for suspects, blue for witness accounts, green for physical evidence.
“Find anything?” he asked, stepping back to survey his work.
I shared what the tourists had told me.
Dungar’s jaw tightened. “That explains the distress behaviors Ruugar noticed. Luminooks communicate through their spines. Damaging them would partially silence them until they’d healed.”
The thought made my belly twist. “I’d like to start mapping possible connections between our suspects. Mary, Joyce, and Ava were meeting behind the maintenance shed, and all three have been spotted near the luminook pens at different times.”
“Use the east wall.” Dungar gestured to the empty space. “I’ve prepared materials.”
Sure enough, a stack of colored index cards sat on his desk.
I began creating my connection chart, writing each suspect’s name and known information on separate cards.
As I worked, I found myself unconsciously mimicking Dungar’s methods, aligning each card precisely, using the exact same spacing between elements, even color-coding different types of connections with his same colors.
Halfway through, I paused, suddenly aware of what I was doing.
I’d spent two years adapting to different environments, but always on my own terms, maintaining the parts of myself I considered essential.
Yet here I was, voluntarily adopting Dungar’s organizational style because it made me feel secure.
The realization stunned me. I wasn’t just staying in Dungar’s house or sharing his bed. I was internalizing his patterns, finding comfort in his methodical approach to the world.
And I didn’t mind one bit.
“Everything alright?” Dungar’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.
I turned to find him watching me. “Yes. Just thinking about how quickly I’m adapting to life here.” I gestured to my meticulously arranged chart. “I’m even organizing things your way.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I returned to placing my cards. “It’s just surprising how natural it feels.”
Dungar crossed to stand beside me. “Some people fit together without needing to change who they are.”
“Like puzzle pieces?” I asked.
“Exactly.” His fingers brushed mine as he helped me attach a string between two suspects. “Your methods and mine. Different but complementary.”
We worked side by side for the next hour, building a visual representation of the connections we’d uncovered.
Mary Bustier, the maintenance worker, had the most opportunities to access restricted areas.
Joyce had been seen talking with both Mary and Ava on multiple occasions.
Ava, the photographer, had documented luminooks extensively during her stay.
But solid evidence linking any of them to the thefts remained elusive.
“I need more,” I said, stepping back to examine our work. “Something concrete.”
He forwarded Mary’s resume to me, but all it showed was prior maintenance experience. Although…
“This only goes back ten years,” I said. “Mary’s in her late fifties. She must have other work experience.”
“Few employers look back further than that, us included.”
It made sense, but I wish I knew more about her. Sadly, my online search didn’t bring anything up, but not everyone had an online presence, especially older people.
Dungar handed me a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way I liked it. Another small way he’d adapted his life to include me. “Does Ava post her work online?”
“Probably.” I took a sip of the perfectly made coffee. “Most nature photographers maintain websites or blogs to showcase their portfolios.”
I returned to my computer and conducted a search, expecting to find a professional website with carefully curated images.
Hers did as well, but…
The only problem was that each showed a different orc creature—those only found here at Lonesome Creek.