Rory’s truck roared down the empty country road, headlights cutting through the predawn darkness. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white with tension. The quiet of the early morning was broken only by the rumble of the engine and the occasional chirp of her phone as she tried, unsuccessfully, to reach Evan.
“Come on, Evan,” she muttered, glancing at the phone on the passenger seat. “Pick up, damn it.”
But the call went to voicemail once again. Rory cursed under her breath. Evan was probably asleep, dead to the world after their marathon investigation session. She couldn’t blame him, but right now, she needed her partner.
With a sigh, Rory made a decision. She dialed another number, praying he would answer.
After several rings, a groggy voice picked up. “Wood? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Sheriff,” Rory said. “But I think I’ve found our killer.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end, then the sound of rustling sheets. When Harlan spoke again, his voice was clearer, the last vestiges of sleep gone. “What are you talking about, Rory? You’re supposed to be following Agent Browning’s lead.”
“I know, I know,” Rory said, frustration creeping into her tone. “But I couldn’t sleep, and I started looking through the employee records of our victims. Sheriff, I found something. Something big.”
Harlan sighed heavily. “Alright, Wood. You’ve got my attention. What did you find?”
As Rory navigated a sharp turn, she launched into her explanation. “There’s a man named Eli Morrow. He worked for all three victims over the past couple of years. Short stints, seasonal work. But here’s the kicker—in his employee photo from the Montero ranch, he’s wearing a pendant. The symbol on it? It’s the same one left at all our crime scenes.”
“That’s…interesting,” Harlan said slowly. “But it’s not exactly a smoking gun.”
“There’s more,” Rory continued. “There are notes in his files about arguments with the victims. Something about ‘old ranch traditions’ and ‘respecting the land.’ And get this—he has no criminal record, but his work history is spotty. Lots of gaps, lots of moving around. It fits the profile we’ve been building.”
The line went quiet for a long moment. When Harlan spoke again, his voice was heavy with an emotion Rory couldn’t quite place. “Eli Morrow,” he said, as if testing the name. “God, I haven’t heard that name in years. Not since…”
“Since what?” Rory asked.
Harlan sighed again, and when he spoke, his voice was distant, as if lost in memory. “It was before your time, back when I was just a deputy. There was this family out on the edge of the county, the Morrows. Real trouble. The father was a mean drunk, always getting into fights.”
Rory swallowed hard. She sensed where this was going.
“One night, we get a call,” Harlan continued. “Neighbors heard screaming. When we got there, we found the boy, Eli, cowering in his bedroom. Couldn’t have been more than ten. His father was drunk, out of control. We took the boy to stay with a neighbor while Gavin sobered up in the drunk tank. But the next day the neighbor told us what they’d seen. A brand on the little boy. I took a look, couldn’t believe it. It apparently had been there for a while. Gavin swore to us Eli did it to himself. Always looking for attention, that’s what Gavin said about his boy. And Eli agreed with him, that he’d done it to himself, but I always wondered… did he say that because he was scared of his father, and his father actually branded his own son? But there was never any proof, so…”
Horror and rage warred within Rory. “The symbol,” she whispered. “The one left at each crime scene. Was that…?”
“No, it was nothing so elaborate,” Harlan said. “Anyway, I never forgot the look in that boy’s eyes. It was like something broke inside him. I always regretted not doing more for him, but like I said, there was no proof…”
Rory’s mind worked feverishly to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. “That explains the branding. This is personal—revenge for what was done to him.”
“Where are you now, Rory?” Harlan asked, a note of concern in his voice.
Rory hesitated for a split second before answering. “I’m on my way to Morrow’s last known address. I need to check it out, see if he’s there.”
“Damn it, Wood!” Harlan said. “You can’t go in there alone. This man is dangerous. Wait for backup. I’ll call Evan, get a team together—”
“There’s no time,” Rory said, cutting him off. “If Morrow realizes we’re onto him, he could run. Or worse, he could accelerate his plans—kill again before we can stop him.”
“Rory, listen to me—”
“I’m already there,” Rory said, spotting a mailbox with “MORROW” painted on the side. “I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
She ended the call over Harlan’s protests, tossing the phone aside as she pulled up to a small, dilapidated house set back from the road. The place looked abandoned, with peeling paint and overgrown weeds in the yard. But a faint light flickered in one of the windows, suggesting recent occupancy.
Rory drew her weapon as she approached the house, every sense on high alert. The porch steps creaked under her weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn quiet. She paused at the front door, listening intently for any sound of movement inside.
