Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Andi Slade forced herself to maintain her smile as she signed another T-shirt thrust into her face by an overly enthusiastic fan whose breath smelled like energy drinks and adrenaline.
The San Francisco convention center buzzed with the kind of vigor that came from cramming five thousand true crime enthusiasts into a space meant for half that number. Heat, noise, and excitement pressed in from all sides.
“Could you make it out to Bailee? With two Es at the end!” the woman chirped, bouncing slightly on her toes.
“I’ve listened to every single episode of The Round Table like seventeen times.
You guys are amazing! Like amazing amazing!
My friends and I are talking about forming our very own Arctic Circle Murder Club—of course, we’ll call it the Golden Gate Murder Club instead. ”
The Round Table was Andi’s podcast. Well, Andi’s and her teammates from the Arctic Circle Murder Club, all of whom stood at the long table separating them from the crowd.
This tour was a lot. Nine cities—Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, LA, Vegas, Albuquerque, Denver, Salt Lake City, and Boise. They had even hired new staff for the six-week event, including a merchandise manager, two assistants, and two bus drivers.
Their merch was being sold at a different table on the other side of the space. People purchased various items and then came over to the group for autographs and photos. The tour organizer had even had huge, impressive banners and posters made with their names and photos.
Andi’s face stared back at her from one of those banners, her pale blue eyes intense as she gazed into the camera, her light—almost white—blonde hair cut bluntly at her chin. Her signature black leather jacket completed the look.
But seeing her face blown up ten sizes bigger than reality was not for the faint of heart.
Not a single expense had been spared.
In Andi’s estimation, their setup for the “The Round Table Presents: Where the Trail Went Cold” tour rivaled that of many concerts. In every city they visited, they picked a cold case from that city to talk about. Plus, adding the “cold” element fit their Alaska roots.
And the photo backdrop?
It looked like a recording studio, complete with stylish microphones—nothing like where they actually recorded. But fans might imagine they were right there with them, recording a new episode, as they had their photos taken with them in front of it.
“Thank you so much for coming, Bailee with two Es,” Andi managed, her hand moving automatically across the fabric of the T-shirt. The Sharpie felt heavy in her grip, and the overhead fluorescent lights seemed too bright, too harsh. “It really means a lot.”
The fan beamed, clutching the shirt before disappearing into the crowd.
“You okay?” Duke’s voice was low, meant only for her ears as he leaned closer while signing a poster for his own admirer.
Andi nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was true.
The past three weeks of touring the United States had been incredible—sold-out venues, enthusiastic crowds, more success than any of them had dared dream when they’d started The Round Table podcast back in Alaska at the Almost Halfway Trading Post nearly two years ago.
Down the line, frontwoman Mariella Boucher was in her element, gesturing dramatically as she relayed a behind-the-scenes story from their latest episode.
Her twin brother, Matthew, who served as their tech guy, hovered just behind her, responding politely to fans while appearing as if he’d rather be on his computer.
Ranger Garrett stood stiffly beside them, doing his best impression of friendliness—which amounted to grunting answers about tracking techniques.
His eleven-year-old daughter, Anastasia, sat on the other side of a curtain behind them, coloring with Karen, her nanny.
Ranger and his wife, Simmy, had decided to homeschool Anastasia on the road, and Karen helped make that happen.
“Next!” Andi turned her attention to a woman—probably in her late twenties or early thirties—who waited at the edge of the table.
This fan wasn’t like the others. Her clothes were rumpled, her jacket half-zipped as though she’d thrown it on in a hurry.
She clutched a manila folder tight against her chest, fingers white with strain.
Her eyes—puffy, raw, exhausted—locked onto Andi’s with a fierce, trembling determination that made Andi’s breath catch.
“I need your help,” the woman said quietly, urgently. “My younger sister—Gina James—she’s gone missing, and I think something terrible has happened to her.”
The ambient roar of the convention center crowds seemed to recede for a moment.
Andi leaned forward, fully focused. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“Pam.” Her voice quavered. “Pam James.”
“Tell me again why you’re here, Pam.”
“Gina is a lawyer here in San Francisco. Three days ago, she just . . . vanished. The police think she left on her own because of some things she’d been dealing with, but they don’t know her. She wouldn’t do that without telling me.”
Andi indicated for the woman to join her behind the table and then led her a few steps from the crowd to somewhere more private—though private was a relative term in the convention hall.
“What things has your sister been dealing with?” Andi asked, everything else suddenly fading from her thoughts.
Pam hesitated, shame flashing across her face. “She’d just ended a long-term relationship with a man who . . . didn’t take it well. She confided in me that he’d been unpredictable since the breakup. And she’s been overwhelmed at work. But she wouldn’t run. Not like this.”
Beside Andi, Duke stopped signing and looked up. His attention sharpened, and he shifted his stance a fraction closer to Andi, signaling he was listening and available if she needed him.
“Pam.” Andi chose her words carefully. “We’re not official investigators. We’re storytellers. We talk about cases, but we don’t—”
“I know you’re podcasters. But I also know you have an incredible success rate when you have taken on investigations. Your team does what underfunded and understaffed police departments can’t. And Gina—” Her voice broke. “She’s all I have. Please . . . just hear me out.”
