Rory’s head jerked up and her eyes fluttered, studying the cluttered desk strewn with case paperwork. How long had she been out? The clock on the wall read 4:44 a.m., so…
She nursed her temples, trying to think of when she may have passed out. Everything was blurring together. Last she knew, she was reading through lists of bank statements, trying to figure out which seasonal workers had worked as independent contractors for which ranchers and at which times. Then, before she knew it, she was drifting off.
She glanced at Evan, whose head was tipped back toward the ceiling as he slept. It was a rare moment to study his face—the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the tiny scar near the left corner of his mouth, the cowlick at the front of his hairline that gave him such a disarming, boyish look.
A commotion in the hallway distracted her: the sound of approaching footsteps. She sat up straighter, the fog of exhaustion lifting as adrenaline surged through her veins. Rory nudged Evan’s foot under the desk, and he startled awake, blinking rapidly as he tried to orient himself.
Sheriff Harlan’s voice filtered through the thin walls of their office. Rory exchanged a worried glance with Evan, who was now fully alert, his earlier fatigue replaced by tense anticipation.
The door swung open, revealing Harlan’s grim face. Behind him stood a man Rory didn’t recognize. He was tall, with close-cropped gray hair and a crisp suit that practically screamed federal agent. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, taking in the chaos of scattered files and empty coffee cups with barely concealed disdain.
“Wood, Tate,” Harlan said, sounding unutterably weary. “This is Special Agent Browning from the FBI. He’s here to…assist with the investigation.”
Rory’s stomach squirmed. She studied Agent Browning, unsure what to make of him. “Well, we’re happy to have all the help we can get,” she said, trying to be diplomatic. “I’m happy to get you up to speed on the case.”
Agent Browning moved further into the room, his gaze settling on the evidence board. “Walk me through it,” he said.
Rory took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “Three victims, all local ranchers: Clayton Harrow, Talia Montero, and Wesley Kade. Each killed in their own home or on their property. Cause of death in all cases was strangulation with an unusual braided rope.”
As she spoke, Browning examined the crime scene photos, his expression unreadable. “And this symbol,” he said, pointing to a photo of the intricate design found at each scene. “Any leads on its significance?”
“We’ve consulted with experts in local Native American history and symbology,” Evan said. “No exact matches, but there are some similarities to ancient justice symbols.”
Browning nodded, his eyes never leaving the board. “What about suspects? Anyone stand out?”
Rory hesitated, acutely aware of Harlan’s scrutiny. “We’ve interviewed several persons of interest, but nothing concrete yet. We’re close to a breakthrough, I can feel it. We just need a little more time.”
“Close to a breakthrough?” Browning repeated, turning to face her with a raised eyebrow. “Care to elaborate, Assistant Sheriff Wood?”
Rory opened her mouth, then closed it again. The truth was, they had nothing solid. The killer could be a seasonal worker, sure, but that was no more than one possibility among many.
Harlan sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. “Do you have any new leads, Rory? Anything at all?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Rory felt the case slipping away from her, along with any chance of finding justice for the victims. She looked to Evan for support, but he could only offer a helpless shrug.
“I thought as much,” Browning said, his tone softening slightly. “Look, I understand your frustration. But this case has gone beyond local jurisdiction. We have resources and expertise that can help catch this killer before anyone else dies.”
Harlan nodded wearily. “Agent Browning is right. We need to put aside our pride and do what’s best for the investigation.” He turned to Rory and Evan. “I want you to cooperate fully with Agent Browning and his team. Give them everything we have—files, evidence logs, witness statements, all of it.”
Rory felt a surge of desperation. “Sheriff, please. We’re so close, I know it. Just give us a couple more days—”
“That’s enough, Wood,” Harlan said, his tone brooking no argument. “You say you’re close, but you’re out of leads. This isn’t a debate. The FBI is taking the lead on this case, effective immediately.”
The finality in his voice hit Rory like a physical blow. She slumped back into her chair, the fight draining out of her. She had failed—failed her community, failed the victims and their families. Evan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she barely felt it.
Agent Browning cleared his throat. “My team will be arriving in the morning to set up a command center. In the meantime, I’d like to review all your notes and interview transcripts.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the evidence board once more. “Based on what I was able to gather on the drive here, we’ll be taking this investigation in a new direction. I believe we’re dealing with a sophisticated organized crime operation, possibly tied to land acquisition schemes. We’ll be focusing on financial records and potential outside criminal elements.”
