1. Maverick
MAVERICK
THE WALL
Six.
The number of photos pinned to the evidence board spanning an entire wall in my office.
Four.
The number of state lines our unsub has crossed to find his victims. He lures them into a false sense of safety, then holds them captive for weeks at a time only to bury them alive. Sadistic bastard.
Three.
The number of commonalities between the women. Living in a state with no family nearby, working in entry-level hospitality positions, and, of course, their strikingly similar appearances—dark hair, dark eyes, relatively small stature, and each objectively beautiful.
Zero .
The number of leads we have.
Leaning back against the corner of my desk, I scrub a hand down my face and stare blankly at the map. Red pins mark the location where each victim was found; white string connects them together, creating a spider web that taunts me.
Exhaustion and frustration wear me down. I don’t remember the last time I slept more than a handful of hours, but there is no time. I need every waking moment to catch this son of a bitch.
The case was assigned to the FBI office in Minneapolis after the third victim—a 32-year-old single woman from Poplar Grove, Illinois—was found buried in the same manner as two others in St. Paul and Minnetonka.
So far, the known locations appear to be anywhere from 60 to 380 miles from Minneapolis. What a fucking stretch.
To say narrowing down where he’ll strike next has been a challenge would be a severe fucking understatement. I have feelers out in every damn police department in Minnesota and its surrounding states, but it’s been five weeks since our unsub has been active.
He’s been too quiet.
That’s never a good sign, and we’re running out of time. I can feel it.
Any day now, he could take his next victim, leaving me with one more face to haunt me in my sleep.
It’s why I don’t sleep.
As the Supervisory Special Agent for the FBI Minneapolis field office, the weight of catching this serial killer and giving some semblance of peace to the families is heavy.
It’s a mantle I’m not sure I want to bear much longer.
I feel like a failure each time we pin something new to the evidence board.
For as long as the victims’ families exist without closure, I’m letting them down. Just like I let her down.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I push off my desk and stand in front of the photo of our last known victim.
“What else do we know about Sarah Rodriguez?” I aim the question at my team, the five agents seated around the conference table in the middle of my office.
“She was single, no current relationships of note. Her parents live in Sacramento, California and have been notified. They’re on their way to Chelsea and should be there within the next few days.” Arlo Grant, the rookie computer analyst, speaks as he sifts through the information he’s compiled.
Sarah Rodriguez was abducted roughly two months ago and found buried just off a rural route in Chelsea, Iowa. She was reported missing by her boss when she didn’t show up for her Sunday morning shift at Beans there’s nothing I can do there that I can’t do in Minneapolis.
“Rollins Orchard, Rhodes. We found a body. We think she was buried alive,” Cruz’s voice trails off as though there’s more to the story.
I wait a few beats, then press further. “There’s more. I can hear it in your voice, Cruz.”
Silence greets my statement, so I lean forward and tap the phone screen to make sure we’re still connected. “Cruz?”
“Yeah, there’s more.” His sigh is heavy, causing wary glances from everyone in the room.
“There’s been a missing person’s report.
A bartender was last seen about two weeks ago on August 16th.
It was called in by her friend who’s also a waitress at the bar.
The original report never made it to my desk, but I happened to be in the front office when Tamara Martin—the missing woman’s friend—came storming into the precinct. She had a picture with her.”
In my periphery, I see the projector screen flash and glance that way. Spencer’s marked the date on the calendar.
August 16th.
A Friday.
Fucking patterns.
“Don’t leave us hanging, man. What about the picture?” Jesse prods. Patience is not his strong suit, which is ironic considering he’s in forensics.
“The missing woman, Clara Santos, appears to be a dead ringer for our Jane Doe. From what I’ve seen, they could be twins for how much they look alike.”
I freeze. My hands grip the armrests of my chair so tightly that it sends pinpricks through my fingers, and I hear a creak in the plastic.
“We’re on our way.” As I say the words, the team silently packs up and heads out of my office. They know what to do.
Fucking hell.
I knew our unsub had been too quiet. But now there’ll be two more photos to pin on that fucking evidence board. That’s two more faces to haunt me when I close my eyes.
Seven.
Seven women, dead.
One missing, and the clock is ticking.