The first hint of dawn was growing in the east as Rory guided her truck down the winding dirt road leading to the Strickland ranch. Her shoulders were tense, her toes curled in her boots in anticipation. Beside her, Evan scanned the surroundings intently, his posture erect.
“Any sign of the main house?” Rory asked, her eyes darting between the road and the sprawling fields on either side. The Strickland property seemed to stretch endlessly, a patchwork of pastures and wooded areas that could hide any number of secrets—or dangers.
Evan shook his head, his lips pressed together into a tight, thin line. “Not yet. This place is huge. Morrow could be anywhere.”
The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of sage and dew-damp earth. In the distance, a coyote’s mournful howl echoed across the empty fields, a haunting reminder of the wilderness that surrounded them.
As if on cue, Evan suddenly straightened in his seat. “Wait a minute! Over there!”
Rory followed his gaze to see a figure running through a distant field, a phantom in the gray twilight.
“That’s gotta be him,” she said, already pulling the truck over. “Let’s go!”
They leapt from the vehicle, hands on their holstered weapons as they sprinted toward the fleeing figure. The dew-soaked grass whipped at Rory’s legs as she ran, her heart pounding in her ears.
“Stop! Police!” Rory shouted, her voice carrying across the open field.
To her surprise, the figure skidded to a halt, turning to face them with hands raised. As they drew closer, Rory realized with a jolt that it wasn’t Morrow at all, but a young woman with long dark hair, her face streaked with tears and dirt.
“Please,” the woman gasped, her voice trembling. She swayed slightly on her feet, as if the sudden stop had left her dizzy. “You have to help. There’s a man…he attacked me. My father…he’s still in the house. Oh God, please, you have to do something!”
“Jenna Strickland?” Evan asked, recognition dawning on his face.
Jenna nodded frantically, her whole body seeming to vibrate with nervous energy. “Yes, that’s me. Please, you have to go back to the house. My father…I’m afraid of what that man might do to him. He was so angry, so…so cold.”
Rory held up a hand, both to reassure Jenna and to signal Evan to stand down. “Jenna, I need you to take a deep breath and try to calm down. Can you do that for me?”
Jenna nodded, making a visible effort to steady herself. Rory watched as the young woman closed her eyes for a moment, her chest rising and falling with deliberate slowness.
“Good,” Rory said softly. “Now, I need you to tell us exactly what happened. Where is this man now? Did you see which way he went after you got away?”
Jenna shook her head. “I just…I just ran. I assumed he was following me, but maybe…” She swallowed hard, horror dawning on her face. “What if he went to the house instead? Please, we have to check on my father!”
“Alright,” Rory said, making a quick decision. She placed a hand on Jenna’s shoulder, both to comfort and to ground the distraught woman. “Jenna, I need you to come with us. You can direct us to the house, and then we’ll deal with your attacker. Okay?”
Jenna nodded, still shaking but seeming to draw strength from Rory’s calm demeanor. There was a flash of steel in her eyes, a resilience that spoke of the strength hidden beneath her fear. “Yes,” she said, her voice steadier now. “Yes, I can do that. Please, let’s hurry.”
They hurried back to the truck, Rory and Evan flanking Jenna protectively, their eyes constantly scanning the surrounding fields for any sign of movement. The morning air seemed charged with tension.
As they sped toward the main house, Jenna giving directions in a voice that trembled but never faltered, Rory’s mind whirled with possible scenarios. Would Morrow still be there? Had he already…
No, she couldn’t think like that. They had to believe they weren’t too late. The alternative was unthinkable.
The house came into view, a sprawling ranch-style structure that spoke of generations of prosperity. Its weathered wood and wide porches seemed to grow organically from the landscape, a testament to the Strickland family’s deep roots in this land. Rory pulled up in front, the truck’s engine falling silent as she turned the key.
“Evan,” she said, turning to her partner. Her voice was low, urgent. “I need you to stay here with Jenna.”
“What?” Evan protested, frowning in disbelief. “Rory, you can’t go in there alone. This isn’t just some drunk and disorderly—Morrow’s dangerous, and he’s got nothing left to lose.”
“Exactly,” Rory said, her tone brooking no argument. “We can’t leave Jenna alone, and we can’t bring her into a potentially dangerous situation. I’ll be fine. Just be ready to call for backup if you hear anything. Anything at all, you understand?”
Evan looked like he wanted to argue further, his jaw clenching with the effort of holding back his objections. But a muffled crash from inside the house cut him off, the sound shattering the morning quiet like a gunshot.
Rory was already moving, her body operating on instinct honed by years of training. She drew her weapon in one smooth motion, the familiar weight of the gun a cold comfort in her hand. “Stay here,” she said again, not looking back as she approached the front door.