Silence.
Taking a deep breath, Rory tried the doorknob. Locked. She hesitated for a moment, weighing her options. Procedure dictated that she should wait for backup, get a warrant. But something told her they were running out of time.
With a silent apology to Harlan and department regulations, Rory stepped back and kicked the door open.
The hinges gave way with a splintering crack, and Rory surged inside, gun at the ready. “Eli Morrow!” she shouted. “Bearclaw County Sheriff’s Department! Show yourself!”
No response.
Rory moved through the house methodically, her heart thundering in her chest as she cleared each room. The place was a mess—dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn about, papers scattered everywhere.
But no sign of Eli Morrow.
In what appeared to be the bedroom, Rory found a wall covered in newspaper clippings and photographs. Her breath caught as she recognized the faces of the victims—Clayton Harrow, Talia Montero, Wesley Kade. Red strings connected the photos to maps of their properties, to other faces Rory didn’t recognize.
“What the hell were you planning, Morrow?” Rory muttered, studying the wall.
A sound from outside made her freeze—footsteps on the porch. Rory spun, gun raised, heart pounding.
“Wood!” Evan called out. “You in there?”
Rory lowered her weapon, relief washing over her. “In here!”
Moments later, Evan appeared in the doorway, his own gun drawn. He took in the scene with wide, troubled eyes. “Shit, Rory. What is all this?”
“Evidence,” Rory said grimly. “Morrow’s been planning this for a long time. But he’s not here. We must have just missed him.”
Evan holstered his weapon, moving to examine the wall of photos and clippings. “Harlan called me, filled me in on what you found. You really think this Morrow guy is our killer?”
“I’m sure of it,” Rory said with a nod. “But where the hell is he? And who’s his next target?”
They began searching the house more thoroughly, looking for any clue that might point to Morrow’s current whereabouts or his next move. Rory rifled through papers on a cluttered desk while Evan checked the kitchen.
“Hey, Rory?” Evan called out. “You might want to see this.”
Rory joined him in the kitchen. Evan was holding a faded photograph, the edges worn and creased with age. It showed a group of men standing in front of a large barn. Rory recognized the Strickland ranch logo on the barn door.
“Look.” Evan pointed to one of the men. “That’s got to be Morrow’s father. The resemblance is uncanny.”
Rory studied the photo, noticing the long, black hair. “He worked for the Stricklands.”
“Think Jacob Strickland is next?”
“Maybe, but we need more evidence before making that leap. There’s got to be something more here that can tell us what Morrow’s planning.”
They continued searching, tension building with each passing minute. Rory felt like they were missing something crucial, something right under their noses.
“Rory, over here,” Evan called from the bedroom. He was kneeling by a loose floorboard, pulling out a small, battered notebook.
As Evan flipped through it, his expression grew grim. “It’s some kind of journal. Eli Morrow’s, I think. Listen to this. I’m reading word for word, grammar isn’t great, just so you know. ‘Mister Strickland came by. Saw my arm—it was almost break—I know he did. Just saw it and looked away like it was nothing. He went inside with Dad and they talked and I listened to Mister Strickland and he says to Dad, got to make that boy tougher. Make him strong or he can’t work. Well, how can I work with only one good arm? I scared if Dad figures out how bad my arm is, he’ll get real angry and hurt me again.’”
“My God,” Rory murmured. “Strickland didn’t just turn a blind eye—he actually encouraged Eli’s father to commit the abuse.”
Rory felt sick. The pieces were falling into place, painting a horrific picture. “Jacob Strickland is the root of it all. He’s not just another target—he’s the main one. The others were practice, or…or a way to build up to this.”
“But why wait so long?” Evan asked. “Why not go after Strickland first?”
Rory’s mind raced. “The symbol. The rope. The specific way he kills. Morrow’s been perfecting his method, making sure that when he finally gets to Strickland, it’ll be exactly how he’s planned it all these years.”
She grabbed the journal from Evan, scanning the pages frantically. Near the back, a loose paper fell out. Rory unfolded it, her heart pounding.
It was a crude map of the Strickland ranch, with notes scribbled in the margins detailing where the herds were kept, the rotating schedule, and so on. These notes appeared to be more recent.
“He’s planned everything,” Rory said. “The only question is when is he—” She stopped, falling silent. There in the corner of the journal was today’s date.
“He’s doing it today,” she said, her mouth going dry. “He might even be there right now.”