Andi waited for her to continue.
Pam opened the folder with trembling fingers.
“Last Sunday, someone broke into her apartment. This creep tied Gina up, but he didn’t hurt her or steal anything.
The police found no evidence that the man was ever there.
No fingerprints. Nothing except some zip ties that the police said didn’t prove anything. ”
Andi’s pulse spiked as she waited for Pam to continue.
“This is the last text I got from her.” Pam pulled out a printed screenshot. “It was Tuesday night. She said she was in trouble. Then she went radio silent.”
Heaviness settled in Andi’s chest—along with a shot of curiosity.
Pam’s gaze pleaded with her. “Please. I don’t know where else to turn. Will you help me find my sister?”
Before Andi could answer, Rupert Ashford materialized beside their table like a frantic, immaculately dressed apparition—his bow tie crooked, hair slightly rumpled, the universal sign of a man moments from unraveling.
Rupert was a high-profile tour logistics director and operations strategist. He’d overseen multi-city productions for platinum artists and international performance shows, building a reputation for precision so sharp it bordered on obsessive.
Mariella had crossed paths with him years ago when she’d been a lifestyle and beauty influencer. When The Round Table podcast took off, Rupert had reached out about a tour, media blitz, and endorsement deals.
The man was undeniably brilliant at what he did, but that brilliance came wrapped in tightly wound nerves, relentless micromanagement, and a habit of correcting people mid-sentence.
Every detail mattered to Rupert—down to exact arrival times and font choices on laminated schedules. And while his efficiency was unmatched, spending more than fifteen consecutive minutes in his orbit often left people feeling like they’d just been audited.
“There you are, Andi!” he half-whispered, half-hissed.
“We are running precisely six minutes behind, and one of our sponsors wants a photo with the whole team in front of their display after this line finishes—oh!” He finally noticed Pam.
“Hello. Are you purchasing merch or requesting a signature? Please step aside until—”
“Rupert.” Andi’s voice sharpened. “Not now.”
The man might be an organizational mastermind, but he irritated the snot out of her. His focus was so singular that he was oblivious to anything else.
Rupert blinked, then saw Pam’s crestfallen expression. His shoulders softened a fraction. “I see. I’ll come back later—but not too much later.”
Andi turned back to Pam, heart pounding. Something about this woman’s words was tugging on her heartstrings—and she needed to know more.
“Tell me everything,” Andi said. “And start from the beginning.”
“Why don’t you come backstage with me?” Andi took Pam’s arm. “We can talk more privately there.”
Their conversation here was drawing glances from the crowd—many of those glances curious, speculative, even hungry.
“O . . . okay,” Pam said. “If you’re sure.”
Andi motioned to Mariella that she needed a moment.
Mariella nodded with understanding.
Duke also caught sight of what was happening. “Mind if I come along?”
“I was just about to ask.” Everything always felt better when Duke was there. He just had that effect on her. He was calm, rational, and protective. When they’d first met, Andi’s nickname for him had been GI Joe.
Duke stepped toward them, positioning his broad shoulders between them and the crowd as they guided Pam away from the fan table. While they walked away, Mariella slid effortlessly into Andi’s vacant spot.
“Everyone, hang tight—we have a fun announcement about our next episode coming up!” Mariella’s voice sparkled as she instantly redirected a portion of the crowd.
But not all of it.
Rupert barreled toward them a few seconds later.
His bow tie still sat crooked. His carefully gelled hair had begun to wilt. His laminated VIP passes flapped in his hand like panicked birds.
“Oh no, no, no—what is happening? What is this? What are we doing back here when so many fans want autographs?” Rupert hissed, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’m going backstage a moment.” Andi didn’t phrase the statement to leave room for argument.
Rupert blinked, his lips parting in surprise. “We are on a very tight post-show schedule, and the sponsor—”
“Rupert.” Duke’s voice sounded so low it was almost a growl. “Later.”
That shut Rupert up.
Not many people liked to cross Duke—just one more thing to love about him.
Andi, Duke, and Pam wove through a corridor lined with curtains, heading toward the convention center’s green room. The area wasn’t glamorous, not even comfortable, but it was private.
A dented mini fridge hummed in the corner, and a scattering of half-empty water bottles littered the folding table at the center of the space. Two couches—one sagging, one firm solely out of spite—lined the walls beneath posters for upcoming events.
Pam sank onto the sturdier couch, still clutching her manila folder as if she feared it might dissolve if she let go. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to cause a scene. I just didn’t know how else to reach you.”
“It’s okay.” Andi took a seat across from her. “You’re not causing trouble. We just wanted a bit of space.”
Rupert hovered near the door, a vibrating bundle of worry and indignation. Duke stood beside him, one hand casually braced against the doorframe, radiating his usual calm as he blocked out Rupert—a skill he’d mastered.
From outside the green room, muffled applause rose—likely Mariella buying them time with a story or a teaser. Even through the concrete walls, they could hear hundreds of fans chatting, laughing, buzzing with post-show energy.
In here, though?
It felt like another world.
Pam’s breathing trembled as she turned to them. “With every second that passes, I fear my chance of finding my sister alive is diminishing. You’ve got to help me. Please!”