Rory felt her jaw drop. “Organized crime? With all due respect, Agent Browning, that’s completely off base. The evidence clearly points to a single perpetrator with a personal vendetta against these ranchers. The symbol, the specific method of killing—it’s too ritualistic for a criminal organization.”
Browning’s eyes narrowed. “And where has that theory gotten you, Assistant Sheriff Wood? Three dead bodies and no suspects. Sometimes, what looks like a personal vendetta is just a smokescreen for more mundane motives like money and power.”
“But—” Rory started to argue, only to be cut off by Harlan.
“Rory, enough,” the sheriff said, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Agent Browning and his team have experience with cases like this. We need to consider all possibilities.”
Browning nodded, his expression softening slightly. “I understand your frustration, Sheriff Wood. But your current direction hasn’t yielded results. It’s time to try something new.”
Rory clenched her fists. She knew in her gut that Browning was wrong, that he was about to lead the investigation down a fruitless path. But as she looked around the room, she realized with a sinking feeling that she was alone in her conviction. Maybe Evan agreed with her, but he wasn’t speaking up.
There was nothing she could do.
As Browning began sifting through the paperwork, Harlan pulled Rory and Evan aside. “Listen,” he said in a low voice, “I know this is hard. You’ve both put your hearts and souls into this case. But we have to face facts—we’re out of our depth here.”
“So that’s it?” Rory said, anger flaring anew. “We just hand everything over and watch from the sidelines while the feds muck it up? He’s way off base.”
Harlan ran a weary hand over his forehead. “Give them some credit, Rory. Agent Browning has extensive investigative experience.”
“Not in Bearclaw County, he doesn’t.”
“And that’s why you’ll be assisting his team.”
“Organized crime? That’s our working theory now?” She shook her head, frustrated. “It’s bullshit, Harlan.”
“No, it’s your job.” He stared at her, his expression stony.
“What do you want us to do?” Evan asked, ever the peacemaker.
Harlan ran a hand through his thinning hair. “For now, go home and get some sleep. You’re both dead on your feet. Come back in the morning and we’ll figure out how you can assist Agent Browning’s team.”
Rory wanted to argue further, but the bone-deep exhaustion that had been held at bay by adrenaline came crashing back. Besides, there was no point arguing anymore—he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to change his mind.
As they left the office, Rory cast one last look at the evidence board. The faces of the victims seemed to stare back at her, pleading for help. She had promised them justice, and now…
The cool night air hit her like a slap as they stepped outside. Rory leaned against the wall of the building, suddenly unsure if her legs would support her.
“Hey,” Evan said softly, concern etched on his face. “You okay?”
Rory laughed bitterly. “Okay? No, Evan, I’m not okay. We just got kicked off our own case. How can you be so calm about this?”
Evan sighed, leaning against the wall next to her. “I’m not happy about it either, Rory. But maybe…maybe this is for the best. We’ve been running ourselves into the ground, and we’re no closer to catching this guy.”
“So we should just give up?” Rory asked, incredulous.
“No,” Evan said. “I’m saying we need to be smart about this. We can still help with the investigation, just…from a different angle.”
Rory wanted to believe him, but the weight of failure pressed down on her. She thought of the sleepless nights, the endless cups of coffee, the promising leads that had fizzled out. Had it all been for nothing?
As if reading her thoughts, Evan continued, “It wasn’t for nothing, Rory. We laid the groundwork. Without our investigation, the FBI would be starting from scratch.”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, but the direction Browning’s taking this…” Rory shook her head. “It’s all wrong, Evan. They’ll be wasting their time while the killer continues his work.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching as the first hints of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Rory felt hollowed out, as if something vital had been scooped from her chest.
“Come on,” Evan said eventually. “I’ll drive you home. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel in this state.”
Too exhausted to argue, Rory handed over her keys. As they drove through the quiet streets of Bearclaw, she stared out the window, barely registering the familiar landmarks.
Evan pulled up in front of her small house, killing the engine. “Try to get some sleep,” he said gently. “Things will look better when you’ve had some shuteye.”
Rory doubted that, but she nodded anyway. “Thanks, Evan. For everything.”
As she watched him drive away in her truck, promising to pick her up later in the morning, Rory felt a wave of desolation wash over her. She trudged up the walkway, each step a monumental effort.
