Chapter 18
Liam
The house reeked of fear and desperation—that particular cocktail of terror that saturated walls when a child went missing. I'd been in too many houses like this, seen too many destroyed parents, but it never got easier.
"Clear!" came from the basement.
Then the words we'd been praying for: "I've got her! She's alive!"
Little Hannah Sullivan was in a hidden panel behind the water heater, bound and gagged but alive, eyes wide with terror but physically unharmed. The sick bastard who'd taken her—her uncle, as it turned out—hadn't had time to move her to the trafficking ring's next location.
"You did good, Walker," Captain Baker said as they loaded the uncle into a squad car, his accomplices already in custody. "Record time on this one. That little girl's going home because of you."
FBI agents were swarming the scene now, having uncovered a child smuggling operation that reached into three states. Kids taken, sold, disappeared. We'd stopped it. We'd saved not just Hannah but potentially dozens of other children.
I should have felt satisfaction. Relief. Something.
But my phone was buzzing insistently in my pocket, and that cold dread from this morning was back, crawling up my spine like ice.
"Excuse me, Cap," I said, stepping away from the chaos.
Uncle Owen’s number.
The family didn't call like this during a case unless—
I answered, skipping pleasantries. "What's wrong?"
“Son…”
The world narrowed to just his voice, just the words that I knew were about to shatter everything.
"What happened?" But I already knew. That feeling this morning, that weight in my gut when I drove away—I already knew.
"Stephy's gone. Someone took her from your house. There was a struggle—blood, furniture overturned. Ivy found the scene twenty minutes ago."
The moment Owen spoke the words, my world didn’t explode.
It imploded. Quiet. Cold. Vacuumed hollow from the inside out.
The phone creaked in my fist, plastic giving way under pressure I didn’t realize I was applying. I stared down at it—at the spiderweb crack bursting across the screen—almost detached, like I was watching myself from outside my body.
My greatest nightmare. The one I’d been outrunning my entire goddamn life. Real. Standing in front of me like a reanimated ghost.
Someone I loved was in danger. And I wasn’t there.
Just like before. Just like the night I was fifteen, helpless, listening to the world end in the next room.
“Liam, did you hear me?” someone asked—FBI, local PD, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.
My voice, when it came, was barely human. “How long?”
A beat.
“Maybe an hour,” Owen said. “Blood’s still wet. Drag marks leading to tire tracks behind the barn.”
An hour.
Sixty minutes.
Three thousand six hundred seconds of her being terrified. Of him touching her. Hurting her. Taking her away from safety—from me—because I wasn’t there to stop it.
My ribs felt like they were collapsing inward, crushing my lungs, crushing my heart, crushing every part of me that had learned how to breathe after childhood.
Everything inside me screamed, Not again.
Not her. Not Stephy.
“She was alone,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. My throat was tight, strangled. “I left her alone. I told her she was safe. I promised her—”
The memory sliced through me like a blade:
You’re safe. You’re with me now. I’ll always come for you.
Lies. All of them lies.
Cold fury flooded my veins, sharp enough to cut. It was the only thing keeping me standing.
Owen’s voice shook. “Son, we’re searching. Every unit in the county is here—we’re on it.”
No. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.
This wasn’t a case.
This was the monster from my childhood come back to life. This was fate spitting in my face. This was the universe testing whether a boy who once couldn’t save anyone had grown into a man who could.
“I’m leaving,” I said, the words raw and final.
“Liam—”
I was already moving. Already unraveling. Already becoming the version of myself I’d sworn I’d never have to be again—the one born the night my parents died.
The one forged in helplessness. And terror. And the promise that I would never be too far away to save someone I loved again.
Except I was. And now the person who meant the most to me was gone.
“Fuck!” The word ripped from me with the force of a man losing everything.
I punched the wall, my fist going through the drywall like it was paper. Pain flared up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the agony ripping through my chest. Then I punched it again. And again. Until Baker grabbed my arm.
"Walker! What the hell—"
I ripped my arm out of his grasp, stumbling back. ”I need every resource we have," I said, blood dripping from my knuckles, voice deadly calm. "My girlfriend's been abducted. Steph—Stevie Wilson, the country singer. The stalker from the LA case. He has maybe an hour head start."
Bakers's face went from confused to grim in a heartbeat. "Done. Whatever you need."
I was already moving, heading for my truck, phone pressed to my ear with my bloody hand. "Wyatt, tell me everything. Every detail. Don't leave anything out."
As he talked, describing the scene, the shattered lamp, the blood smear at shoulder height—Jesus, he'd slammed her into a wall—I started making calls on my work phone, juggling both devices.
"This is Ranger Walker, badge number 4782," I barked at dispatch. "I need immediate mobilization. Code red. Officer’s family member abducted."
"Confirming code red—"
"Confirmed. Victim is Stephanie Wilson, thirty-one, five-foot-five, blonde hair, green eyes.” My throat nearly closed as I spat out her description, while racing to my truck. “Goes by Stevie Wilson. Yes, the singer. Suspect is unknown. Consider armed and extremely dangerous."
"Description of vehicle?” the dispatcher asked.
"Unknown. Check all traffic cameras, stolen vehicle reports from the last week. He would have needed transportation."
I was driving now, truck engine screaming as I pushed it past one hundred. Every second counted. Every second he had her was one too many.
Baker’s voice crackled through the radio. "Roadblocks going up on all major routes."
"He won't take major routes. He's planned this. Check back roads, farm roads, anything isolated, he can't have gone far."
Clay called. "Liam, Sheriff Cooper is pulling footage from every camera in town. Gas stations, ATMs, the hardware store. Someone saw something."