“Be careful,” Evan called after her, his voice tight with worry. “Don’t be a hero, Rory. You hear me?”
Rory nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew the risks, but she also knew she might be the only thing standing between Jacob Strickland and Eli Morrow’s twisted version of justice.
The front door of the house was ajar, swinging slightly in the morning breeze. Rory could hear muffled shouts coming from inside, punctuated by the sound of breaking glass and the dull thud of bodies impacting furniture.
Taking a deep breath, Rory pushed the door open with her foot, her gun at the ready. The hinges creaked ominously, the sound echoing through the house. “Bearclaw County Sheriff’s Department!” she called out. “Eli Morrow, if you’re in here, come out with your hands up!”
Another crash, louder this time, came from deeper in the house. It was followed by a muffled curse and the sound of something heavy falling. Rory hurried forward, her senses on high alert.
She passed through a well-appointed living room, noting signs of a struggle—an overturned lamp, its shade cracked and askew; a shattered vase, water and wilted flowers strewn across an expensive-looking rug; a family portrait hanging crookedly on the wall, the smiling faces a striking contrast to the violence that had invaded this home.
As she approached a closed door at the end of a hallway, the sounds of a scuffle became clearer. She could make out two male voices—one younger and filled with rage, the other older but no less furious. The words were indistinct, but the emotions behind them were crystal clear: hatred, fear, and a burning desire for retribution.
Rory took position beside the door, her back pressed against the wall. She could feel her heart pounding, hear the rush of blood in her ears. This was it.
Taking one final, steadying breath, she gathered herself. Then, in one swift movement, she shoved the door open. “Freeze!” she shouted as she entered, her gun sweeping the room, searching for targets.
The scene before her was chaos incarnate. Two men grappled in the center of what appeared to be a study, surrounded by overturned furniture, scattered papers, and a number of wine bottles. One of the men was clearly Eli Morrow, his face a mask of pain and hatred, eyes burning with a fervor that bordered on madness. The other, to Rory’s surprise, was not the frail old man she had expected, but a robust older gentleman who was giving as good as he got.
“Eli Morrow!” Rory shouted. “Put your hands up!”
Morrow shot her a fierce glance, which was all the distraction Strickland needed. He barreled into Morrow, driving him into a bookshelf—and preventing Rory from getting a clear shot.
“Mr. Strickland!” Rory shouted. “I need you to step away, now!”
But Jacob seemed beyond reason, his face purple with rage as he grappled with Morrow. His fist connected with Morrow’s jaw with a meaty thud.
“You little bastard!” he roared, spittle flying from his lips. “Think you can come into my house? I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!”
Rory’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before her. This wasn’t how she had expected this confrontation to go. Jacob was supposed to be the victim here, a helpless old man at the mercy of a deranged killer. Instead, he was acting like the aggressor, his attacks fueled by a rage that seemed to go beyond simple self-defense.
Morrow, for his part, seemed almost reluctant to fight back. He focused more on defending himself than attacking, his movements speaking more of desperation than the cold calculation Rory had expected. There was more fear than fury in his eyes.
“Both of you, stop right now!” Rory shouted, trying to be heard over the scuffle. Her gun tracked back and forth between the two men, searching for a clear shot that never materialized. “Mr. Strickland, I need you to back away so I can apprehend this man! This is your last warning!”
But Jacob wasn’t listening. He had Morrow pinned against a desk now, one gnarled hand gripping the younger man’s throat. His other fist rose and fell in a brutal rhythm, connecting with Morrow’s face again and again. “You’re just like your worthless father!” Jacob snarled, his words dripping with a lifetime of bitterness and contempt. “Never could take a bit of discipline without whining. Pathetic, the lot of you.”
Something in Morrow’s eyes changed at those words. The fear and hesitation vanished, burned away by a cold, hard fury that made Rory’s blood run cold. It was as if a switch had been flipped, transforming the defensive, almost pitiful figure into something altogether more dangerous.
In a burst of strength that seemed to catch Jacob off guard, Morrow shoved the older man back. Jacob stumbled, his back hitting a framed picture and causing it to crash to the floor. For a moment, surprise replaced the rage on his face—surprise and perhaps a flicker of fear as he realized he might have pushed Morrow too far.
Before Rory could react, could do anything to regain control of the situation, Morrow had seized a broken wine bottle from the floor. The jagged edge glinted in the early morning light that streamed through the windows. In one fluid motion, born of desperation and years of pent-up anger, Morrow spun Jacob around and pressed the makeshift weapon to the older man’s throat.
“Drop your weapon,” Morrow said, his voice eerily calm as he addressed Rory. Gone was the fear, the hesitation. His eyes, when they met Rory’s, were cold and determined. “Drop it, or I’ll finish what I came here to do. I swear to God, I’ll do it.”