Her key scraped in the lock, the sound unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn quiet. She stumbled inside, fatigue making her movements clumsy. The familiar scent of leather and pine enveloped her—home, but not comfort. Not tonight.
She flicked on the lights, wincing at the sudden brightness. Her living room came into focus: walls lined with bookshelves, a worn leather couch facing a rarely used TV, and in the corner, her father’s old guitar gathering dust. Photos dotted the shelves—Rory in her rodeo days, her academy graduation, her mother’s smiling face frozen in time.
Rory shed her jacket, draping it over a chair. She should sleep. Every cell in her body screamed for rest. But her mind buzzed, replaying the night’s events on an endless loop.
She lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Minutes ticked by. Sleep remained elusive.
With a frustrated groan, Rory reached for the remote. Maybe some mindless TV would quiet her thoughts.
She flicked through channels, barely registering the images. Infomercials, reruns, more infomercials… She was about to give up when a familiar name caught her attention.
“…Wesley Kade, the third victim in what locals are calling the Rancher Murders,” a reporter was saying. The scene shifted to an interview with a weather-beaten man in a cowboy hat—Jake Boyer, Rory realized.
“Wes, he was…he was a tough old bastard,” the man said, emotion thick in his voice. “Set in his ways, you know? But honest. Hardworking. Didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
“You worked for Mr. Kade?” the reporter asked off-screen.
The man nodded. “Twenty-three years. He wasn’t always easy to work for, but he was fair. Treated his workers right, as long as you did your job.”
The words brought to mind what Brigham had said at the rehab center: Sometimes you get ones with chips on their shoulders. Angry at the world, at the ranchers with their big spreads and comfortable lives.
She’d spent hours doing research on seasonal workers who’d been employed by local ranches, but what if she’d missed something? What if she’d missed someone?
Give it up, a voice in the back of her head whispered. It’s not even your case anymore.
That might be true, but she felt certain Agent Browning was taking the investigation in a direction that wouldn’t lead to the killer. She couldn’t sit idly by and let her community suffer because of an outsider’s misguided attempt to help.
She had to do something.
She grabbed her laptop, fingers flying over the keys as she logged into the department’s database. Lists of names filled her screen. Rory’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for…what? She wasn’t sure yet, but something told her the answer was here.
She started with Kade’s ranch, cross-referencing former employees with criminal records. A few names popped up: petty theft, drunk and disorderly, one assault charge from a bar fight. Rory dug deeper, pulling up interview transcripts.
The first ex-employee, Jim Callahan, had a solid alibi for two of the murders. Crossed off the list.
Next, Tom Reeves. History of violence, but he’d been in county lockup the night Talia Montero was killed. Another dead end.
Rory’s eyes burned, but she pressed on. She was missing something; she could feel it.
Then, buried in Talia Montero’s records, a name caught her eye. Eli Morrow. Seasonal worker, employed for three months last year. No criminal record, but…
Rory’s pulse quickened as she pulled up his employee file. There, in his personnel photo, she saw something that made her breath catch.
A pendant hung around Morrow’s neck. The design was small, barely visible, but unmistakable. It was the same symbol left at each crime scene.
How had she missed it before?
Apparently Morrow’s mother, Chenoa, had died in a “mysterious accident” when Morrow was only six, and after that Morrow had been raised solely by his father, Gavin Morrow. Gavin had passed away in his sleep a little over a month ago. There were no signs of foul play, but there was a note from a neighbor expressing surprise at learning that Eli Morrow had cut his hair, which he’d worn long for years.
Odd detail. Rory mentally filed it away, unsure what to make of it.
She thought about the younger Morrow, on his own now after the death of his father. Could Gavin’s death have been the catalyst for Eli’s killings?
She was reaching for her phone to call Evan when she noticed something else: a note in Morrow’s file, a complaint from another worker. Apparently, Morrow had gotten into an argument with Montero over “old ranch traditions” and “respecting the land.”
She pulled up Clayton Harrow’s records, then Kade’s. There it was—Eli Morrow had worked short stints at all three ranches over the past two years.
This was it. This had to be their killer. The connection they’d been missing all along.
Rory sat back, a mix of triumph and trepidation washing over her. They had a name. A face. A motive, maybe.
Now, they just had to find him before he struck again.