"Tell him to check stolen vehicle reports. This guy wouldn't use his own car."
"On it."
Diane Levvett from the FBI called. "Walker, I heard about the abduction. We're mobilizing resources, but without an ID on the suspect—"
"Check your databases for stalking cases, erotomania focused on celebrities. This guy's done this before or wanted to. He's practiced, planned. The way he took her shows experience."
"Running it now, but it's a wide net."
Owen was calling. I hung up and switched phones. "Every deputy in the county is searching. Clay and Hunter are organizing civilian search parties."
"Tell them to stay back. We don't know how dangerous—"
"Try telling that to the town. Liam, half of Copper Creek is out looking for her. She's one of ours now."
My throat tightened. The town had adopted her, protected her, and now they were fighting for her.
Sixty minutes into my drive, the sheriff called, voice tight and urgent. “Walker, we’ve got something. Gas station just outside Dallas, two days ago. Same morning your perp probably left LA.”
My grip on the wheel tightened. “Talk to me.”
“Blue Honda Accord reported stolen. Basic, clean, unremarkable—exactly what you’d pick if you wanted to blend. But that’s not the part that got my attention.”
“What did?”
The sheriff exhaled. “We pulled the security footage. Male, early thirties, thin, pale, brown hair. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a month. He keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to drag him away.”
That already sounded like him. But then—
“And listen to this,” the sheriff continued. “Before he stole the car, he went inside the convenience store. Bought a pack of duct tape. Zip ties. Rope. A hunting knife. Two energy drinks. Paid cash.” And”—he paused—“a white dress from the boutique next door. Size small."
Every muscle in my body went rigid. My stomach dropped. He was already on his way. Already hunting her.
“Send the footage to the FBI,” I said, voice flat, lethal.
"Already done.”
He hung up, and my hand gripped the steering wheel hard enough my knuckles cracked. A white dress. The sick fuck bought her a wedding dress. “Over my dead fucking body,” I murmured to myself and pressed harder on the gas.
Five minutes later, Levvett called back, voice urgent. "Holy shit, Walker. We know who he is."
My pulse kicked, and I sat up straighter. “What?”
"The footage from Dallas—facial recognition hit.
Marcus Fitzgerald, thirty-one. We've been tracking him for three years.
Identity theft, credit card fraud, cyber stalking.
He's a ghost—always one step ahead, never stays anywhere long.
He's been on our radar for multiple celebrity stalking cases, but we've never been able to pin him down. "
"Why wasn't he flagged in the LA case?"
"Different MO each time. He learns, adapts. But Walker, if this is Fitzgerald, he's escalated. He's never physically taken someone before."
"What else do you have on him?"
"Highly intelligent, possibly genius-level IQ. Tech savvy—that's how he stays hidden. Creates false identities, uses cryptocurrency, bounces his internet through multiple VPNs. He builds entire fantasy relationships with his targets through their social media and public appearances."
"How did he find her in Texas?"
"The festival. Someone posted videos that went viral. 'Stevie Wilson spotted in small Texas town.' He would have seen it, traced the location."
“Fuck!” I knew we should have stayed home.
The festival. Where she'd been so happy, so normal, so free. And it had led him right to her.
Another call. Sheriff Cooper again. "Convenience store footage from Archer City. Dark Honda, matching the stolen vehicle. Heading north on County Road 87 about forty-five minutes ago."
North. I mentally mapped the area. Isolated. Rural. Perfect for someone who wanted privacy.
"What's up there?"
"Not much. Few farms. That old resort that closed in '08."
The resort. Abandoned buildings. Including—my blood went cold—a wedding chapel. The Whispering Pines Wedding Chapel, where hundreds of couples had gotten married before the economy killed the resort.
The white dress. The wedding chapel.
"That's it. That's where he's taking her."
"Walker, wait for backup. FBI tactical team can be there in—"
I hung up. Pushed the truck harder, engine screaming, temperature gauge climbing toward red. The speedometer hit one-twenty and stayed there.
Levvett called back. "Walker, more on Fitzgerald. He's dangerous. Previous targets reported feeling watched for months before he made contact. He builds elaborate fantasies, believes the women are sending him secret messages through their work."
"How does it end?"
"We don't know. The women always got restraining orders, increased security. He'd disappear, find a new target. But Stevie—she's been his focus for at least three years. We found archived websites, thousands of photos, analyzed lyrics. He believes they're meant to be together."
Three years. This sick bastard had been fixated on her for three years, and now he had her.
"If he's had her for over an hour—" Levvett started.
"Don't," I cut her off. "Don't tell me statistics. Don't tell me probabilities. She's alive. She's fighting. And I'm going to get her back."
One hour and twenty-eight minutes to the resort at this speed. Eighty-eight minutes while she was with him, while he enacted whatever sick fantasy he'd constructed.
The blood at the scene. Wyatt said there was blood.
She'd fought. Of course, she'd fought. My brave, fierce girl would have fought with everything she had.
"Hold on, baby," I said to the empty truck. "Just hold on. I'm coming."
My phone rang constantly—Baker ordering me to wait, Levvett updating tactical team positions, Owen trying to be the voice of reason. I ignored them all.
County Road 87 stretched ahead, empty and dark. The moon was full, painting everything silver and shadow. Five miles to the resort. Four. Three.
There—the broken entrance gate, the sign reading Whispering Pines Resort barely visible under years of vine growth.
I turned off my headlights, driving by moonlight alone. The access road was cracked, weeds growing through asphalt, but fresh tire tracks cut through the overgrowth.
He was here. She was here.